the dead poet
the dead poet

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the dead poet Profile


the dead poet

Location: waterford, United States

Member Since: May 2010

Last online: April 2016

Open for read requests: Yes

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what could someone say,

what could i say

to some up me,

how could we,

some up you in a line!!!

i have not yet the wisdom,

or the strength,

to carry you though,

a few lines of me!

i give my name!

trevor wade,

let me start with the opening line,

i will  finish the rest later!!!!!!

my bio for now,

but the book never closes

 

Every age has its own poetry; in every age the circumstances of history choose a nation, a race, a class to take up the torch by creating situations that can be expressed or transcended only through poetry.
 

 i wanted to post some of my faverite poems on to booksie by people who i like! so hear are some!

  And Death Shall Have No Dominion
 

  And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.



Dylan Thomas
 

 

A Boy Named Sue

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  Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
and he didn't leave much to Ma and me,
just this old guitar and a bottle of booze.
Now I don't blame him because he run and hid,
but the meanest thing that he ever did was
before he left he went and named me Sue.

Well, he must have thought it was quite a joke,
and it got lots of laughs from a lot of folks,
it seems I had to fight my whole life through.
Some gal would giggle and I'd get red
and some guy would laugh and I'd bust his head,
I tell you, life ain't easy for a boy named Sue.

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean.
My fist got hard and my wits got keen.
Roamed from town to town to hide my shame,
but I made me a vow to the moon and the stars,
I'd search the honky tonks and bars and kill
that man that gave me that awful name.

But it was Gatlinburg in mid July and I had
just hit town and my throat was dry.
I'd thought i'd stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon in a street of mud
and at a table dealing stud sat the dirty,
mangy dog that named me Sue.

Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
from a worn-out picture that my mother had
and I knew the scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old
and I looked at him and my blood ran cold,
and I said, 'My name is Sue. How do you do?
Now you're gonna die.' Yeah, that's what I told him.

Well, I hit him right between the eyes and he went down
but to my surprise he came up with a knife
and cut off a piece of my ear. But I busted a chair
right across his teeth. And we crashed through
the wall and into the street kicking and a-gouging
in the mud and the blood and the beer.

I tell you I've fought tougher men but I really can't remember when.
He kicked like a mule and bit like a crocodile.
I heard him laughin' and then I heard him cussin',
he went for his gun and I pulled mine first.
He stood there looking at me and I saw him smile.

And he said, 'Son, this world is rough and if
a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
and I knew I wouldn't be there to help you along.
So I gave you that name and I said 'Goodbye'.
I knew you'd have to get tough or die. And it's
that name that helped to make you strong.'

Yeah, he said, 'Now you have just fought one
helluva fight, and I know you hate me and you've
got the right to kill me now and I wouldn't blame you
if you do. But you ought to thank me
before I die for the gravel in your guts and the spit
in your eye because I'm the guy that named you Sue.'
Yeah, what could I do? What could I do?

I got all choked up and I threw down my gun,
called him pa and he called me a son,
and I came away with a different point of view
and I think about him now and then.
Every time I tried, every time I win and if I
ever have a son I think I am gonna name him
Bill or George - anything but Sue.




Sheldon Allan Silverstein
 

 Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,


And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.    by Robert frost

 

THE PEACFULL GRAVEYARD

 
The tenderness, in the graveyard,
the perfect place for a writers touch,
so calm, with the harmony of souls
playing  so elegantly in to the night.
the way the wind shifts and clatters
with each echoing  sound.
 
the place where flowers bloom
in the fields of darkness and death,
and the trees weep and cry humming
a similar tune.with the wind blowing
dupree from the  earth, scattering
 the elements across the landscape.
 
the animals seem to flack to the dead
a honest place to bed there head,
with out the annoyance of humans in sight,
the evilness is beneath the soil.
the place in the graveyard
that shall not be tainted by the living.
like the rest of the world!
 

I seem to admire the irony,

how things can  blossom in death,

and bloom in darkness,

and the sun still rises and falls the same way,

no changes in good or misfortune,

alive or dead,well or in panic,

i know people complain of suicide

begging for affection or attention,

but stop and listen to the souls in the wind

playing in the night with harmony and conviction,

in there lost innocence,

maybe they envy the living.try to take

a lesson from the dead, life is short,

 love your self and admire the dead.

we all will have a plot in the graveyard someday,

that's are only common ground that we share!

 WRITTEN BY TREVOR WADE!   AKA THE DEAD POET! holds and reserves all right to this material

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