Robert Frost reads his poem “The Road Not Taken”
Robert Lee Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963) was an American poet. He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech. His work frequently employed settings from rural life in New England in the early twentieth century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes. – Wikipedia
At the Bottom
Sometimes our dreams come true, only to come crashing back down.
Sometimes it makes us all blue, that feeling you’re about to drown.
Sometimes you’re dangling on the edge, and it knocks you into the dark.
Sometimes you finally make your pledge, to leave behind your mark.
This time I’m already there, sitting at the bottom of the valley.
This time I’m about to tare, no hope left to rally.
This time there’s no room left to bend, im stuck against the wall.
This time I’m lost at the end, no further I can fall.
You can count on me knocking your door
Repeatedly, my hopeless self fleeing into your wicked arms
I can’t even convince myself to not want this
Your leprous hands don’t need to be on me to give me your plague
You dont even have to tell me you love me
I walk into your cage, and give you the key
Who am I
Give me back to me
I want to be free, not in your seductive entice
Keeping me bound to the foul floor
I don’t want this
But you move me, and elude every sence of me
You were captivated by my fragile heart
I believed it was stronger
But all my strength is nothing when you grip the heart, tangling it with your webs of despair
I collapse before you, gasping for your breath, feeling you are the air that I breath
But your air is more like tar in my lungs
You arent life, you are death
Twisted snakes snare my brain
All I can conclude is you are toxin that I can no longer swollow
Venom sabotaging my blood
Yet I sabotage myself back into your hell
Set me free, out of this force that holds me to your grounds
I need release of your malignant lure
I wish to let go
the manner of flowers
flowers too pink, too purple
a bird tirelessly trilling for three-hours
intent and bent on being
and all so enviably unto themselves
I looked death in the face for the first time
in his Sunday finery
he doesn’t look much different
can I touch him?
struck by its coldness
his interminable silence
by how, of death
it was only the living who ever complained
I thought of it again
in the funneled faces of flowers
towards the light reaching
in their perpetual, perennial cycle
to the tireless trill of a blackbird’s bill
and a conversation with a dying man
no longer intent on being
and his wish for a girl
to ceaselessly sing
to exist more unto herself
in the manner of a blackbird
or the manner of blossoming flowers
Allen Ginsberg “Howl” (Written in 1955)
Allen Ginsberg wrote the poem “Howl” in mid-1955, purportedly at a coffeehouse known today as the Caffe Mediterraneum in Berkeley, California. Many factors went into the creation of the poem. A short time before the composition of “Howl,” Ginsberg’s therapist, Dr. Philip Hicks, encouraged him to quit his job and pursue poetry full time. He experimented with short simple sentences (parataxis) in the poem “Dream Record: June 8, 1955” about the death of Joan Vollmer, a technique that would become central in “Howl.” He showed this poem to Kenneth Rexroth, who criticized it as too stilted and academic; Rexroth encouraged Ginsberg to free his voice and write from his heart. Ginsberg took this advice and attempted to write a poem with no restrictions. He was under the immense influence of William Carlos Williams and Jack Kerouac and attempted to speak with his own voice spontaneously. Ginsberg began the poem in the stepped triadic form he took from Williams but, in the middle of typing the poem, his style altered such that his own unique form (a long line based on breath organized by a fixed base) began to emerge.
Categories: Poetry by Allen GinsbergBeat poetry1955 poemsAmerican poetry collectionsIndustrial Workers of the World. All credits to Wikipedia.