Love Poems From Literature Are For Every Poetry Lover To Read And Feel. These poems for literature are collected from different poet’s books and their writes.
Announcement Prayerful and Frolicsomely Playful:
A Canticle I Think I’ll Be By Douglas Cate
A canticle I think I’ll be,
A rimed thought, hoary and ancient,
Stinking as the dust heaped up empyreal on the hills of
The Judean sands;
And as dulled and dimmed as an archaic coin tarnish’d.
This is what I think I might be.
I’d as lief be this as any other you might care to name.
Valid is this, my remote and removed claim,
And it all began hereon.
O, that was an age ago, that remote and bygone time,
Rimed with hoar-frost and the whitishness of ancientness,
When as blood-soaked, cruciferous hills remote and circumvallatory or else
Perhaps circumferential to the great, walled city, itself circumvallatory;
When all this began.
When this particular beguine to which we’ve all been dancing lo this many score of years began.
It was as a woman bedecked in black on a Sunday morning newly kissed by the auriferous dawn,
(A goldener dawn than even that on which she met the man whose coffin she was now appointed to follow in a moribund processional, a macabre and solemn, ceremonial dance of death,)
Going down to the fixed graveyard.
That day was as the day on which I first deigned to join this,
And adopting unto myself the sobriquet, shibboleth “A canticle I think I be”
(For I was not permitted to use the full appellation I wished to apply to myself,
Owing to some stupid and recondite rule regarding and regulating the use and due conservation of characters: Yet not those as those of the mainstays of literature, no! I mean to say the characters that are synonymous with words and spaces and punctuation and the like,)
And here the tale ends, though ’twas not Moschean nor Noahide as
I perhaps meant it to be.
Oh, well: All’s well that ends well.
(For was this not an idiotic tale, yet a harrowing one, whose lightest word would harrow up the young blood of any and all who saw it, read it, perused it?)
A foolish poet By Ashumit kumar
A foolish poet Literature Poem
One day i was wondering with empty mind
I smell literature from thousands of mile away
So i am running with no legs
I want storm to reach
I am deaf
I want thunder to hear
I am blind
I want those oceans of star to see
I am dumb
I want those thousands of Indian languages to speak
O God !
I am brainless scholar
I am inkless writer
I am a poet ….
A foolish poet
i don’t know
why i’m writing……
A letter to my son or daughter By Abhimanyu Kumar S
Let me say,
I am not going to comfort you,
With riches and gold,
Nor am gonna keep you warm,
All the seasons with some reasons.
I will not take you to school,
Where wealthy and filthy play,
Nor am gonna give you a phone,
Having internet and pleasing tone.
I will surely not sing of merry,
Where you hear angels and fairy,
Nor will speak of science,
Who has lost the conscience.
I will not say about the history,
Where you have traders and leaders,
Nor will I teach you the language,
To quarrel and defend as a savage.
Child listen to your Dad,
I will show you the poverty,
Where riches are in them not in gold,
I will keep you Cold ,
So that you become bold.
I will teach you the lessons,
How you must not play with people,
I will allow you to talk and dance,
Learn and run, scream and dream.
I will sing the present urge,
Of our nation and present world,
I will teach you literature never science,
To make you sensible and more of love.
I will talk about people around,
Where you see them, and become one,
I will surely teach you the language not the tongue,
But the language which all beings understand.
Dedicated to the one yet to arrive.
Thala Abhimanyu Kumar
‘Valentine’ by John Fuller
The things about you I appreciate may seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
And chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power and see your eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
And other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
To chase you screaming up a tower or make you cower
By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like to successfully guess your weight and win you at a féte.
I’d like to offer you a flower.
She Walks in Beauty’ by Lord Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light