Sara Teasdale
1884 – 1933
When I go back to earth
And all my joyous body
Puts off the red and white
That once had been so proud,
If men should pass above
With false and feeble pity,
My dust will find a voice
To answer them aloud:
“Be still, I am content,
Take back your poor compassion,
Joy was a flame in me
Too steady to destroy;
Lithe as a bending reed
Loving the storm that sways her—
I found more joy in sorrow
Than you could find in joy.”
This poem is in the public domain.
Women of To-day
Charlotte Perkins Gilman
You women of today who fear so much
The women of the future, showing how
The dangers of her course are such and such–
What are you now?Mothers and Wives and Housekeepers, forsooth!
Great names, you cry, full scope to rule and please,
Room for wise age and energetic youth!–
But are you these?Housekeepers? Do you then, like those of yore,
Keep house with power and pride, with grace and ease?
No, you keep servants only! What is more–
You don't keep these!Wives, say you? Wives! Blessed indeed are they
Who hold of love the everlasting keys,
Keeping your husbands’ hearts! Alas the day!
You don't keep these!And mothers? Pitying Heaven! Mark the cry
From cradle death-beds! Mothers on their knees!
Why, half the children born, as children, die!
You don’t keep these!And still the wailing babies come and go,
And homes are waste, and husband’s hearts fly far;
There is no hope until you dare to know
The thing you are!This poem is in the public domain.
She Dwelt Among The Untrodden Ways
By William Wordsworth
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!
Dear Readers, I hope you like this poem. Please comment below if you recognize the meter of this poem.
Recuerdo
Edna St. Vincent Millay
1892 –1950
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
This poem is in the public domain.
For A Lady Who Must Write Verse
By Dorothy Parker
Unto seventy years and seven,
Hide your double birthright well—
You, that are the brat of Heaven
And the pampered heir to Hell.
Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,
Strung and seen and thrown aside.
Drill your apt and docile measures
Sternly as you drill your pride.
Show your quick, alarming skill in
Tidy mockeries of art;
Never, never dip your quill in
Ink that rushes from your heart.
When your pain must come to paper,
See it dust, before the day;
Let your night-light curl and caper,
Let it lick the words away.
Never print, poor child, a lay on
Love and tears and anguishing,
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
Murmur, “Silly little thing!”
Learning to Read
Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
1825 – 1911
Very soon the Yankee teachers
Came down and set up school;
But, oh! how the Rebs did hate it,—
It was agin’ their rule.
Our masters always tried to hide
Book learning from our eyes;
Knowledge didn’t agree with slavery—
‘Twould make us all too wise.
But some of us would try to steal
A little from the book,
And put the words together,
And learn by hook or crook.
I remember Uncle Caldwell,
Who took pot-liquor fat
And greased the pages of his book,
And hid it in his hat.
And had his master ever seen
The leaves up on his head,
He’d have thought them greasy papers,
But nothing to be read.
And there was Mr. Turner’s Ben,
Who heard the children spell,
And picked the words right up by heart,
And learned to read ’em well.
Well, the Northern folks kept sending
The Yankee teachers down;
And they stood right up and helped us,
Though Rebs did sneer and frown.
And, I longed to read my Bible,
For precious words it said;
But when I begun to learn it,
Folks just shook their heads,
And said there is no use trying,
Oh! Chloe, you’re too late;
But as I was rising sixty,
I had no time to wait.
So I got a pair of glasses,
And straight to work I went,
And never stopped till I could read
The hymns and Testament.
Then I got a little cabin—
A place to call my own—
And I felt as independent
As the queen upon her throne.
This poem is in the public domain.
Dear Readers,
I plan to post one poem each day to honor National Poetry Month. Please comment below any thoughts about the poem of the day.
Pratibha
Here’s the day 1 offering.
On Being Brought from Africa to America
By Phillis Wheatley
‘Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there’s a God, that there’s a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
“Their colour is a diabolic die.”
Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,
May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.
Dear Readers,
I am almost at the end of a poetry-writing marathon and fundraiser for Tupelo Press—one of the premier independent publishers of contemporary poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction in the United States. They have published the early books of many renowned poets such as Annie Finch, Ilya Kaminski, Maggie Smith, Aimee Nezhukumatathil, Gary Soto, Kazim Ali, Lise Goett, Matthew Zapruder, Rajiv Mohabir, Rusty Morrison, and so many more.
The challenge is to write a poem a day for 30 days, Tupelo 30/30 project. I am asking you to take a look at the many contest and submission opportunities at Tupelo Press and also support the press in honor of your favorite participating poet in this challenge, although I hope you would support my (Pratibha’s) campaign.
If you enjoy reading and contributing to The Literary Nest, I would urge you to support my campaign by donating a small amount by clicking here.
Also, keep those sonnets coming for our summer issue. The deadline is June 15. Here are the submission guidelines.
Stay well out there, readers.
Here we are at the end of April. Today is the last day of this National Poetry Month challenge. I hope you have enjoyed these prompts and had as much fun writing poems as I had creating them.
I will keep it simple today. Write a good-bye poem with an optimistic outlook.
Just a reminder about submissions. The summer issue will feature sonnets. Check out the submission guidelines, consider submitting, and spread the word.
As usual, you can post your poem here if you like. You will need a password. Write to theliterarynest@gmail.com if you need the password.
Eavan Boland is one of the foremost female poet voices in Irish literature. Sadly, she passed away on April 27, 2020. I love her poetry because she speaks in an urgent voice to express the female experience. There are many other reasons to admire her poetry, and you can find out more about her by just googling. As a small tribute to her, I am quoting her poem Quarantine written circa 2008. It is a fitting commentary for the current times.
Quarantine
— Eavan Boland (1944-2020)
In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking—they were both walking—north.
(Read the rest on Academy of American Poets)
Write a poem inspired by something in this poem. It doesn’t have to be about the pandemic. There is so much more you can discover about relationships and humanity in the poem. Find your groove and write.
As usual, you can post your poem here if you like. You will need a password. Write to theliterarynest@gmail.com if you need the password.
The Literary Nest 