Poetry Tuesday Archives - Page 2 of 4

The Dark Cavalier

9th January 2024 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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This is post 28 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

I am the Dark Cavalier; I am the Last Lover:
My arms shall welcome you when other arms are tired;
I stand to wait for you, patient in the darkness,
Offering forgetfulness of all that you desired.

I ask no merriment, no pretense of gladness,
I can love heavy lids and lips without their rose;
Though you are sorrowful you will not weary me;
I will not go from you when all the tired world goes.

I am the Dark Cavalier; I am the Last Lover;
I promise faithfulness no other lips may keep;
Safe in my bridal place, comforted by darkness,
You shall lie happily, smiling in your sleep.

Margaret Widdemer (1884 – 1978) was an American poet, novelist, and children’s writer.

To read more poems, click here.

Winter

2nd January 2024 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Anne Bradstreet

This is post 27 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

Cold, moist, young phlegmy winter now doth lie
In swaddling clouts, like new-born infancy;
Bound up with frosts, and fur’d with hail & snows,
And, like an infant, still it taller grows.
December is my first, and now the sun
To the southward Tropick his swift race doth run.
This month he’s hous’d in horned Capricorn,
From thence he ’gins to length the shortened morn,
Through Christendom with great festivity,
Now’s held (but guessed) for blest Nativity.
Cold, frozen January next comes in,
Chilling the blood, and shrinking up the skin.
In Aquarius now keeps the long-wish’d sun,
And northward his unwearied course doth run.
The day much longer than it was before,
The cold not lessened, but augmented more.
Now toes and ears, and fingers often freeze,
And travelers their noses sometimes leese.
Moist snowy February is my last,
I care not how the winter-time doth haste.
In Pisces now the golden sun doth shine,
And northward still approaches to the line.
The rivers ’gin to ope, the snows to melt,
And some warm glances from his face are felt;
Which is increased by the lengthen’d day,
Until by’s heat, he drive all cold away.
And thus the year in circle runneth round;
Where first it did begin, in th’ end its found.

Anne Bradstreet (1612–1672) was an England-born American poet, and the first woman to be recognized as an accomplished New World Poet.

To read more poems, click here.

A Rose Has Thorns As Well As Honey

19th December 2023 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Christina Rossetti

This is post 26 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

A rose has thorns as well as honey,
I’ll not have her for love or money;
An iris grows so straight and fine,
That she shall be no friend of mine;
Snowdrops like the snow would chill me;
Nightshade would caress and kill me;
Crocus like a spear would fright me;
Dragon’s-mouth might bark or bite me;
Convolvulus but blooms to die;
A wind-flower suggests a sigh;
Love-lies-bleeding makes me sad;
And poppy-juice would drive me mad:—
But give me holly, bold and jolly,
Honest, prickly, shining holly;
Pluck me holly leaf and berry
For the day when I make merry.

Christina Rossetti (1830 – 1894) was one of the most important poets of the Victorian age in England.

To read more poems, click here.

The Crying of Water

12th December 2023 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Arthur Symons

This is post 25 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

O water, voice of my heart, crying in the sand,
All night long crying with a mournful cry,
As I lie and listen, and cannot understand
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?
All night long the water is crying to me.

Unresting water, there shall never be rest
Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail,
And the fire of the end begin to burn in the west;
And the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea,
All life long crying without avail,
As the water all night long is crying to me.

Arthur Symons (1865 – 1945) was a British poet, short story writer, critic, translator, and editor.

To read more poems, click here.

A Vision of the End

28th November 2023 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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DeWitt Clinton Duncan Too-qua-stee

This is post 24 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

Abstract photo of sea waves in tones of dark blue

I once beheld the end of time!
   Its stream had ceased to be.
The drifting years, all soiled with crime,
   Lay in the filthy sea.

The prospect o’er the recking waste
   Was plain from where I stood.
From shore to shore the wreckage faced
   The surface of the flood.

There all that men were wont to prize
   When time was flowing on,
Seemed here to sink and there to rise
   In formless ruin blown.

In slimy undulations rolied
   The glory of the brave;
The scholar’s fame, the rich man’s gold,
   Alike were on the wave.

There government, a monstrous form
   (The sea groaned ’neath the load),
A helpless mass blown by the storm,
   On grimy billows rode.

The bodies of great syndicates
   And corporations, trusts,
Proud combinations, and e’en states
   All beasts of savage lusts.

With all the monsters ever bred
   In civilization’s womb,
Lay scattered, floating, dead,
   Throughout that liquid tomb.

It was the reign of general death,
   Wide as the sweep of eye,
Save two vile ghosts that still drew breath
   Because they could not die.

Ambition climbed above the waves
   From wreck to wreck he strove;
And as they sank to watery graves,
   He on to glory rode.

And there was Greed—immortal Greed—
   Just from the shores of time.
Of all hell’s hosts he took the lead,
   A monarch of the slime.

He neither sank below, nor rose
   Above the brewing flood;
But swam full length, down to his nose,
   And steered where’er he would.

Whatever wreckage met his snout
   He swallowed promptly down—
Or floating empire, or redoubt,
   Or drifting heathen town.

And yet, it seemed in all that steaming waste
There nothing so much gratified his taste
As foetid oil in subterranean tanks,
And cliffs of coal untouched in nature’s banks,
Or bits of land where cities might be built,
As foraging plats for vileness and guilt;
Or fields of asphalt, soft as fluent salve
Or anything the Indian asked to have.

I once beheld the end of time!
   Its stream had run away;
The years all drifted down in slime,
   In filth dishonored lay.

Too-qua-stee (1829 – 1909) was an American poet, short story writer, and essayist born in the Cherokee Nation. He was also known as DeWitt Clinton Duncan.

To read more poems, click here.

The Bluebird

21st November 2023 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Alexander Posey Bluebird

This is post 23 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

A winged bit of Indian sky
Strayed hither from its home on high.

Alexander Posey (1873 – 1908) was an American poet, journalist, and politician in the Creek Nation.

To read more poems, click here.

Hope Is the Thing with Feathers

5th September 2023 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Emily Dickinson

This is post 22 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

‘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.

Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886) was one of the most original American poets. She is considered one of the most important American poets of the 19th century, along with Walt Whitman.

To read more poems, click here.

Success Is Counted Sweetest

1st August 2023 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Emily Dickinson

This is post 21 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

Abstract photo of a field with the sea in the background

Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne’er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host

Who took the Flag today

Can tell the definition

So clear of victory

As he defeated – dying –

On whose forbidden ear

The distant strains of triumph

Burst agonized and clear!

Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886) was one of the most original American poets. She is considered one of the most important American poets of the 19th century, along with Walt Whitman.

To read more poems, click here.

Answer July

4th July 2023 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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Emily Dickinson

This is post 20 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

Answer July—
Where is the Bee—
Where is the Blush—
Where is the Hay?

Ah, said July—
Where is the Seed—
Where is the Bud—
Where is the May—
Answer Thee—Me—

Nay—said the May—
Show me the Snow—
Show me the Bells—
Show me the Jay!

Quibbled the Jay—
Where be the Maize—
Where be the Haze—
Where be the Bur?
Here—said the Year—

Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886) was one of the most original American poets. She is considered one of the most important American poets of the 19th century, along with Walt Whitman.

To read more poems, click here.

Mad Song

6th June 2023 Mihaela Limberea

Poetry

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William Blake

This is post 19 of 38 in the series “Poetry Tuesday”

This is a series of poems published every Tuesday.

The wild winds weep,

         And the night is a-cold;

Come hither, Sleep,

         And my griefs infold:

But lo! the morning peeps

         Over the eastern steeps,

And the rustling birds of dawn

The earth do scorn.

Lo! to the vault

         Of paved heaven,

With sorrow fraught

         My notes are driven:

They strike the ear of night,

         Make weep the eyes of day;

They make mad the roaring winds,

         And with tempests play.

Like a fiend in a cloud

         With howling woe,

After night I do croud,

         And with night will go;

I turn my back to the east,

From whence comforts have increas’d;

For light doth seize my brain

With frantic pain.

William Blake (1757–1827) English engraver, artist, and poet. He is now considered one of the most original of the Romantic poets, but in his lifetime he was largely neglected.

To read more poems, click here.

Mihaela Limberea

Post series: Poetry Tuesday

The Dark Cavalier

Winter

A Rose Has Thorns As Well As Honey

The Crying of Water

A Vision of the End

The Bluebird

Hope Is the Thing with Feathers

Success Is Counted Sweetest

Answer July

Mad Song

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