Top 100 or so Poems of All Time - "Hope is the thing with feathers" by Emily Dickinson

This very simple poem has stood the test of time.  Emily Dickinson uses metaphor and imagery very well in transforming the abstract idea of hope (inanimate) into an animate object -- a bird.  This allows the reader to immediately conjure up an image of hope -- allowing the reader to now address hope - directly - and by doing so,

somehow place hope into context as to how it might play a role in their own lives.

Dickinson was a devout, conservative christian woman.  No doubt the poem was inspired by biblical readings and interpretations.

This poem has served as inspiration for so many people - when times are tough, and it seems as though things aren't going your way, never lose hope.

Well done!  Aspiring poets, remember the important tool of metaphor and imagery - sometimes they can help to get your message or the intent of the feeling across to the reader quite effectively.

Enjoy this masterpiece! 

Hope is the thing with feathers

by Emily Dickinson 

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.

Top 100 or so Poems of all time - "Ode: Intimations of Immortality" by William Wordsworth

For this post, I'm really interested in what different opinions our readers have about this great poem.  

This poem is considered one of the most important poems of the English Romantic period - and because this blog has traditionally focused on modern poetry, we've not included this poem in our Top 100 series until now.  Due to the subject matter and structure (Problem, Solution, Joy) - I feel it absolutely necessary to include this poem now.

This is a very spiritual poem, and it means a lot of different things to different people.  To many (myself included), this poem is about pre-existence of life, and offers the soul a peek at "the reason" that we're here, and as a result, offers reassurance that we're likely going "somewhere" when we're done here.

For me personally, one of the most important stanza's in ALL of poetry is included in this poem.  Check out the 5th stanza (beginning with "Our birth...").  For me, it is such a positive, explosive offering of hope and understanding - in some ways opening the door to look back at beauty and maybe God, again.  To me, this stanza is a gift.

You can find a lot of reference and analytical articles about this poem out there.  But I'm REALLY interested to know which verses, or lines, or phrases inspire you -- and why -- I think that would be an interesting addition to the "comment" section.  

PLEASE share with us your thoughts on this one.

Ode: Intimations of Immortality 

by William Wordsworth

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

       The earth, and every common sight,

                              To me did seem

                      Apparelled in celestial light,

               The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it hath been of yore;—

                      Turn wheresoe'er I may,

                              By night or day.

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

                      The Rainbow comes and goes,

                      And lovely is the Rose,

                      The Moon doth with delight

       Look round her when the heavens are bare,

                      Waters on a starry night

                      Are beautiful and fair;

       The sunshine is a glorious birth;

       But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

       And while the young lambs bound

                      As to the tabor's sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief:

A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

                      And I again am strong:

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,

       The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

                      And all the earth is gay;

                              Land and sea

               Give themselves up to jollity,

                      And with the heart of May

               Doth every Beast keep holiday;—

                      Thou Child of Joy,

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy.

Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call

       Ye to each other make; I see

The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

       My heart is at your festival,

               My head hath its coronal,

The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.

                      Oh evil day! if I were sullen

                      While Earth herself is adorning,

                              This sweet May-morning,

                      And the Children are culling

                              On every side,

                      In a thousand valleys far and wide,

                      Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,

And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:—

                      I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

                      —But there's a Tree, of many, one,

A single field which I have looked upon,

Both of them speak of something that is gone;

                      The Pansy at my feet

                      Doth the same tale repeat:

Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

                         Hath had elsewhere its setting,

                              And cometh from afar:

                      Not in entire forgetfulness,

                      And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

                      From God, who is our home:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

                      Upon the growing Boy,

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,

                      He sees it in his joy;

The Youth, who daily farther from the east

                      Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,

                      And by the vision splendid

                      Is on his way attended;

At length the Man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,

And, even with something of a Mother's mind,

                      And no unworthy aim,

                      The homely Nurse doth all she can

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,

                      Forget the glories he hath known,

And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,

A six years' Darling of a pigmy size!

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,

With light upon him from his father's eyes!

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,

Some fragment from his dream of human life,

Shaped by himself with newly-learn{e}d art

                      A wedding or a festival,

                      A mourning or a funeral;

                              And this hath now his heart,

                      And unto this he frames his song:

                              Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

                      But it will not be long

                      Ere this be thrown aside,

                      And with new joy and pride

The little Actor cons another part;

Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"

With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,

That Life brings with her in her equipage;

                      As if his whole vocation

                      Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

                      Thy Soul's immensity;

Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep

Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,

That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,

Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—

                      Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

                      On whom those truths do rest,

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

Thou, over whom thy Immortality

Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,

A Presence which is not to be put by;

Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might

Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,

Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke

The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,

And custom lie upon thee with a weight,

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

                      O joy! that in our embers

                      Is something that doth live,

                      That Nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benediction: not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest;

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—

                      Not for these I raise

                      The song of thanks and praise

               But for those obstinate questionings

               Of sense and outward things,

               Fallings from us, vanishings;

               Blank misgivings of a Creature

Moving about in worlds not realised,

High instincts before which our mortal Nature

Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:

                      But for those first affections,

                      Those shadowy recollections,

               Which, be they what they may

Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,

Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;

               Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make

Our noisy years seem moments in the being

Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,

               To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,

                      Nor Man nor Boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

               Hence in a season of calm weather

                      Though inland far we be,

Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea

                      Which brought us hither,

               Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the Children sport upon the shore,

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

                      And let the young Lambs bound

                      As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought will join your throng,

                      Ye that pipe and ye that play,

                      Ye that through your hearts to-day

                      Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

               Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

                      We will grieve not, rather find

                      Strength in what remains behind;

                      In the primal sympathy

                      Which having been must ever be;

                      In the soothing thoughts that spring

                      Out of human suffering;

                      In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,

Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day

                              Is lovely yet;

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun

Do take a sober colouring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;

Another race hath been, and other palms are won.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

eNOTHING Audio Series -- Sylvia Plath reads her own "Daddy"

This is one of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets.  Like most of the eNOTHING Audio series -- featuring some of the master poets reading their own work, I find her voice fascinating, and the connection to her troubled view of her father (foiled suicide attempt to be with him) is there, yet hidden from view.

So, listen to Sylvia reading this classic poem, which of course has made our "Top 100 or so..." list, and enjoy this wonderful poet.

Who should we include next?

eNothing Audio Series "Somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond" reading by E.E. Cummings

Continuing our series of famous poems read by famous poets, we offer one of E.E. Cummings most recognizable works.  Cummings was one of the most innovative, popular and recognizable American poets of the 20th Century.

Well known for his idiosyncratic style, this Cummings poem, like many of his well-known works, is a poem about love.  The spirituality of his phrases envelope the heart and the metaphors he offers to connect this love (to the inevitability of nature, for example) allow the reader to feel their own love in a more expressive way.

Listening to his voice as it transcends time is very interesting, perhaps even eerie.  The scratchiness of the sound quality helps to create this strange sensation.  But the depth of his feeling comes through in his voice, and the careful timing and phonetics that only the poet himself could employ add to the audio.

Enjoy this piece!

Top 100 Poems of all Time - "The New Poetry Handbook" by Mark Strand

Mark Strand's poetry certainly belongs in our Top 100 list, and I couldn't think of a better entry than "The New Poetry Handbook" - which has gained a wide audience over the years.  It's a tongue in cheek, delightful look at the plight of the being of an American Poet.

Mark Strand was born in Canada (Prince Edward Island) in 1934, and spent his formative years moving from location to location in Canada and the United States as well as Central and South America (to name a few places).  As a result, Strand matured feeling that he was "from nowhere" so to speak.  His summers were spent in Canada on Prince Edward Island and Nova Scotia and it is there that he developed his home roots or basic "home identity".  Strand began his collegiate career as a painter, but soon found a talent in poetry, citing such influences as Wallace Stevens, and the surrealist influences in his poetry derives from admiration of Max Ernst, de Cherico, and Rene Magritte.

Strand won the Pulitzer prize for Poetry in 1999 for his collection "Blizzard of One", and was appointed Poet Laureate in 1990.  In his own words, 1971: "I feel very much a part of a new international style that has a lot to do with plainness of diction, a certain reliance on surrealist techniques, and a strong narrative element."

Enjoy this remarkable poem by Mark Strand!

The New Poetry Handbook

by Mark Strand 

1 If a man understands a poem,
he shall have troubles.

2 If a man lives with a poem,
he shall die lonely.

3 If a man lives with two poems,
he shall be unfaithful to one.

4 If a man conceives of a poem,
he shall have one less child.

5 If a man conceives of two poems,
he shall have two children less.

6 If a man wears a crown on his head as he writes,
he shall be found out.

7 If a man wears no crown on his head as he writes,
he shall deceive no one but himself.

8 If a man gets angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by men.

9 If a man continues to be angry at a poem,
he shall be scorned by women.

10 If a man publicly denounces poetry,
his shoes will fill with urine.

11 If a man gives up poetry for power,
he shall have lots of power.

12 If a man brags about his poems,
he shall be loved by fools.

13 If a man brags about his poems and loves fools,
he shall write no more.

14 If a man craves attention because of his poems,
he shall be like a jackass in moonlight.

15 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow,
he shall have a beautiful mistress.

16 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow overly,
he shall drive his mistress away.

17 If a man claims the poem of another,
his heart shall double in size.

18 If a man lets his poems go naked,
he shall fear death.

19 If a man fears death,
he shall be saved by his poems.

20 If a man does not fear death,
he may or may not be saved by his poems.

21 If a man finishes a poem,
he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion
and be kissed by white paper.

Top 100 Poems of All Time -- "I Hear America Singing" by Walt Whitman

There are so many great poems, great poets, undiscovered talent and surprises in the world of poetry, verse, and art.  You just need to have access to it all.  Today, we're very lucky.  With the accessibility of the internet, laptops, wireless everywhere and now cell phones - you CAN stay on top of everything.

Today's poem is one of Walt Whitman's all time great poems - forgotten by me since I began this blog 5 years ago.  But reading an article today in the London Times (online, of course) about poetry, this great poem was remembered as one of the 10 greatest poems ever (interesting opinion of an American poem in British culture).  So -- here it is for you to enjoy!

Oh yeah, don't forget the picture I choose of Whitman, which is the "middle-aged guy", they way he looked for most of his life, since I find the "bearded one" quite formidable.  Enjoy!

I Hear America Singing

by Walt Whitman

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day — at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Top 100 or so Poems -- "America" by Allen Ginsberg

We've already paid homage to HOWL by Allen Ginsberg - arguably one of the top 10 poems of all time (depends who you are!) by tweeting every single line of that poem over a period of a few weeks. So now, we're faced with representing Ginsberg in the top 100 list, and this poem fits the bill.

A poem which lended itself nicely in the end to the protests for peace in the sixties, if you read it carefully and if you are an "occupier" then you will see suitable parrallels here (as you would in songs like George Harrisons "Piggies")

Anyway, his style influenced an entire generation of modernist free verse poetry, so enjoy this great piece.

America

by Allen Ginsberg

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
Max after he came over from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
individual as his automobiles more so they're
all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
cere you have no idea what a good thing the
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our
garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-
tions.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us
all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.