The poem “Needles” by Brian Bilston who describes himself as writing about “the human condition, relationships, and buses”. Bilston has a low profile but memorably won the 2015 Great British Write Off for a poem in the shape of a Venn diagram.
Magnetic, electric, eclectic eyes,
That shine like frozen diamonds raised by sunlight,
Decorated by free-falling hair that parades and cascades
With the freedom of flight, that will best strike
Those able to see the beauty within,
that goes beyond mere skin
I’ve quoted countless of my favourite poems, but I do like to share my own work too. The last one, She Loved Me Once, was in June, so I was certainly due.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too –
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue
From the last stanza of To Autumn by the beloved English romantic poet John Keats (1795 – 1821). Despite his hugely untimely death at aged 25, Keats is still considered one of the greatest ever poets. You can my other favourite lines from his Ode to a Nightingale poem here.
She loved me once and I threw it away
A love so pure there was plenty to spare
And yet not enough for me to keep
And not enough for me to share
Her and I loved in different ways, speeds and styles
At contrasting times and in different places
Her love for me now sat with old newspapers
Faded clothes, expired milk and long-forgotten faces
But my love for her caught in a sandtimer
With my heart waiting for the last grain to fall
Memories varying from light to dark and dark to light
And questions and questions challenging it all
Whether better to have loved and lost I’m not certain
I wanted to love you the way you did me
My love took too long to catch up with yours
And you never slowed down, more’s the pity
I will let go, I hold on with fewer fingers now
The future is coming into view more than the past
But while we’ll never be that us again
Your role in my life will last
After finding an old poem Some Things, I decided to fine tune another poem I wrote while back.
Some things aren’t meant to be forgotten.
The first memory we hold
The poignant story we were always told
The first kiss we received
The lovely fantasies we once believed
The fantastic gifts we got
The ice creams we had when hot
The first person we had a crush on
Those neighbours with whom we always got along
The first difficult obstacle we got through
The wise words we’ve always listened to.
I wrote this poem a while ago and came across it when tidying my room and looking through some old papers. Hope you like it.
I believe in the sun,
even when it is not shining.
And I believe in love,
even when there’s no one there.
And I believe in God,
even when he is silent.
A poem written on the wall of a cellar by an unknown Jewish victim in a Cologne concentration camp during World War II.
I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain…
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.
I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness – though in vain –
Made up a love so tender and so true
As may God grant you to be loved again.
The bittersweet poem I loved You (1830) by Russian poet Alexander Pushkin, best known for his writings in the Romantic era of 1800 – 1850.
Soldiers are citizens of death’s grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time’s to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.
Not knowing when the dawn will come
I open every door
The wonderfully talented, and incredibly unique, American poet Emily Dickinson (1830 –1886). The reclusive Dickinson wrote over 1,800 poems, though only a few were published in her lifetime.
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
The opening lines of the poem Alone (1829), written by tortured Gothic genius Edgar Allan Poe when he was 20 years old.
Alex Raphael 