Thanksgiving is coming up and I'd like for us to take a moment to remember some poets that have made history with their pen decades ago.
Below are some poems of hope,Thanksgiving,love,joy, and more.
Read here about Thanksgiving and it's history -
Thanksgiving
All poets can be found on the sister site old poetry :
http://oldpoetry.com
If you click on the title it'll take you to their poem on old poetry.
First Poet :
Edgar Albert Guest
Lived 1881-1959
Edgar Albert Guest
269 poems can be found on old poetry here is one of his writes :
Thanksgiving
by Edgar Albert Guest
Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice,
An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;
An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they
Are growin' more beautiful day after day;
Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men,
Buildin' the old family circle again;
Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.
Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all.
Father's a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin' our stories as women an' men.
Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there.
Home from the east land an' home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an' best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We've come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank,
Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.
Give me the end of the year an' its fun
When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin' with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.
2nd Poet
Emily Dickinson
She lived from 1830-1886
Click Here -
Emily Dickinson
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.
3rd Poet
ee cummings
lived from 1894-1962
by e e cummings
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
4th Poet
William Shakespeare
He lived from 1564-1616
Click here -
William_Shakespeare
To-be--or-not-to-be--that-is-the-question
by William Shakespeare
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?
To die: to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flash is heir to, tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.
To die, to sleep;
To sleep erchance to dream:ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?
Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And make us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And Is sicklied o'er
With the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn away,
And lose the name of action.
5th Poet
Mark Van Doren
He lived from 1894-1972
Click Here :
Mark Van Doren
by Mark Van Doren
Whatever I have left unsaid
When I am dead
O'muse forgive me.
You were always there,
like light, like air.
Those great good things
of which the least bird sings,
So why not I?
Yet thank you even then,
Sweet muse, Amen.
I've only listed five poets but there are so many at oldpoetry that if you haven't visited that site for awhile I encourage you to go and show some appreciation to these incredible poets that are gone but not forgotten.
Remember when you write you'll never know what poem might save someone, or give someone a laugh that hasn't laughed for a while, or either just make some cry that haven't cried in awhile. Your pen, your thoughts, and words all could make history and be remembered for decades.
Keep that thought in mind when using the pen.
A special thanks to the poets that are listed on catz column "Forever Yours"
Click here -
http://allpoetry.com/column/show/2042720
Though they are gone but not forgotten. They are a fine example of how people will be touched even when you're no longer here.
A lot of people claim they aren't poets and those are the ones that are usually gifted.
Thank you poets for each poem you post, for each person that you make laugh, or cry, or have the strength to carry on.
Keep on penning poets!
Adding your comment:
