There are many brillant poets from previous decades that created, design and calibrate poetry in a way that makes it very useful and poular today. Of course you do know that poems to some are just some boring lines but to understand poems and poetry, you definately should read slowly, line by line, just so you miss the point.
Lets review this poem from one of the greatest poet ever lived, William Shakesphere. this one is a love sonnet.
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,
A closet never pierc’d with crystal eyes
But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To side this title is impaneled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye’s moiety, and the dear heart’s part:
As thus; mine eye’s due is thy outward part,
And my heart’s right, thy inward love of heart.
William Shekesphere
As you can see, this poem by William Shakesphere is indeed lovely. It has 14 lines therefore it passes being a sonnet and look at how he rhymes. The first four lines are alternaate and the final three lines are the same. It also make sense and all that was intended was done clearly. When you look upon a beautiful woman, two things normaly comes into play. The eyes and the heart. look at line 7 and 8.
But the defendant doth that plea deny,
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
All he is saying is that how beautiful she is, nobody could deny it. one of the greatest poem collection ever.
Some variations are good at times. You can even write about poetry itself and still make it to be one of the greatest poems ever written. look at this one by Margaret Cavendish
The Poetess’s Hasty Resolution
Reading my verses, I liked them so well
Self-love did make my judgment to rebel.
Thinking them so good, I thought more to write;
Considering not how others would them like.
I writ so fast, I thought, if I lived long,
A pyramid of fame to build thereon.
Reason observing which way I was bent,
Did stay my hand, and asked me what I meant;
Will you, said she, thus waste your time in vain,
On that which in the world small praise shall gain?
For shame, leave off, said she, the printer spare,
He'll lose by your ill poetry, I fear.
Besides the world hath already such a weight
Of useless books, as it is overfraught.
Then pity take, do the world a good turn,
And all you write cast in the fire, and burn.
Angry I was, and Reason struck away,
When I did hear, what she to me did say.
Then all in haste I to the press it sent,
Fearing persuasion might my book prevent.
But now ’tis done, with grief repent do I,
Hang down my head with shame, blush, sigh, and cry.
Take pity, and my drooping spirits raise,
Wipe off my tears with handkerchiefs of praise.
This poem was very well done. It speaks about writing own own material. poem, book etc. Sometimes you write and your handiwork seems to be the greatest poem you ever done but to someone else, its absolute crap. so even though someone discourage her.
Will you, said she, thus waste your time in vain,
On that which in the world small praise shall gain?
Even tough they encourage you to stop wasting your time, because enough useless material are already in the world, once you believe in you, then thats all that matters
Take pity, and my drooping spirits raise,
Wipe off my tears with handkerchiefs of praise.
On the Shortness of Time
Forgetful of time's waste, the soul's decay,
I would not ask for other joy than breath,
With light and sound of birds and the sun's ray.
I could sit on untroubled day by day
Watching the grass grow, and the wild flowers range
From blue to yellow and from red to grey
In natural sequence as the seasons change.
I could afford to wait, but for the hurt
Of this dull tick of time which chides my ear.
But now I dare not sit with loins ungirt
And staff unlifted, for death stands too near.
I must be up and doing -- ay, each minute.
The grave gives time for rest when we are in it.
The Mockery of Life
God! What a mockery is this life of ours!
Cast forth in blood and pain from our mother's womb,
Most like an excrement, and weeping showers
Of senseless tears: unreasoning, naked, dumb,
The symbol of all weakness and the sum:
Our very life a sufferance. -- Presently,
Grown stronger, we must fight for standing-room
Upon the earth, and the bare liberty
To breathe and move. We crave the right to toil.
We push, we strive, we jostle with the rest.
We learn new courage, stifle our old fears,
Stand with stiff backs, take part in every broil.
It may be that we love, that we are blest.
It may be, for a little space of years,
We conquer fate and half forget our tears.
And then fate strikes us. First our joys decay.
Youth, with its pleasures, is a tale soon told.
We grow a little poorer day by day.
Old friendships falter. Loves grow strangely cold.
In vain we shift our hearts to a new hold
And barter joy for joy, the less for less.
We doubt our strength, our wisdom, and our gold.
We stand alone, as in a wilderness
Of doubts and terrors. Then, if we be wise,
We make our terms with fate and, while we may,
Sell our life's last sad remnant for a hope.
And it is wisdom thus to close our eyes.
But for the foolish, those who cannot pray,
What else remains of their dark horoscope
But a tall tree and courage and a rope?
And who shall tell what ignominy death
Has yet in store for us; what abject fears
Even for the best of us; what fights for breath;
What sobs, what supplications, what wild tears;
What impotence of soul against despairs
Which blot out reason? -- The last trembling thought
Of each poor brain, as dissolution nears,
Is not of fair life lost, of Heaven bought
And glory won. 'Tis not the thought of grief;
Of friends deserted; loving hearts which bleed;
Wives, sisters, children who around us weep.
But only a mad clutching for relief
From physical pain, importunate Nature's need;
The search as for a womb where we may creep
Back from the world, to hide, -- perhaps to sleep.
On the Shortness of Time
Forgetful of time's waste, the soul's decay,
I would not ask for other joy than breath,
With light and sound of birds and the sun's ray.
I could sit on untroubled day by day
Watching the grass grow, and the wild flowers range
From blue to yellow and from red to grey
In natural sequence as the seasons change.
I could afford to wait, but for the hurt
Of this dull tick of time which chides my ear.
But now I dare not sit with loins ungirt
And staff unlifted, for death stands too near.
I must be up and doing -- ay, each minute.
The grave gives time for rest when we are in it
These are the poems that impress me. just sexy and beautiful.
Certainly these poems to me did corrobate some of the greatest poems alive. check out starfox-poems to see some of my poems all expliained. and my article is always a click away.
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