How to Write Poetry: Classic Poetry from a Classic Perspective

The same as one is in all, all is in one. Ahead of the others, gets the one who can. While others with meek heart stand-alone and sigh, And do not grasp that like the unseen foam they quietly die. Whatever they want or think, what should the blind fate agonize? Shall the whole world accept him?

Shall writers cause him to feel at ease? What will the old professor gain out of all of these? Eternal life, they shall say. It is true that all his time, Like ivy on a tree, he clings to an aim. Forever, in all places they shall pass it on, all the same, By word of mouth, by means of my fame, My writings shall find shelter in a spot of some head.

What crossed in front of you? From here or from there: And he shall stack your work on two lines, in a tiny footnote. On a silly page, he shall put you last, with a dot. You can build a whole way of life. You can wreck it. Whatever you say, a shovel of dust shall stack over the whole lot. The hand that wanted the sceptre of the Universe, and higher ranks… And with vision to grasp the Cosmos, fits perfect in four planks. And with cold stares, like they are mocking you too, In the best funeral-procession, they shall walk behind you.

And a shortie shall speak above everybody, reading your eulogy, Not to praise you… to polish himself in the shade of your celebrity. Look what awaits you. Oh yes, you shall see… The time yet to come, is even with more impartiality. You were a man like they are… everyone is content. And in literary meetings, each guy with an ironic expression Will widen his or her nose, when about you they talk in session. It has to be said sincerely, With words, they shall praise you dearly.

And so, fallen in the hands of anyone, they shall assess your toil. And apart from that, about your life, they shall stick their nose in. They shall look for dirt, faults and for some sin. All these brings you closer to them… Not the enlightenment That you shed on the world, but the sins, flaws and excitement, And blunders, and weak moments, and guilt from the past, Which, are linked in a fatal way to a hand of dust.

As, it opens the star gate to our own dimension in a twinkling, And once the candle is quenched, it releases much inkling. Many a wilderness, glares in your glow, virgin one you. How many a forest, hide in its shade shimmer of springs, from your view? Over how many thousands of waves, does your glow shift When, over the rough expanse of the seas, your light shall drift?

I absolutely love this one! I wish I could say I have achieved the privilege of mastering the worlds greatest poets, but blessed that I can appreciate ones beauty of expression! Can I ask who the poet is who wrote this and where you found it? Ozymandias my favorite short-form poem ever. But where is something from Dickinson, the Bard of Amherst? Brilliant poems too numerous to enumerate…. A good list apart from number one by Shakespeare. Number two by Donne is not bad. Perhaps he should have listed off her favorite foods.

Or even something about her physical appearance would have been better than nothing. There really is nothing about her, assuming it is a she. Shakespeare is grossly overrated. Most of his work is unremarkable but gets more attention because when he was writing hardly anyone had written anything.

If you read their poems you will sea they were great. Many people on the world have ridden them for many years…. Persian poems are as great as the sea is expansive. No mention of Invictus? It evokes such raw willpower as to overcome any inner demon. That said, there is a sense, to me anyway, of godlessness to it.

These strike me as relatively hollow reflections compared to those on the list. I came across your list only yesterday.

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By the way, I happen to agree with you regarding Invictus. Your list is so beautiful, inspiring and for me personally extremely therapeutic! Again in my personal opinion ones own view is by far more interesting, pure and appreciated! Thank you for this list! Most importantly it is not right nor wrong and should just simply not literally be appreciated! For instance, suppose you feel someone has wronged you, say a politician or perhaps someone close to you, and the actions you take driven by irrational emotion you realize later were silly.

If something appears in need of attention and underserved or underutilized, as in the less warn path, then we should naturally feel inclined to help and participate where it is needed. We should naturally be open minded and compassionate to our fellow man, even if they suffer for a sound reason. The two principles are perhaps contradictory, but I think Frost has experienced them and recognizes that he has them internalized, so the poem is an expression of that contradictory experience and elucidates the sometimes seemingly contradictory nature of life itself.

If there are layers of consciousness and layers of reality then the truth can perhaps be more closely approached. Principle 2 applies to ordinary human interactions at the most surface level and principle 1 demonstrates a larger scale principle that we can reflect upon in a more spiritual or philosophical state of mind but cannot entirely attain when confined to a human body.

An individuals choices will make a difference in their own life but will have no effect whatsoever on society as a whole in most cases. So he makes it seem as if taking the path less traveled is what made the difference, when really, the were either the same, or there would have been no way to differentiate to begin with. I do agree with those principles 1 borne out many times but the last line still flummoxes me a bit.

I love that poem also. The story that goes with it makes it all the more moving. Thank you for taking the time to compile this list. I was inspired to revisit poetry after teaching it to my 3rd grade students. They seem to really enjoy poetry and grasping meaning from it. I suspect that if Wordsworth had compiled a list of his best 10 poems, Daffodils would not have been on it. As you outline it, the sixth reason death is not to be feared is that death is not extinction for John Donne. But what is the victory he imagines?

What does it mean that death will die? Certainly John Donne believed in an enduring soul, but I would submit that the reason in his poem hinges instead on his Christian belief in the resurrection of the body, not on the continuation of a non-physical soul. I would suggest it is not primarily a realization that the body is subordinate, nor that there is a greater identification with the soul.

And in that day, corruption, decay, and death will no longer exist. This is the source of his hope and how he sees the powerlessness of death. The reality he is undoubtedly picturing is this same reality the writer of Revelation is picturing. It is a physical world that is being remade. It is not a world of disembodied souls. It is a world where the former order of things has passed away, corruption and death itself have become extinct.

As the poem says, death thou shalt die. And if this is true, I wonder if the possible applications you envision might need to be narrowed a bit more. Love to hear your thoughts. Thanks again for sharing. Thank you for your thoughtful analysis and question. To me, there is not necessarily any contradiction between our two interpretations. If the soul is made of matter, possibly itself composed of yet unknown or yet enigmatic particles that far exceed current scientific understanding, then from the perspective of the other side, from heavenly realms, the soul is the real body, potentially capable of regenerating or reconstituting lesser forms of matter, which include what we human beings perceive to be the physical human body.

Perhaps it is like a photograph. The human body is flat and two dimensional and captures a mere glimpse of the person, but the source of the photo, capable of generating more photos, is the soul. Both we might say present to us a complete physical body and a complete being, although the person obviously trumps the photo. Okay, you hooked me into another question! You definitely have a revision of the traditional understanding of the soul when you say it can be composed of physical matter.

I apologize if I am not. I am imagining that the physical matter, or super matter, never usually decomposes, just what we perceive on the surface as the physical body decomposes. At death, it is merely that the dirty or worn clothes are taken off. Without the restraints of this physical dimension there is an expanded consciousness encompassing our human consciousness. The electrons keep spinning and they maintain their atomic structure. Our bodies are made of cells and molecules that maintain an overall macro-structure, so it could be that our souls are composed of atoms and subatomic particles and also have an overall macro-structure.

If you were to destroy the atoms or split them, then you would be destroying the soul and releasing a huge amount of energy, which is basically a nuclear explosion or nuclear energy. That is the power of but a few particles of the soul I cannot mention this last metaphor and proceeding discourse without citing my own spiritual mentor Master Li Hongzhi: I disagree with the title of this list. These are definitely not the 10 greatest poems ever written.

At least half of these poems are quaint trifles. The list also exaggerates the importance of rhyme in English poetry. Or they transformed the way rhyme is used to make it less conspicuous and awkward. Perhaps, if you try this argument elsewhere, you may consider using a different example. Hopkins by the way is featured in our 10 Greatest Poems about Death: You do have an interesting point in which you correlate power and wizardry to greatness, but do no correlate posthumous fame or memorableness to greatness.

Perhaps you have your own top ten list that you can compile and share. I think in the future the list will need to be rewritten or expanded to include 21st century poets too, but we are not there yet. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird, — the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! No wonder of it: I would argue that Hopkins is using rhyme here in a very natural and unique manner, not in the service of an awkward convention.

The sheer number of internal rhymes and alliterative and assonant phrases in this poem that do not feel forced is impressive. In, fact I think they help to convey this theme most powerfully. Hopkins himself said it was the best thing he ever wrote. Poetry is our hearts, our lives, our pain, and pleasure all penned for sheer enjoyment or reflection.

Enjoy and comment on the below. What mettle are you made of my son? From what fiber have you been cast? In glass, or wood, or iron are thee? By your life are these questions asked. You may learn much about a man By his fortitude and his grain, Only in time will each be tested Under stress, through fire, or disdain. Now a man of glass can be seen through With simply a look or a glance. Thine self ist warned that such a bond be worthy not at all, but thine forgets the words of thou when he has lost it all.

So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost. The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,— They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled Is the blossom.

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Fragrant is the blossom. But I do not approve. More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.

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And I am not resigned. We have the original spelling here: Most of the interpretations of these poems are not profound at all. Thank you for your feedback. Feel free to offer your own interpretation of any of the poems, either in the comments section or for submission for publication to submissions classicalpoets.

Alternatively, you may post a link to an interpretation that you feel is worthy. Perhaps the style is too informal in places, I agree. The Society of Classical Poets is hopefully raising poetry to greater heights and opening it up to common people who find that prevailing modes of poetry nonsensical and dull, and again inaccessible and irrelevant.

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Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection: Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; Where the mind is lead forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action— Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee! He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the pathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is covered with dust.

Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil! In our pursuit of God, we truly seem to be running away from Him. If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight —let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing —let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me —let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house —let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

The lines are beautiful yet they carry spasms of distress. Try and the logophiles like me would definitely enjoy with mirth because words rearranged beautifully always fascinate the likes of us…. A good thesis when we mention the list but the fact that the greatest poems cannot be listed ,as there are innumerable languages in the world and the essence of a poem felt in its own language cannot be easily engrossed in a translation, cannot be ignored.

Hitting the nail on its head! Incidentally, there are many more and better English poems than these listed. What is a great poem? What is a good poem? What is a classic poem? What is simply a brilliant poem? People tend to get fixated on classic poets. I rather like the list, but I think there is some room for debate and discourse. With that being said, allow me to throw my favorite poem in the ring. Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. The repeated emphasis on female authorship of poetry in the Shijing was made much of in the process of attempting to give the poems of the women poets of the Ming - Qing period canonical status.

According to tradition, the method of collection of the various Shijing poems involved the appointment of officials, whose duties included documenting verses current from the various states which constituting the empire. Out of these many collected pieces, also according to tradition, Confucius made a final editorial round of decisions for elimination or inclusion in the received version of the Poetry.

As with all great literary works of ancient China, the Poetry has been annotated and commented on numerous times throughout history, as well as in this case providing a model to inspire future poetic works. Various traditions concern the gathering of the compiled songs and the editorial selection from these make up the classic text of the Odes: The Confucian school eventually came to consider the verses of the "Airs of the States" to have been collected in the course of activities of officers dispatched by the Zhou Dynasty court, whose duties included the field collection of the songs local to the territorial states of Zhou.

Perhaps during the harvest. After the officials returned from their missions, the king was said to have observed them himself in an effort to understand the current condition of the common people. The Classic of Poetry historically has a major place in the Four Books and Five Classics , the canonical works associated with Confucianism. In works attributed to him, Confucius comments upon the Classic of Poetry in such a way as to indicate that he holds it in great esteem.

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A story in the Analects recounts that Confucius' son Kong Li told the story: He asked me, 'You've studied the Odes? According to Han tradition, the Poetry and other classics were targets of the burning of books in BC under Qin Shi Huang , and the songs had to be reconstructed largely from memory in the subsequent Han period. However the discovery of pre-Qin copies showing the same variation as Han texts, as well as evidence of Qin patronage of the Poetry , have led modern scholars to doubt this account. During the Han period there were three different versions of the Poetry which each belonged to different hermeneutic traditions.

The Book of Odes has been a revered Confucian classic since the Han Dynasty, and has been studied and memorized by centuries of scholars in China.

The extensive allegorical traditions associated with the Odes were theorized by Herbert Giles to have begun in the Warring States period as a justification for Confucius ' focus upon such a seemingly simple and ordinary collection of verses. Granet, in his list of rules for properly reading the Odes , wrote that readers should "take no account of the standard interpretation", "reject in no uncertain terms the distinction drawn between songs evicting a good state of morals and songs attesting to perverted morality", and "[discard] all symbolic interpretations, and likewise any interpretation that supposes a refined technique on the part of the poets".

The Odes became an important and controversial force, influencing political, social and educational phenomena. As the idea of allegorical expression grew, when kingdoms or feudal leaders wished to express or validate their own positions, they would sometimes couch the message within a poem, or by allusion. This practice became common among educated Chinese in their personal correspondences and spread to Japan and Korea as well.

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been. Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! By nature vile, ennoble but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on — it honors none you wish to mourn. God lay dead in heaven; Angels sang the hymn of the end; Purple winds went moaning, Their wings drip-dripping With blood That fell upon the earth. It, groaning thing, Turned black and sank.

Then from the far caverns Of dead sins Came monsters, livid with desire. They fought, Wrangled over the world, A morsel. Before us great Death stands Our fate held close within his quiet hands.

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The cloud, the stillness that must part The darling of my life from me; And then to thank God from my heart, To thank Him well and fervently; Although I knew that we had lost The hope and glory of our life; And now, benighted, tempest-tossed, Must bear alone the weary strife. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea.