Tag Archives: poets

Text of “The New Colossus” By Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

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Text of “Ode On a Grecian Urn” by John Keats

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

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Search Engine Optimized Poet – An Ode to Bookshelf Q. Battler’s 35 Cents

:::Bongo Drum Beats:::

Hey there all you hep cats and hep kittens. Come on down to the East Randomtown Java Bean, where the poets always stink and the cups are never clean.

Next on the mic is the one and only Search Engine Optimized Poet…the only rhyme-smith whose beats bring in the web searchers’ feets, ya dig?

BQB’s latest royalty earnings report for BQB’s Writing Prompts.

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35 cents!  Whoa, 35 cents!

BQB’s book sales profits are incredibly immense!

What will he buy, with 35 cents?

The possibilities are long and intense!

A fence?  To put around BQB HQ to keep out his legions of fans?

Sands, tropical sands, and the best laid plans of mouses and mans.

Jams!  BQB, make your jelly shake…

At the thought of the 35 cents you just did make.

You can now bake…35% of a cake.

Or sleep in a motel room for 35% of the time until you do wake.

Snake.  You could probably buy a serpent.

Or a few flakes of off brand laundry detergent.

Insurgent.  The lady who wrote that made much more than you.

But don’t feel bad, for 35 cents is better than a pile of poo.

That’ll do pig, that’ll do.  It’s what the farmer said to Babe.  I thought you knew.

Didn’t you?  Didn’t you already spend your 35 cents on a stick of gum?

Maybe you should just spread good will and give your 35 cents to a bum.

 

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Text of “If” by Rudyard Kipling

EDITORIAL NOTE: Hey 3.5 readers.  BQB here.  Professor Nannerpants is busy sipping champagne with royalty in Monte Carlo, but he says this poem will be your next homework assignment.  So check it out and leave your thoughts about what it all means in the comments.

“If”

By: Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

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Search Engine Optimized Poet – Who Bought the Playboy Mansion?

:::Bongo Drum Beats:::

Hey there all you hep cats and hep kittens. Come on down to the East Randomtown Java Bean, where the poets always stink and the cups are never clean.

Next on the mic is the one and only Search Engine Optimized Poet…the only rhyme-smith whose beats bring in the Googler’s feets, ya dig?

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Playboy Mansion! Whoa, Playboy Mansion!

Who in the hell purchased you?

Is Hugh Hefner’s reign really though?

I heard Hugh’s neighbor bought you.

To combine both properties and make one out of two.

Your new owner owns Twinkies, the snack cake filled with cream.

I feel like with that mansion, there are jokes to be made about cream.

Dare I dream?

No it would be too obscene.

Charlie Sheen.

He probably would have liked to live there.

I hope I don’t get eaten by a bear.

What is the best brand of underwear?

Can I go to IKEA to buy a chair?

Stare.

At BQB’s web hits as they go up.

Why does that guy at Starbucks write my name on my cup?

I know who I am. I don’t need to be told twice.

If I borrow my friend’s hat, will I come down with lice?

Nice. Is that a good way to be?

I wouldn’t know.

I spend all my time up a tree.

Yippee. It’s time to take a snooze.

Can someone tell me what is the best brand of mattress to use?

I suppose whichever one I choose.

What is happening in the daily news?

The election.

I should give it an inspection.

To determine the country’s ultimate direction.

Wait a minute. I just found my old playboy mags and got an erection.

Damnation. This whole poem needs an entire course correction.

Confection. It’s a sugary snack.

Can you believe that Jon Snow is back?

I’m the worst poet ever. Truly, a hack.

Talent is something that I utterly lack.

Will Fox ever bring Firefly back?

What are the lyrics to Love Shack?

It was the B-52’s greatest hit.

Back in the 90’s. So long ago. I can’t believe it.

Holy shit. Where did the time go?

Can anyone recommend a site that will teach me to sew?

I don’t know. But I know I ripped my pants.

Because I watched So You Think You Can Dance?

And fooled myself into thinking, “Yes. I do think I can dance.”

Like Lady Gaga, I’m trapped in a bad romance…

…with myself. I don’t know how to leave me.

I have dumped myself a thousand times but I inevitably go back to retrieve me.

I shouldn’t take myself back. I will only deceive me.

Perhaps myself and I should get a divorce.

I could drive away. Myself could leave on a horse.

The Norse. Aren’t they from Norway?

I have hit rock bottom. I have nothing left to say.

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Search Engine Optimized Poet #2 – Why Do Men Have Nipples?

Nipples!  Whoa, nipples!up-korora-beatnik-800px

Why are there nipples on a man?

It’s not like they can squirt milk into a can.

Or can they?  A Google search for this info is now a part of my plan.

Flan?  How do I make it?

And your coffee.  How do you take it?

Is a Keurig easy to use?

Which brand of java should I use?

Booze.  Which kind is best to get me drunk?

Will the city dump take all of my junk?

I’m in a funk.  Because I want to know whether or not it will rain.

And which is the best laundry detergent?  Tide or Gain?

Who is that stuck up dude who used to play Dr. Frasier Crane?

Oh search engine, there is so much for you to explain.

Like why are there bubbles in champagne?

Maybe to help me celebrate.

What is the best site to find a date?

How many oranges come in a crate?

Does anyone remember that old TV show, “Sister Kate?”

Wasn’t it only on air for a year?

Where can I find the tastiest beer?

There are so many things that I fear.

Like what do I do if I get bitten by a gnome?

Will I be ok?  Should I just go on home?

Foam.  Where can I find a pillow made out of foam?

Did E.T. ever phone home?

Of that film, I am very fond.

Speaking of movies, who was the best James Bond?

Do gentlemen really prefer blondes?

How do I take of my fern’s delicate fronds?

I wish there weren’t so many questions floating around inside my mind.

Oh Internet, sweet Internet, I really am in a bind.

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Search Engine Optimized Slam Poetry

:::Bongo drum beats:::

ANNOUNCER: Oh yeah.  Welcome all you hep cats and kittens to the East Randomtown Java Bean, where our poets are never good and the cups are never clean.

Sit back, relax and feast your ears on frequently used search engine terms, as recited by a far out beatnik, ya’ dig?

Kardashian!  Kardashian!

Nude photos are what I do seek.

Sleek and sexy pics of a goddess created in 1980 though I swear her bosoms must have started cooking in 1975. You jive?

This mole!  This mole!  This mole that is on my back.up-korora-beatnik-800px

Should I get it looked at, Jack?

When my mole changes colors, is it bad?

Is it just one of the many bodily imperfections that makes me, me?

Or is it the calling card of the Grim Reaper? No it can’t be.

I am not ready.

Though will I ever be?

Probably not.

How much was that Samsung Galaxy that my neighbor bought?

Women!  Oh women!

How can I look better for chicks?

How can I drop flab and improve my abs?

Where I can I buy a selfie-stick?

Who killed JFK?  Will we meet aliens one day?

Is Trump’s hair for real?  Does Costco have good deals?

How many calories are in McDonald’s meals?

I’m trying to watch my weight.

How do I ask a foxy lady out on a date?

Pluto!  Oh Pluto!  Pluto, are you still a planet?

Or are you just Mickey Mouse’s dog?

How do I fix a toilet that’s been clogged?

Is there anything that Siri doesn’t know?

What in the hell is zero divided by zero?

Can you believe Khloe and Lamar gave it another go?

Whoa!  Put my mind at ease.

What’s the best treatment to cure my dog of those pesky fleas?

Is global warming caused by chopping down too many trees?

What smells can be removed with a spritz of Febreze?

Is there a way I can stop losing my car keys?

I want to go to the movies.

What time does the latest flick start?

And tell me…will I die if I hold in my fart?

Who does Caitlyn Jenner’s hair?

Can Ronda Rousey defeat me with one icy glare?

Is this the right season to buy a pear?

Should I go to IKEA to buy my next chair?

Stamos!  John Stamos!  How in the world does he still look so youthful?

How can I tell if my mate is being truthful?

I can’t think of a word that rhymes with truthful but I can think of thoughts that strain the minds of lesser men.

Why did Mike Brady spend so much time in his den?

Did it make him feel zen?

I know where I am but do you know where I’ve been?

I’ve been to Mars.  On a rocket that was thrustin’.

What’s the latest single from Bieber comma Justin?

Is it Sorry?  Is he really sorry?

What was the first video console ever made?

I bet it was Atari.

After a first date, how many days must I wait…before I can call that chick again?

Was Peter Parker’s father really named Ben?

Stress!  Oh stress!  How can I push you away?

When is the next holiday?

Is Adam Lambert gay?

Is that a cool question to even say?

It probably isn’t.  My apologies.

What is the best wine to drink while eating cheese?

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Happy World Poetry Day

Who is your favorite poet, 3.5 readers?

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Walt Whitman’s O Captain! My Captain!

Written to honor President Abe Lincoln after his assassination, Walt Whitman’s  O Captain!  My Captain! compares the end of the Civil War to the end of a long ship voyage, and Lincoln to a journey weary Captain. Makes sense, as Lincoln did guide the nation through some very choppy seas.

O Captain!  My Captain!

By: Walt Whitman

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

The poem is often used as a tribute to leaders in general, and was prominently featured in Dead Poets Society, starring Robin Williams.

Fun fact – a Walt Whitman poetry book carelessly left on a toilet tank would go on to play an important part in AMC’s Breaking Bad.

So, good for you, WW, you honored a great president, and you were featured on a cable drama.

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