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Favorite Poet?

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Found this poem today on Pinterest. It's so very moving, in fact it made me cry  :blush:  


Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden


Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

Edited by poppy

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This girl is an amazing spoken word artist.


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I am an English teacher, but don't really like poetry.


However, over time, I've found a range of different poems I enjoy teaching.


One would be 'Suicide in the Trenches' by Siegfried Sassoon. Another particular favourite is 'Your Dad Did What?' - the name of the poet escapes me.

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I love poetry and actually am a poet.


Here's a sample: Do tell me what you think


This is entitled Gods of Stone


Lonely dark nights you made

Many high roads and air still

Days sunny birght, no shade

I had a need only you could fill


You made bodies in heaven

Made rain and storm on a whim

The calm you gave to the unkown

Does it matter if I sink or swim?


-If you liked it, I'll post the remaining parts


Thank you

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Favourites change a lot, but a stern contender based on its well worn pages in my library is my man Joe Bolton. 

Tremendous talent.

His collection, Days of Summer Gone, is a must have if you can find it for a reasonable price. I once dropped it behind the radiator next to my toilet and actually took the radiator out to retrieve it, it's that damned good.

Here's a good'n:

The Light We Dance Through

This is the afterlife. Her gin-
tinged breath came like a cool
injection in my ear.
We were dancing after midnight in this place
called 32nd Avenue, dancing
over cigarette butts & against
bodies not our own & through a light
of such blue density
it almost wasn’t light at all.
But outside, there were stars,
& though all around us the city was playing games
with its deranged souls,
we danced three times around the parking lot–
a waltz, for chrissake, a fudgeing
waltz. That
was 1981, & each year
there are fewer & fewer people I’ll admit
as my acquaintances,
& fewer still I’ll dance with,
& it’s probably the case
that, on those all-too-rare occasions,
the light we dance through is the closest
we’ll ever come to any sort of afterlife.

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