Below are some of our favorite, classic pieces. If you would like your work to be featured on this page, send it in!
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond By E.E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
how to be a great writer By Charles Bukowski
you've got to fuck a great many women beautiful women and write a few decent love poems.
and don't worry about age and/or freshly-arrived talents.
just drink more beer more and more beer
and attend the racetrack at least once a week
and win if possible.
learning to win is hard-- any slob can be a good loser.
and don't forget your Brahms and your Back and your beer.
sleep until noon.
avoid credit cards or paying for anything on time.
remember that there isn't a piece of ass in this world worth over $50 (in 1977).
and if you have the ability to love love yourself first but always be aware of the possibility of total defeat whether the reason for that defeat seems right or wrong--
an early taste of death is not necessarily a bad thing.
stay out of churches and bars and museums, and like the spider be patient-- time is everybody's cross, plus exile defeat treachery
all that dross.
stay with the beer.
beer is continuous blood.
a continuous lover.
get a large typewriter and as the footsteps go up and down outside your window
hit that thing hit it hard
make it a heavyweight fight
make it the bull when he first charges in
and remember the old dogs who fought so well: Hemingway, Celine, Dostoevsky, Hamsun.
If you think they didn't go crazy in tiny rooms just like you're doing now
without women without food without hope
then you're not ready.
drink more beer. there's time. and if there's not that's all right too.
The Waking By Theodore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know? I hear my being dance from ear to ear. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you? God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there, And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do To you and me; so take the lively air, And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
The shaking keeps me steady. I should know. What falls away is always. And is near. I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I learn by going where I have to go.
A Rolling Stone By Robert W. Service
There's sunshine in the heart of me, My blood sings in the breeze; The mountains are a part of me, I'm fellow to the trees. My golden youth I'm squandering, Sun-libertine am I; A-wandering, a-wandering, Until the day I die.
I was once, I declare, a Stone-Age man, And I roomed in the cool of a cave; I have known, I will swear, in a new life-span The fret and the sweat of a slave: For far over all that folks hold worth, There lives and there leaps in me A love of the lowly things of earth, And a passion to be free.
To pitch my tent with no prosy plan, To range and to change at will; To mock at the mastership of man, To seek Adventure's thrill. Carefree to be, as a bird that sings; To go my own sweet way; To reck not all what may befall, But to live and to love each day.
To make my body a temple pure Wherein I dwell serene; To care for the things that shall endure, The simple, sweet, and clean. To oust out envy and hate and rage, To breathe with no alarm; For Nature shall be my anchorage, And none shall do me harm.
To shun all lures that debauch the soul, The orgied rites of the rich; To eat my crust as a rover must With the rough-neck down in the ditch. To trudge by his side whate'er betide; To share his fire at night; To call him friend to the long trail-end, And to read his heart alright.
To scorn all strife, and view all life With the curious eyes of a child; From the plangent sea to the prairie, From the slum to the heart of the Wild. From the red-rimmed star to the speck of sand, From the vast to the greatly small; For what I know that the whole for good is planned, And I want to see it all.
To see it all, the wide world-way, From the fig-leaf belt to the Pole; With never a one to say me nay, And none to cramp my soul. In belly-pinch I will pay the price, But God! let me be free; For once I know in the long ago, They made a slave of me.
In a flannel shirt from the earth's clean dirt, Here, pal, is my calloused hand! Oh, I love each day as a rover may, Nor seek to understand. To enjoy is good enough for me; The gipsy of God am I; There here's a hail to each flaring dawn! And here's a cheer to the night that's gone! And may I go a-roaming on Until the day I die!
Then every star shall sing to me Its song of liberty; And every morn shall bring me Its mandate to be free. In every throbbing vein of me I'll feel the vast Earth-call; O body, heart and brain of me Praise Him who made it all!
The Road Not Taken By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
The Bagel By David Ignatow
I stopped to pick up the bagel rolling away in the wind, annoyed with myself for having dropped it as it were a portent. Faster and faster it rolled, with me running after it bent low, gritting my teeth, and I found myself doubled over and rolling down the street head over heels, one complete somersault after another like a bagel and strangely happy with myself.
join our community of writers
Pspoets is committed to nurturing and promoting the art of creative writing within all genres. Please enter your email and join our community of writers to discover new ways to connect with your craft and collaborate with other like-minded artists. We host poetry readings every month in the West Los Angeles area and we generate many other opportunities for writers to flourish. Thank you for visiting our page and we look forward to supporting you and your craft.