"millay" poems
Ek Baar Suno Kuch Aisa Hua
Wo Mujh Ko Mili Main Us Ko Mila
Izhar Hua Iqraar Hua
Wo Dost Bani Main Yaar Hua
Usey Ishq Bohat Mujhe Pyaar Bohat
Hum Dono Mein Takraar Bohat
Phir Ek Din Kuch Yun Hua
Wo 6od ke Gayi Main Toot Gaya
Phir Ek Din Hum Kuch Yun Millay
Wo Tanha Thi Main Akela Tha
Bas Hum Do Thay Aur Koi Na Tha
Woo Rone Lagi Main Bebas Raha
Na Pyar Na Hi Izhaar Raha
Bas Farq Sirf Itna Hi Raha
Main MITTI KE UPAR ROTA RAHA...
Wo MITTI KE ANDAR SOTI RAHI...
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 3:49 AM UTC
~
October 2023
HP Poet: Maddy
Age: 65
Country: USA
Question 1: We welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Maddy. Please tell us about your background?
Maddy: "Retired Teacher now Media and Digital Literacy Educational Consultant and writer."
Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?
Maddy: "Been writing since I was eight. Three years now as an HP member."
Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).
Maddy: "Poetry wakes me in the middle of the night on airplanes and when I walk. It is still one of my best friends other than my husband, sister, and Best BFF Irene."
Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?
Maddy: "It is my friend and companion and is a precious asset. Without it my life would be empty."
Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?
Maddy: "Thoreau, EE Cummings, Sappho, MAYA Angelou, Carole King, Emily Torres, Mary Oliver, Millay, and many here on HEPO."
Question 6: What other interests do you have?
Maddy: "I love Travel, Photographer, Nature, Cooking, Theatre, Concerts, and Reading."
Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us an opportunity to get to know you, dear Maddy! You are a wonderful addition to the series!”
Maddy: "Thanks and looking forward to it and your review of my book on Amazon."
Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Maddy a little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)
We will post Spotlight #9 in November!
~
Oct 1, 2023
Oct 1, 2023 at 3:33 PM UTC
*Sonnet is love
sonnet is rhyme'
metaphorical pattern dove
so much sublime....
Popular with poets new
the Elizabethans too
their mistresses so few
used it to woo.....
John Donne, his life
catching the spirit of the Jacobean age
his need to express his love for his wife,
Anne, backstage......
Expression of religious passion
and simply reflections of death
The Victorians fashion
and so many more breath.....
Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
the Rossettis, so blue
and George Meredith were around
were so new.....
American poets noted
Longfellow, expounded
E. A. Robinson, devoted
Elinor Wylie, and Edna St. Vincent Millay, astounded....
Sonnets make us sing
makes us laugh
cry with saving grace brings
universal themes of love mon behalf.....
Keep writing those sonnets
all you wonderful and many more
poets, keep wearing your bonnets
that we all adore...*
Debbie
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
[by Edna St. Vincent Millay]
Forever over now, forever, forever gone
That day. Clear and diminished like a scene
Carven in Cameo, the lighthouse, and the cove between
The sandy cliffs, and the boat drawn up on the beach;
And the long skirt of a lady innocent and young,
Her hand resting on her ***** her head hung;
And the figure of a man in earnest speech.
Clear and diminished like a scene cut in cameo
The lighthouse, and the boat on the beach, and the two shapes
Of the woman and the man; lost like the lost day
Are the words that passed, and the pain,-discarded, cut away
From the stone, as from the memory the heat of the tears escapes.
O troubled forms, O early love unfortunate and hard,
Time has estranged you into a jewel cold and pure;
From the action of the waves and from the action of sorrow forever secure,
White against a ruddy cliff you stand, chalcedony on sard.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
And you as well must die, beloved dust, And
all your beauty stand you in no stead; This
flawless vital hand, this perfect head, This
body of flame and steel, before the gust of
Death, or under his autumnal frost, Shall be
as any leaf, be no less dead than the first
leaf that fell this wonder fled. Altered,
estranged, disintegrated, lost. Nor shall my
love avail you in your hour. In spite of all my
love, you will arise upon that day and wander
down the air obscurely as the unattended
flower, it mattering not how beautiful you
were, or how beloved above all else that dies.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch
After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.)
“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”
“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)
Originally published by Lucid Rhythms. This poem is based on an account of Edna St. Vincent Millay being confronted by a male Vassar authority about her rogue behavior. However, there is a some poetic license involved, for the sake of humor. It was actually Vassar President Henry Noble MacCracken who mentioned Shelley. Here is his account in a response to a question about Millay cutting classes: "She cut everything. I once called her in and told her, 'I want you to know that you couldn't break any rule that would make me vote for your expulsion. I don't want to have any dead Shelleys on my doorstep, and I don't care what you do.' She went to the window and looked out and she said, 'Well on those terms I think I can continue to live in this hellhole.'" The stuff about Enoch and Moloch is, of course, pure fabrication on my part.
Keywords/Tags: Millay, dead, Shelley, Vassar, dorm, hellhole, drinking, partying, *** cutting classes
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:32 AM UTC
Your sonnets? **** good,
though the rhymes unrhymed today.
Sincerest regards,
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
i
now,whose
the ******
lily,this
confrontation
is such a bore..
there is no wine
as sweet as thirst
( to paraphrase
edna st.vincent millay)
little mr. thought for
the day-
a potato is a potato..
ii
well that was lunch
inspiration is rather
dry to some petulant
spring such is day three
of the fiesta..
iii
but here anyway..
iv
i would rather dig my own
grave with a numbered spoon
then go to a bbq..
v
sooner play the blues
than go on a cruise
vi
better loose both knees
then visit disney..
vii
lily leave me
stop this carousing
the love tree
has become winter then
our spring lost and gone
when blossom hung
sweet and glittering
in the free
summer found us
in sundry doldrums
pitched again to
the roots of done..
autumn now the golden
days lay like a stone
where we sought ourselves
anew..
toward the equinox of our
o and to no where
particular but love and now
we me yo..
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
Sonnet is love
sonnet is rhyme'
metaphorical pattern
so much sublime
Popular with poets
the Elizabethans too
used it to woo
their mistresses so few
John Donne,
catching the spirit of the Jacobean age
his need to express his love for his wife,
Anne
Expression of religious passion
and simply reflections of death
The Victorians
and so many more
Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
the Rossettis,
and George Meredith
were so new
American poets noted
Longfellow,
E. A. Robinson,
Elinor Wylie, and Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Sonnets make us sing
makes us laugh
cry with saving grace
universal themes of love ....
Keep writing those sonnets
all you wonderful
poets
that we all adore...
As Rupal says,
Wordsworth too..
Debbie Brooks- 2014
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
Quiet, dawn, Covid.
Biggest accomplishment yesterday: buying toilet paper.
Thanking the young cashier for doing her job.
Feeling a little sick, wearing my mask and gloves,
Spring oblivious to the virus, an idiot like Millay said.
At least we’re not beheading each other—yet.
Symptoms mild so far. Today rest,
no long walk, no knee bends.
I think I’ve watched every possible movie and tv show
and nothing’s left that doesn’t bore me.
I could learn the calculus, chemistry or physics
but will I and what for?
Most poetry is chopped up prose. That’s harsh
but true. But that’s because most days
are prose or yesterday’s news. Win or lose
sumthins gonna getcha. Drug cartel assassin, the blues.
If not now, when? Some other Wednesday. Why wait?
I wish I had some wisdom to translate.
It’s living and helping others to live
that counts, I guess. Cast a cold eye and guess,
walk the extra mile, report from the besieged city, be wise or a ****
I hope to get the antibodies the easy way,
mild symptoms, no brush with death, don’t intubate.
An existential bessemer process, strange quark,
chances are I won’t be able to organize this day into an expressible state.
A daily exchange with nature’s enough
to alleviate my fear.
When I thanked the cashier
her smile was like the sun coming out from behind clouds
or the end of the pandemic, as if I had not wasted my life.
Sep 13, 2021
Sep 13, 2021 at 8:38 AM UTC
With Poe-try you can surely
get your Words' worth
So many words are waiting
like a Wolfe at your door,
for their Cummings into being.
If you listen, they Pound
upon your brain
They Lamb-aste your viscera,
making you Nash your teeth.
They create a Millay in your head.
So many shapes, so many Hughes
Lusting for Moore they Lear
at you when you least expect.
Look back at them!
Like Frost upon the windowpane
they write themselves,
then, when all is said and Donne
melt away too soon.
Grasp them when you can.
Put them in a *Rowe
Taylor* them to your muse,
use your Whit, man !
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 9:45 AM UTC
inspired: gray old men in soiled raincoats
& drunk, ***** young |
girls w/ ratty | | |
pink & blue [hair]; |
Russian girls [dressing like second-hand (Barbie's & Chloe's)
postmodern fembots in white ankle go-go boots
& Pucci miniskirts w/
moth-eaten colored ||
tights
gather in dusty libraries reeking of
old books & alcohol & later, strong ****** of going
to college [ ] parties & losing tenure;
Artaud [Rimbaud, Burroughs, Villon], Bukowski &
Berryman: insane [Whitman, Ginsberg, Carroll -
Plath, Smith, Millay, Teasdale] |
losers | like old bearded (Dorothy Parker)
uncles reciting gutter odes;
paraphrasing classical epics -
[Gilgemesh,
the Death of Arthur,
Large & Small Eddas]:
***** young girls [ ] write flirty love poetry
to old
men & teasing boys their age w/ insight: boys
knowing nothing of insight, | all except | ||
| that one poet
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC
"My Pen is a Keyboard"
Was a ditty I did
When I was a kid
Feeling out the corners of my mind,
But there is a boy -
His Keyboard is a Pen -
And now I prefer to feel out the corners
Of his.
Sometimes he is Neruda:
He writes the saddest lines;
And sometimes Frost:
Penning a the sun on the back of the deer
As it splashes through grass dew;
Sometimes Eliot trudging through
The damp streets and
Sloughing off the day onto paper...
Sometimes Millay -
I think sometimes Millay -
I hope -
Forswearing death
And clinging to love, though
It rests on the point of
The second hand of God's clock -
But I am there.
And so long as I am there he is there
Writing his poetry without words
To be read without sight.
So long as he is there I am there
To be a reader with closed eyes,
And feel the corners of his tired mind;
And to say:
Love, it won't always be night.
We are here and I will sing you hope
As long as I can. It will be alright.
Love, it won't always be night.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
(After Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem by the same title)
Love is not all. It is not meat nor drink
nor slumber nor a roof against the rain.
In the beauty of sunlight falling on water,
love is hardly a major factor.
It cannot stop a bullet
or lift a crashing plane
-- or make a stopped heart beat again.
Yet people are killing themselves
even as we speak, for lack of love alone.
It may well be under pain of torture,
starving/dying of thirst,
tested by want past resolution's power,
I'd strike a bargain:
a cup of water for a different life,
a life without memory of you and our children;
I'd trade our love for food. It may well be.
I do not think I would.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
Sonnet: What Lips My Lips Have Kissed
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
a book, a man and a flask may be
such lovely comfort_ certainly
the woven tongues and salted sweat
eternal love declared, and yet
the bottle's dry, the man is spent
the plot is dull, so from his tent
she flies away_as quick as she can
and finds herself another man.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 11:31 AM UTC
[by Edna St. Vincent Millay]
Pity me not because the light of day
At close of day no longer walks the sky;
Pity me not for beauties passed away
From field and thicket as the year goes by.
Pity me not the waning of the moon,
Or that the ebbing tide goes out to sea,
Or that a man's desire is hushed so soon,
And you no longer look with love on me.
This have I always known: Love is no more
Than the wide blossom which the wind assails,
Than the great tide that treads the shifting shore,
Strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales.
Pity me that the heart is slow to learn
What the swift mind beholds at every turn.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 5:05 PM UTC
[ by Edna St. Vincent Millay ]
Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough
And gathered into barrels.
He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.
Though the branches bend like reeds,
Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree,
He that would eat of love may bear away with him
Only what his belly can hold,
Nothing in the apron,
Nothing in the pockets.
Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough
And harvested in barrels.
The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins,
In an orchard soft with rot.
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
My candle burns as brightly as of yore.
“Your what?” the punster gaily asks.
Oh, please do not be such a bore,
I’m really not up to linguistic tasks.
There is no verse that I adore
enough to don one of those casques,
and do not carelessly abhor
The adulation in which Millay basks
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
With Poe-try you can surely
get your Words' worth.
So many words are waiting
like a Wolfe at your door,
for their Cummings into being.
If you listen, they Pound
upon your brain
They Lamb-aste your viscera,
making you Nash your teeth.
They create a Millay in your head.
So many shapes, so many Hughes!
Lusting for Moore, they Lear
at you when you least expect.
Look back at them!
Like Frost upon the windowpane
they write themselves,
then, when all is said and Donne,
melt away too soon.
Grasp them when you can.
Put them in a Rowe.
Taylor them to your muse,
use your Whit, man!
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
[by Edna St. Vincent Millay]
When you are dead, and your disturbing eyes
No more as now their stormy lashes lift
To lance me through...as in the morning skies
One moment, plainly visible in a rift
Of cloud, two splendid planets may appear
And purely blaze, and are at once withdrawn,
What time the watcher in desire and fear
Leans From this chilly window in the dawn...
Shall I be free, shall I be once again
As others are, and count your loss no care?
Oh, never more, till my dissolving brain
Be powerless to evoke you out of air,
Remembered morning stars, more fiercely bright
Than all the Alphas of the actual night!
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 10:20 AM UTC
Burlesque, Jazz, painting and literature
In the golden age of stripping
Four different golden ages converged---
The golden age of burlesque: Gypsy Rose Lee, Blaze Starr, Tempest Storm---the beats; Burroughs, Kerouac, Ginsberg---
The golden age of modern art; Pollack et al---Motherwell, etc.---the golden age of literature, the golden age
of music after swing’s drop dead ghosts,
hiding in fur dyed hot bebop---
the ghost of the roaring twenties, flappers’ ghosts
and beat girls smoking cigarettes,
casually ***** the dawn of the atomic age
came late---strippers come early,
dancing in like Flora Dora girls showing their garters---
Hot Hot Hot---the origin of swing in her sweaty leotard---
Martha Graham and St. Vincent Millay and others---
Stripping has come down to Dita from Lily,
U know Betty’s in the kitchen w/ her cookies---
Her: Barbara the nurse, the cookie dealer,
What’s-her-name---the woman who is still rich,
I can find her on Match.com where Mary-Ann Mobley found her British soul mate---U know her puppet lover, Miss America 1959 Miss History, June in Paris---her Barbie,
Troy of the broken boulders---
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 11:08 PM UTC