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Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i’ th’ house I find.
In this array ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.
In critic’s hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

ደራሲዋ ለመጽሐፋ

ስትፀነስ ጀምሮ የቅርፅ ህፀፅ
የሚስተዋልብህ አንተ የአይምሮዪ ክፋይ፣
"ሀ" ብለህ ይህን ዓለም ስታይ፣
ታማኝነት በጎደላቸው ጓደኞቼ
እስክትውል አደባባይ ፣
ያልሻትከው እንዳንለያይ፣
ቡትቶ ደርበህ ፣
የህትመት ብርሀን አየህ
ስህተት ተብጠርጥሮ፣  
ለጀማ ሂስ የሚጋለጥበት አድሮ!

አንተ መልቲ (በህትመት)
ተመልሰህ መጥተህ
እናቴ  ስትለኝ
ቀላል ሀፍረት አላገኘኝ!
አይን ስለምትጎረብጥ  በእይታ ማእዘን፣
ገሸሽ  ማረግ  መርጬ ነበር አንተን፣
ግና የእኔ ስለሆንክ ስሱነት፣
ከቻልኩ እንዳርቅህ ገፋፋኝ፣ በሂደት፣  
ፊትህን ሳጥበው ወጡ  ህፀጾች ጎልተው ፣
ዝም ብያ  ሳፀዳ  ብቅ አለ ሌላ ህፀጽ እንግዳ
መገጣጠሚያህን ጎትቼ
እግር ልሰራልህ ስጥር፣
አካሄድህ ፋይዳ ቢስ የሚያሽቀነጥር!

እኔማ  በልክህ  ጨርቅ ቆርጬ
ልቀይርልህ ነበር ያን ቡትቶ፣
ግና ቤት የተፈተለ ሸማ
ላገኝ አልቻልኩም ከቶ፣
እናም ለብሰህ ይህን ድሪቶ፣
ከወፍ ዘራሾች ጋር ዙር ተደብልቀህ፣
ሃያሲዎች እንዳያገኙህ ሸሽተህ !

ስለአባትህ ከተጠየክ
ንገራቸው እንደሌለህ
ካስጨነቁህ ስለእናትህ ማንነት
"ልጅዋን የሽኘች በምስኪንነት !”
ተናገር   በድፍረት

አኒ ብራንድስተር


ትርጉም ዓለም ሃይሉ
ደራሲዎች አንዳንዴ ህቡ በሆነው የሰው ልጅ አይምሮ የሚንቀሳቀስን እንደነውር የሚታይ ሃሳብን በፈጠራ ስራ ይገልጻሉ። ስራው ቢታይብን ብለው ይፈራሉ ! /

Anne Bradstreet

Anne Bradstreet wrote in the Elizabethan literary tradition and became one of the first poets to write English verse in the American colonies
Writers and poets sometimes pen down what lurks in their subconscious and become afraid the vulnerability of print.I think most of us share this.I experienced this fact after I wrote my poem No ****** no ***!
why do some poems enjoy a mammoth hit but no comment?I think even if readers appreciate some poems they become afraid to associate themselves with the theme,which may be considered as a taboo .I also wonder why some poems are treated with a cold shoulder in some blogs and enjoy appreciation in others.Is it because a difference of taste?
Anyway the aforementioned poem has given me a good lesson; what about you?If you are interested on this issue goggle and read about psychoanalytical criticism and reader response criticism.Thank you for your patience
Sarbirah Parker Mar 2016
Time after time
People just give up on me
I am way to dark
Past these soulless eyes I guess no one can see

I'm like no other
No one will stop my thoughts of train
Taking no note of who surrounds me
Could I be insane ?

No one will ever know
And I don't really fear
Don't use your light to attack my dark vulnerability .
I actually like it here .
dear my heart is what I'm afraid of
Because I finally feel like I'm enough.
How have you captured me so easily
How did you make me fall in love
Love is what I am afraid of
in all its vulnerability
How easily you could brake me
And then still make me fall in love
Dear my heart is what I am afraid of
because in your hands it rests
Because you can care for it so easily
or make me feel like second best
silas Feb 2016
i can't even seem to write
without my hands shaking
and feeling like i'm rocking back into oblivion

i can't seem to remember
all the good times i thought we had
but twas not until we went our separate ways
did i realise

you were a flower, shining brightly
soaking up the affection others gave to you
taking it within your cells
manipulating such an innocent love into empowering bloodlust

laced with your unforgiving poison,
you ****** purity and joy out of every person
who showed vulnerability

you were different.
the moment i confronted you,
you hissed at me for my "selfishness and arrogance"
and our love story ends there.

only months later did it hit me
what you'd really intended and done

at one time, you came back, crying to me
and i tried to explain what you'd done,
but you disregarded my attempts and blamed me for your actions.

deceptive little plant,
when will you learn?
this poem is weak in my opinion but i felt like i needed to update

published 17th of february, 2016
Joyce Feb 2016
Wish you could
read my mind.
So you could see
my thoughts.
Feel what I feel.
Show you my vulnerability.
My heart longs for your
love so tenderly.
You will see my soul
in all its sensitivity.
My flaws are not
just sweet poetry.
If you could only see.
My thoughts without
hiding my fragility.
Tom McCone Feb 2016
dreamt in strange shifting blocks, interwoven and with startled faces, sentencings spoken wordless. woke up to the blurry thought:

sometimes in talk, i am confronted with ideas that in no way reconcile with my own structures. in response, i often choose to not say anything, or let it uncomfortably sit in my gut. in cases where the opposing point won't be heard, i suppose this is alright. but, when my own rooted beliefs are challenged in a valid manner, it is more akin to the silence of shame than of dignification. is this symbolic of the internalisation of a more sound philosophy, or inability to process it against the grain of my own?

avoiding argumentation where it is of little purpose is one of my prime conversational aspects, and in an overarching paradigm avoiding unnecessary speech in general. but what internally portrays as tact can come off as indignant coolness, or bitter indifference. so, do i continue to speak in only the meaningful outer lashes, or let down the floodgates to some degree?

human interaction doesn't need necessitate grave importance at all junctions, and sometimes the most comforting talk can be of nothings (which i still find myself often party to, despite my self-portrait of filtered short-spokenness).

how do i open myself more to accepting or understanding when points are more sensible than my own, and integrating them into my consciousness? for, surely, if i disavow myself from giving up dated sentiments, i shall truly stagnate.
one key lies in rejecting one's own intelligence: having been told you are smart your entire life serves to seal one in their own vaults of knowledge, despite the fact that the knowledge itself may be faulty. i am slowly learning to accept my flaws and appreciate other's praise, but not take it to heart so much.
Tom McCone Feb 2016
we were wandering down the side of the highway, pickin' blackberries on the way back to the car. this'd hit my mind many times over the past week, and will probably continue out into the future:

there's somethin' ticking away in there, makes me shrink away from humanity, despite the loneliness i ain't wanna amplify any. words i need to say crop up, out of the blue mist of living, and internally i make all the motions to spread 'em out, see the way my hands, lips would move, in exact musculature sweeps. but it don't follow through.

is this leavin' blues? that if i shrink away from those who care, it'll be easier to let go once more? or just an excuse for laziness (fairly sure 'twas for the last month or so, last city)? if i swore i'd love equally and with open heart, why can't i keep eye contact, even with my own cousin? is this penance for all ashamedness i can't slip from my hands?

i'm full of excuses and few good ones. i am changing and learning to let go, but understand that perhaps i need to learn to hold on a little better. is it possible to figure it out before true wrenching loss colours my palette? or is it necessary to keep shedding skin to find meaning?

don't know how to express fully how much people mean to me, and can't seem to do anything in a half-measure. is it okay to settle for flawed motions, to prevent from seeming bored? to act as i see through in others, find of little use; is it instead endearing, or even just to confer base notions in a derobed manner?

how do these shells come away? how do these walls tear down?
note: stop diggin' holes, stop runnin' away.
Tom McCone Jan 2016
sat in the back seat, watching the hills cladding SH2 go by, with a tightened silence all over my face, couldn't help reflect:

sometimes it digs deep down into me, thinking of all the conceptions planned out that i was considered to have aligned with, but can't bring myself to think the same. to what degree am i the image of failure in all my leader's and follower's books? all simply for abiding by ideologies that seem to occur naturally.

but, am i failing myself and, transitively, failing more critically henceforth, if i disavow my own convictions for sake of demonstrating love to those i care the most for? is it worse to disappoint my parents, who've thrown large parts of their lives to the wind for my sake; my friends, who've laid down their loyalty for knowing, mutually assured, that collectively our virtues are assured; to weaken strength or trust in other's eyes for the sake of my own moral solidification?

or to let my very self evaporate slowly away, a puddle left out under the bright light pouring from their hearts?
i understand that modulating one's self with respect to other's stances is a swift route to personal instability, but what about when the stances are those you understand & respect, but cannot follow?
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