Poetry I Love

I've shared some of my own poetry recently, but I also wanted to share other poets' work, as well. 

First, up, some Neruda. The following poem is actually one I used to inspire a poem I wrote for class. (And it's a poem that Taylor Swift knows too.)

"Tonight I Could Write the Saddest Lines" by Pablo Neruda

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. 
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her. 

I think I first heard of the next poem in class, but I'm not certain.

"One Art" by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

I've mentioned this poem before, and it's kind of a classic for writers to like, but I can't help it.

"Do not go gentle into that good night" by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And this last one is one I've seen on Tumblr a couple times.

"For Teenage Girls With Wild Ambition and Trembling Hearts" by Clementine von Radics

When you are 13 years old, 

the heat will be turned up too high

and the stars will not be in your favor. 

You will hide behind a bookcase

with your family and everything left behind. 

You will pour an ocean into a diary. 

When they find you, you will be nothing

but a spark above a burning bush, 

still, tell them

Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.

When you are 14, 

a voice will call you to greatness. 

When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.

They don’t know the sound 

of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor, 

use your sword, use your two good hands. 

Do not let their doubting 

drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.

You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.

Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation

like a broken heart.

When you are 15, you will be punished 

for learning too proudly. A man 

will climb onto your school bus and insist 

your sisters name you enemy. 

When you do not hide, 

he will point his gun at your temple 

and fire three times. Three years later, 

in an ocean of words, with no apologies,

you will stand before the leaders of the world 

and tell them your country is burning.

When you are 16 years old, 

you will invent science fiction. 

The story of a man named Frankenstein 

and his creation. Soon after you will learn 

that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying 

than monsters, but don’t worry. 

You will be remembered long after 

they have put down their torches.

When you are 17 years old, 

you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig

one right after the other. 

Men will be afraid of the lightening 

in your fingertips. A few days later 

you will be fired from the major leagues 

because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”

You will turn 18 with a baby on your back 

leading Lewis and Clark 

across North America.

You will turn 18 

and become queen of the Nile.

You will turn 18 

and bring justice to journalism.

You are now 18, standing on the precipice,

trembling before your own greatness.

This is your call to leap.

There will always being those 

who say you are too young and delicate 

to make anything happen for yourself. 

They don’t see the part of you that smolders.

Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound 

of your own heartbeat.

You are the first drop of a hurricane.

Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed

by all the little girls still living in secret, 

writing oceans made of monsters and

throwing like lightening.

You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.

You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.

The world laid out before you to set on fire.

All you have to do

is burn.

So, what are some of your favorite poems?