Poem of the Week: No Man Is An Island, John Donne

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No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were:
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

No Man Is An Island

My Head

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I don’t have a multiple personality disorder,

I just have several voices in my head.

And why would I try to navigate this fuck up of a life,

When I can just live here in my head instead?

See, in my head, the world is shinier.

People say the words they mean –

At least, the ones that I’ve invented do.

The residents there say things that are none too clean.

When they’re in full swing,

It’s like being host at a house party

Full of people you don’t want to be around,

But who feel they have a duty to belittle me.

My skull becomes steamer,

But there’s no vents to let it all out,

And so the pressure, the volume, builds

And it takes all my strength not to shout

Above the noise. But then sometimes, they lose their voice,

And instead of the cruel vitriol

I live in my dream world, happy, full, content –

Where I have full, unquestionable control.

So you tell me, why,

Why would I want to join the waking world?

Leave me here in this self-induced coma,

And in this foetal position, curled.

Like what you’re reading?

Favourite Poets: Edgar Allen Poe, A Dream

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In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed—
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream—that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
So trembled from afar—
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth’s day-star?
Okay, I must be a sucker for Poe writing about dreams because this is my second favourite.

Can We Go Back

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I remember the first day you held my hand.
Your fingertips paused at my wrist, waiting, hesitant,
Then caressing their path across my palm.
You slipped your fingers through mine and held on,
And I could talk of magnetism, electric,
Forces that for us have no name or meaning,
The very air settling, wrapping around in embrace,
But it would mean nothing.
Would not capture how it felt to belong,
To not doubt, to know inner peace for once.
I cannot find the words. I don’t think there are enough of them,
And my tongue’s too simple to pick the brightest, bejeweled ones out
That would do any justice to you.
Besides, you’re the one with the magic;
Maybe not always in words, but forever in gestures,
So when I say that it is you who are magical,
Know it is something far bigger. Brighter. Bolder.
More than just the simple stating of a fact.
I want to go back to that.
Feel the warmth of your spine pressed against my chest,
The certainty of your skin there beneath my fingers,
The knowledge that we are each other’s,
And that nothing can ever take away from that.
I want to get back to that.
Please. Can we go back?

Poetry In The News

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Hello 😊 here’s your poetry in the news for this week; I hope it’s a good one!

The influence of poetry in the 70s.

Amazing street poetry in Adelaide that you can only see when it rains; how beautiful is that!

Potentially the most beautiful thing ever: a celebration of ‘local’ words, colloquialisms then, of the UK, in poetry. Yes please.

The development of ‘formal’ Singapore poetry.

Celebrating 70s years of independence with Indo-Pak poetry.

And finally, ‘10 spoken word poems you need to hear’. Spoilers: you don’t need to hear 10, you need to hear all of them. Spoken word poets are amazing and deserve all the love at all times.

😊

Poem of the Week: Trees, Joyce Kilmer

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I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.