Mr. Write's Page

More poetry that isn’t pretentious and a waste of time…

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Abou Ben Adhem

By Leigh Hunt

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

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walmart

By nila northSun

it is finally there
just on the other side
of the freeway
located on our tribal land
our poverty is over
we get all of the sales tax
besides the lease on the land
it is a fact
our unemployment rates
will decrease
an elder is a greeter
her white hair brilliant
against the blue of her
walmart smock
she smiles at me and
says ‘welcome to walmart’
minimum wage is
better than nothing.

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At the Vietnam Memorial

By George Bilgere

The last time I saw Paul Castle
it was printed in gold on the wall
above the showers in the boys’
locker room, next to the school
record for the mile. I don’t recall
his time, but the year was 1968
and I can look across the infield
of memory to see him on the track,
legs flashing, body bending slightly
beyond the pack of runners at his back.

He couldn’t spare a word for me,
two years younger, junior varsity,
and hardly worth the waste of breath.
He owned the hallways, a cool blonde
at his side, and aimed his interests
further down the line than we could guess.

Now, reading the name again,
I see us standing in the showers,
naked kids beneath his larger,
comprehensive force — the ones who trail
obscurely, in the wake of the swift,
like my shadow on this gleaming wall.

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The House was still — the room was still

by Charlotte Brontë

The house was still, the room was still,
‘Twas eventide in June;
A caged canary to the sun
Then setting, trilled a tune.

A free bird on that lilac bush
Outside the lattice heard,
He listened long, there came a hush,
He dropped an answering word.

The prisoner to the free replied

 

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Rhyme for a Child Viewing a Naked Venus in a Painting of “The Judgment of Paris”

By Robert Browning

He gazed and gazed and gazed and gazed,
Amazed, amazed, amazed, amazed.