Sunday, December 25, 2011


Brother Wolf - Original Poem by Donovan Baldwin

By: Donovan Baldwin

Ears lift in greeting to the voice of his companion, the wind,
The lean and silver beast turns now to black as day's fire dies.

He stands his watch alone, testing the air for the elusive scents,
Which tell as much to him, as a written page can tell a man.

So silent and so still, and completely part of the land on which he stands.

A king he is.
More a king than any king of man might be.

He guards the wisdom passed in his blood from countless ancestors,
Living as he must always live...wild and free.

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Friday, December 23, 2011


Become A Poet In Ten Minutes

By Steven Gillman

Have you ever sat there staring at the paper, ready to write, but unsure where to begin? Want a solution that will overcome even the worst writer's block? Anyone can start writing poetry today using a few simple techniques.

One, two, ...?

Did you say or think three when you saw the above? If not, you certainly would when I asked you to fill in the blank. Your mind is a powerful machine that recognises or creates patterns. To make this work for you as a poet, you simply have to lay out the materials in an implied pattern, and let your mind do its thing.

The "materials", in this case, of course, are words or ideas. So let's round up some materials for an example. If you want to write a poem about thunderstorms, you might start by writing down relevant words, and then choose the more evocative ones: flash, blowing, rumble, night, deadly and rain, perhaps.

Now you set the pattern. In this case, we'll write a four-line poem, using one of our words in each line. We'll only decide if we want a ryming poem after we start. This is what I came up with after five minutes:

Rain stands still in the sky

Trees dance as in a painting

In a flash it is here and gone

And night grumbles at being revealed

It doesn't matter if most aren't good poems. You just have to write a lot of them, and then work on re-writing the ones with potential. With a little practice, you can write a dozen poems in an hour, then pick out the gems. My wife has had poetry published using Deal-a-Poem, a game we created based on this technique, so we know that it works, and it's fun as well.

More Tips For Fast Poetry

The technique above works because when your mind focuses on a word with the intent to use it in a line, it is stimulated into action. It wants to find the pattern - or create it. To make this work even better, try the following:

1. Start with words that are evocative and metaphorically rich. You'll be more inspired and probably write a richer poem with "howled," "torn open," and "festering," than with "said," "broken," and "rotten."

2. Use this or any other technique as a starting point only. If you have a great line already in mind, don't force one of the words from your list into it. If a poem starts to write itself, and becomes ten six-line verses, forget about the technique. Treat it as a tool to be used when you need it.

3. Don't sit there waiting for inspiration. Write anything NOW. Start with any topic, or even random words. The surest way to get inspired in your poetry is to start writing a poem.

Steve Gillman has been playing with poetry for thirty years. He and his wife Ana created the game "Deal-A-Poem," which can be accessed for free at:

Article Source: Become A Poet In Ten Minutes

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Thursday, December 22, 2011


Passion and Poetry, and Life

By Laurent Grenier

Ironically, the passion that can neutralize the repulsion for difficulties depends on the effort to overcome these difficulties. The irony resides in the circularity of this principle - which applies to all areas of activity, including poetry: One must make the effort to overcome difficulties to achieve success and feel capable, and one needs this achievement and feeling to have a passion for making this effort.

How can one enter this circle without this passion? In other words, how does one resolve the quasi-contradiction according to which one cannot passionately start the effort to overcome difficulties before it has ended successfully?

If difficulties are deemed insurmountable, mistakenly or not, the repulsion for them is absolute. In that case, nothing will motivate the effort to succeed, except an outside authority that can dictate this effort, or an outside influence that can generate faith and stimulate courage. In every other case where the seriousness of the difficulties is open to doubt, one may try one's luck with mixed feelings.

Assuming one tries, the result of this effort will constitute additional self-knowledge that will inform one's future choices. A positive outcome will act as a positive reinforcement that emboldens one to try again, with increased confidence and reduced hesitation; a negative outcome will do the opposite.

Should one refuse to try one's luck, this would slow one's progress, but not necessarily stop it. Confidence can be increased and hesitation reduced by degrees, through a series of baby steps that can eventually lead to triumph. All in all, people have more than one trick up their sleeve to succeed in life, though they cannot escape the necessity of achieving success to develop a passion for the difficult task of living.

As regards poetry, success may be achieved in a roundabout and gradual way. Take a young educated man who has a sense of imagery and a desire to express himself. While his education has prepared him for the written expression of his feelings and thoughts, this sense and this desire together drive him to write poetically, though he has no pretensions to composing a poem.

This first step is a manner of kickoff that gets the ball rolling. He becomes aware of his poetic ability within the limits of his poetic writing. What is more, he catches a glimpse of the poetry that is a blur in this writing and could emerge from the prose like a landscape from the fog. His potential as a future poet is thus faintly discernible. It assumes the form of an inkling whose haziness will progressively dissipate as further poetic efforts are made successfully. In the end the young man sees himself as a young poet. He is eager to grapple with the difficulties of writing poetry because he is confident that he will overcome them and delight in this achievement.


Laurent Grenier's writing career spans over twenty years. During this time he has broadened and deepened his worldview, by dint of much reflection and study, and in the end has crafted "A Reason for Living", his best work to date.

Official web site:

Article Source: Passion and Poetry, and Life

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Wednesday, December 21, 2011


5 Poetry Writing Tips For Beginners

By K. Paul Mallasch

Writing poetry to some is a science while to others it's an art. Once you know the difference between the two methods of approaching poetry, you can choose which of the two is the best way for you to get into poetry. Of course, you might also choose both methods - paying attention to mechanics as well as meaning and the overall artistic message of your poems. Ah, but this is a short piece on writing tips for poetry beginners, so I'll stop there and continue with what you are after - how to write better poetry.

5 Poetry Writing Tips For Beginners

Here are five rules or suggestions for writing poetry.

To Rhyme or Not - Many beginners to poetry think you have to rhyme - all the time - on a dime - with a pine - well, you get the idea. This is not always the case. Some of the best poetry ever written doesn't rhyme - at all. That said, you don't want to try to consciously avoid rhymes either.

Tennis With or Without Nets - If you write sonnets and other structured poetry, it's like you're playing tennis with a net and rules. There's a lot you can do, but some poets like "free verse" or poetry without too much form. This will vary from poet to poet of course.

Where to Publish - While it's great to get your poetry published in a print magazine, sometimes it's just about getting other people to read your poetry. If that's the case, there are many great poetry communities online that you can become a part of without too much hassle. Find one and write your poetry!

When to Give Up - If you really are a poet, you're probably never going to stop playing with words. This is true even if you stop writing them down. A true poet will have the words going through their mind at all times whether they like it or not. Well, most of the time. I don't want to scare you. Although some good poetry is downright scary.

Ignore the Rules - You can read all the books and stories about how to write poetry that you want, but if you never sit down and write poetry, you will never know if poetry is something you're meant to do or not. There comes a time when you have to ignore the rules. You should know the rules before you toss them aside, but they shouldn't always be followed.

There you have it - some basic poetry tips for beginners. If you are really serious about poetry and using words to express yourself, you need to find a good poetry community so that you can grow as a poet. It's a long, difficult process, but for many people there's no other way of life that's worth living. Long live poetry - even poetry from beginners.

K. Paul Mallasch is the publisher of Ergo Poetry, a small community of poetry lovers who share and collaborate. Stop by to read, leave comments, or share your own poetry with the world. He also offers content creation services for really good rates.

Article Source: 5 Poetry Writing Tips For Beginners

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Tuesday, December 20, 2011


Top 20 Poetry Quotations

By Danielle Hollister

Explore the meaning of poetry and the motivation of poets with this special collection of evocative quotations...

"A poet is someone who is astonished by everything."
-- Anonymous

"Reality only reveals itself when it is illuminated by a ray of poetry."
-- Georges Brague

"The poet doesn't invent. He listens. "
--Jean Cocteau

" In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite."
-- Paul Dirac

" Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood."
-- T. S. Eliot

"The adventitious beauty of poetry may be felt in the greater delight with a verse given in a happy quotation than in the poem."
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

" There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it."
-- Gustave Flaubert

"A poem begins with a lump in the throat. "
--Robert Frost

" Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement."
-- Christopher Fry

" There's no money in poetry, but there's no poetry in money, either."
-- Robert Ranke Graves

" Poetry is to hold judgment on your soul."
-- Henrik Ibsen

" When power narrows the areas of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses."
-- John F. Kennedy

"Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind."
--Thomas Babington Macaulay

"The poem is the point at which our strength gave out. "
--Richard Rosen

" Science is for those who learn; poetry, for those who know."
-- Joseph Roux

"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. "
--Percy Byshe Shelley

"Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket. "
--Charles Simic

"A poem is never finished, only abandoned. "
--Paul Valéry

" Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great and feeling souls."
-- Voltaire

"Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge."
-- William Wordsworth

Resource Box - Danielle Hollister (2004) is the Publisher of BellaOnline Quotations Zine - A free newsletter for quote lovers featuring more than 10,000 quotations in dozens of categories like - love, friendship, children, inspiration, success, wisdom, family, life, and many more. Read it online at -

Article Source: Top 20 Poetry Quotations
Original Poetry by Donovan Baldwin

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Monday, December 19, 2011


Discussion: Dryden's Definition of Drama

By Ali Oyo Asghar J

John Dryden is a great literary figure of his age. He saw the great plague of 1665; it drove him to Charlton in Wilt-shire where he lived for eighteen months and wrote dramatic poesy. The work is in dialogue form, consisting of four characters, discussing about drama. It was proved a popular literary form and reigned supreme in England during the next seventy-five years. It is an Aristotelian form because several persons with different wits and faculties participate in the discussion and contribute to it by giving or adding their views and ideas. In this dramatic poesy, the center of discussion is drama. Dryden's definition of drama really covers a wide range. It can be applied to heroic poems, epics and romance or dramas. He treats drama as a form of imaginative literature that appeals to poetry.

According to him, drama is a just and lively image of human nature, representing its passions and humours, and the changes of fortune to which it is subject, for the delight and instruction of mankind. He insists on the words 'Just' and 'lively' image of human nature. In support of the words, it must be admitted that material of all topics is drawn from a society. The society is made of mankind or living things, and without them, society is nothing. Dryden implies word 'Image' as an imitation or appearance of human nature must be just. Just means exact or as it is. It means an exact copy of reality. Dryden is different; he does not like only the slavish or exact copy of reality, but it must be lively. David Diaches expresses that the image of human nature is implied for drama as well as imaginative literature, which shows the acting of people in such a way as to reveal what they are like. He further says that Dryden has used the word 'Image' for the appearance of human actions. The human actions must be just and lively. Plato described the imitation of imitation or copy of the copy. He is not different, but he adds the word 'lively'.

In poetic imitation, the word 'Just' is not sufficient, but the word 'Lively' must be added. 'Lively' means interesting. David Diaches interprets it as interesting. R.A Scott James agrees and interprets it as beautiful and so delightful. Such interpretation admits that the poet is a maker or a creator. He finds material, works on and makes it beautiful by heightening its quality. John Dryden gives value to labour. If one reveals it as rough as it was, it must be a rough work with a trivial value. If it is represented lively, the work would be lively, and the poet would be valued.

Dryden is really a great critic and supporter of imagination. In his age, he is rather different from all the poets. He calls imagination as a special faculty of a creative artist without rules and regulations. It enables the artist to create the work of beauty that makes him distinctive. Indeed, imagination is like a polisher that makes the material elegant. Such labour uplifts its value more and more. In other words, it is more needed to say that imagination is a shaping power. Through it, the poet selects, orders, rearranges and heightens his material. In result, the more distinctive and more beautiful material is achieved. Through imaginative creation, the just images of human nature become lively.

The writers or creative artists don't hold the imagination of same power. Each has his own, and it brings something different and peculiar in his work. Indeed, it forms the personality of a writer. According to Dryden, it is an inherent element that is found different in Shakespeare, Jonson and Fletcher. Each poet has his own qualities, and through such qualities, their work is analyzed and valued. Dryden admits that Shakespeare writes better between man and man; Fletcher betwixt man and woman. The one describes friendship better and the other love. He is of the opinion that imaginative work gives birth to qualities and peculiarities of a writer; by which he is known in the world of literature. So, such qualities or peculiarities make him more distinctive writer. Actually, he talks about the individual qualities of the creative artists which are named and contrasted. By pursuing such qualities, he accepts Shakespeare as the Homer, or the father of dramatic poets, and Jonson is accepted as the Virgil, or the pattern of elaborate writing. He concludes that he admires Jonson, but loves Shakespeare. All depends on the faculty of imagination. The rich faculty forms rich work and makes the writer eminent.

In the definition of drama, John Dryden gives primary importance to delight, and the secondary to instruction. The function of poetry is delight, and to instruct is the function of prose. It is he who combines the both. It is examined that the instruction comes out of the delight. A bare imitation gives birth to bare instruction that is quite ineffective, but when the bare imitation is selected, ordered and shaped by the poet's imagination, the work becomes beautiful and lively. David Diaches expresses that the function of poetry is to inform the reader in a lively and agreeable way, or the way that human nature likes.

Scott James stresses on aesthetic pleasure or delight. Aesthetic delight is concerned to poetry which springs from a beautiful thought. Shamasuddin Bulbul, the great poet of Mehar city, also emphasized on aesthetic pleasure as the chief function of poetry. Scott James says that the pleasure which a work of art produces is of a certain kind; it is that which comes up from a sense of the lively creativity. For Dryden, speaking of poetry is speaking of beauty. If one speaks the pleasure of poetry, it means a pleasure that comes out of the beautiful art. The aesthetic pleasure has the power to move and to transport. According to Dryden, the power of aesthetic pleasure affects the soul and excites the passion, and above all, it moves admiration. The soul, thus, is moved by reading the beautiful work, and it compels the reader to value it.

The poetry instructs as it delights. A bare imitation of reality does not have such power. It lies on poet's imagination that makes beautiful works of art. John Dryden lives in the age of prose, but follows such concept that makes him distinguished from the others. His concept of poetic imitation is not mere imitation, but it is the work of a poet, a maker or a creator, whose endeavor is to produce some piece of art but beautiful. Such lively work gives pleasure or delight, and the delight gives birth to instruction that is very effective and resultant.

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Article Source: Dryden's Definition of Drama

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Sunday, December 18, 2011


Trying to Work It Out - Poetry in Villanelle Style

By Lesley A Daunt

About the Villanelle Style

Poets have used villanelles for a variety of subjects, but all good villanelles have two things in common. First, villanelles have strong opening tercets, with the first and third lines providing a two-barreled refrain.

Shadows around me are dancing about.
Sometimes it feels as if I am dying.
I am trying just to work it all out.

The sunlight is trying to peer through clouds.
With no avail it still keeps me crying.
Shadows around me are dancing about.

This life is painful when you live without
Love from the one for whom you are pining.
I am trying just to work it all out.

The shadows are filling my head with doubt;
Never again will I see the sun shining.
Shadows around me are dancing about.

"When will this be over?" I hear myself shout.
I can't seem to take all the lying.
I am trying just to work it all out.

Life becomes painful when you live without
Love from the one for whom you are pining.
Shadows around me are dancing about.
I am trying just to work it all out.

Being a songwriter my whole life, it never quite dawned on me that in essence I was a poet. My process of writing songs has always been an odd one. Most musicians/singers write their lyrics than put them to music. In my early days of being in a band, I was the one who wrote the music, while I would sing the poetry of my bandmate. When her poetry stopped coming, I was left to come up with the lyrics as well as the music.

For some reason, I never actually sat and wrote any type of words - I was convinced what I wrote would end up being stupid. So I would "wing" it - I would just sing words off the top of my head while I was playing. They became the songs. Sometimes I wouldn't even know what I was singing. Than something weird happened - people would start telling me how they related to my "lyrics" - lyrics that I had given not one ounce of thought, lyrics that I wasn't even sure made sense.

I no longer sing in a band due to health issues. Something I miss more than anything in the world. So, here I sit actually writing poetry. Here I sit realizing I have been a poet all along.

Lesley Daunt

Article Source: Trying to Work It Out - Poetry in Villanelle Style

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Saturday, December 17, 2011


'Twas the Night before Christmas

by Clement C. Moore

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On Cupid! On Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
_"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."_
Merry Christmas!
Original Poetry by Donovan Baldwin

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Thursday, December 15, 2011


A Poem About the Sea

To The Sea Of My Hopes
By Miles D.C.

To the sea, to the sea.
Everything flows towards it.
Tears of joy or despair,
make their way eventually,
to the sea.

To sit by its side,
its unpredictable waters,
is to be acquainted once again
and know silence,
as it has been there for thousands of years.
The same silence that whispers
ever so loudly,
dreams and hopes,
if, by chance, you've sat long enough
to be as silent, as it is.

To sit by the ocean,
the ever perpetual sea,
is a privilege of the few
who can see beyond what just is,
and look into the depth
of their own despair
of how, life, as we know it,
follows a rhythm
unlike that of the perpetual sea.
And unlike its nature,
knowing how time will inevitably
one day run out,
to just sit by the sea,
is to know hope.
And with hope, come all love.
Hope floats
when everything else fails.
Hope comes knocking
when it has washed away,
all despair,
all pride,
all anger
at how changeable everything is.
Like the sea.

To the sea then, to the sea.
Everything flows to it.
All the love that I have
makes its way eventually,
to the sea.

Resting my eyes on the horizon,
gazing upon the bright reflection
of the sun on the water,
I turn my face to the it,
to taste and breathe it in,
that distinct ocean scent -
the same one that's seen
a thousand other
hopefuls like me.

Hoping to be set free,
hoping to let go,
hoping to find peace,
in the midst of its turbulent waters.
I plunge head on, unmindful
of the wave upon wave
crashing around me.
Uncaring, of how close
or how far, I am to the shore.
Because, I came, to be with the sea.
To offer up my doubts,
my fears,
my laughter,
my happiness,
to its embrace.
Cold yet comforting.

To the sea, to the sea.
Everything flows to the it.
All that we are,
finds its way eventually,
to the sea.

Human life ebb and flow
like the sea, and like the sea,
it carries away
everything... all the pain,
the sins, the regrets.
It washes away even shame.
Shame borne out of living
only half a life.

Ever moving yet ever present.
Ever changing and ever constant.
Ever silent and ever full of the sounds
of the earth.

We'll all find our way,
one day,
to the sea.

That, is my hope, for you and me.

Article Source: To The Sea Of My Hopes
Original Poetry by Donovan Baldwin

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Wednesday, December 14, 2011


Ancient Nahuatl Poem - Song at the Beginning

The following is an example of 16th century Nahuatl poetry, after the Conquest and probably, by subject matter, composed by a convert to the Christian faith. The Nahuatl language was one of the Aztec languages of Central Mexico. The title, before translation, of course, would be "Cuicapeuhcayotl", or, in English...

Song at the Beginning

1. I am wondering where I may gather some pretty, sweet flowers. Whom shall I ask? Suppose that I ask the brilliant humming-bird, the emerald trembler; suppose that I ask the yellow butterfly; they will tell me, they know, where bloom the pretty, sweet flowers, whether I may gather them here in the laurel woods where dwell the tzinitzcan birds, or whether I may gather them in the flowery forests where the tlauquechol lives. There they may be plucked sparkling with dew, there they come forth in perfection. Perhaps there I shall see them if they have appeared; I shall place them in the folds of my garment, and with them I shall greet the children, I shall make glad the nobles.

2. Truly as I walk along I hear the rocks as it were replying to the sweet songs of the flowers; truly the glittering, chattering water answers, the bird-green fountain, there it sings, it dashes forth, it sings again; the mockingbird answers; perhaps the coyol bird answers, and many sweet singing birds scatter their songs around like music. They bless the earth pouring out their sweet voices.

3. I said, I cried aloud, may I not cause you pain ye beloved ones, who are seated to listen; may the brilliant humming-birds come soon. Whom do we seek, O noble poet? I ask, I say: Where are the pretty, fragrant flowers with which I may make glad you my noble compeers? Soon they will sing to me, "Here we will make thee to see, thou singer, truly wherewith thou shalt make glad the nobles, thy companions."

4. They led me within a valley to a fertile spot, a flowery spot, where the dew spread out in glittering splendor, where I saw various lovely fragrant flowers, lovely odorous flowers, clothed with the dew, scattered around in rainbow glory, there they said to me, "Pluck the flowers, whichever thou wishest, mayest thou the singer be glad, and give them to thy friends, to the nobles, that they may rejoice on the earth."

5. So I gathered in the folds of my garment the various fragrant flowers, delicate scented, delicious, and I said, may some of our people enter here, may very many of us be here; and I thought I should go forth to announce to our friends that here all of us should rejoice in the different lovely, odorous flowers, and that we should cull the various sweet songs with which we might rejoice our friends here on earth, and the nobles in their grandeur and dignity.

6. So I the singer gathered all the flowers to place them upon the nobles, to clothe them and put them in their hands; and soon I lifted my voice in a worthy song glorifying the nobles before the face of the Cause of All, where there is no servitude.

7. Where shall one pluck them? Where gather the sweet flowers? And how shall I attain that flowery land, that fertile land, where there is no servitude, nor affliction? If one purchases it here on earth, it is only through submission to the Cause of All; here on earth grief fills my soul as I recall where I the singer saw the flowery spot.

8. And I said, truly there is no good spot here on earth, truly in some other bourne there is gladness; For what good is this earth? Truly there is another life in the hereafter. There may I go, there the sweet birds sing, there may I learn to know those good flowers, those sweet flowers, those delicious ones, which alone pleasurably, sweetly intoxicate, which alone pleasurably, sweetly intoxicate.

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Tuesday, December 13, 2011


'Love From the North" by Christina Georgina Rossetti

I had a love in soft south land,
Beloved through April far in May;
He waited on my lightest breath,
And never dared to say me nay.

He saddened if my cheer was sad,
But gay he grew if I was gay;
We never differed on a hair,
My yes his yes, my nay his nay.

The wedding hour was come, the aisles
Were flushed with sun and flowers that day;
I pacing balanced in my thoughts,--
"It's quite too late to think of nay."--

My bridegroom answered in his turn,
Myself had almost answered "yea":
When through the flashing nave I heard.
A struggle and resounding "nay."

[28]Bridemaids and bridegroom shrank in fear,
But I stood high who stood at bay:
"And if I answer yea, fair Sir,
What man art thou to bar with nay?"

He was a strong man from the north,
Light-locked, with eyes of dangerous gray:
"Put yea by for another time
In which I will not say thee nay."

He took me in his strong white arms,
He bore me on his horse away
O'er crag, morass, and hair-breadth pass,
But never asked me yea or nay.

He made me fast with book and bell,
With links of love he makes me stay;
Till now I've neither heart nor power
Nor will nor wish to say him nay.

--Christina Georgina Rossetti
Original Poetry by Donovan Baldwin

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