Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask—Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill,
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place,
Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foil'd searching of mortality;
And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know,
Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure,
Didst tread on earth unguess'd at.—Better so!
All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow,
Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.
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SHAKESPEARE
Shakespeare, perhaps the greatest writer in history,
In his day was known as a master of good plays.
The theater gave him the freedom to create
And in turn he put hearts and souls a blaze.
Far from the world of the stage
Shakespeare was born in April of 1564.
In the little English town called Stratford
With several sisters and brothers after and before.
All the boys went to the same grammar school
As soon as they could read and write.
Where the only subject taught was Latin
Which was of little use to those born bright.
At 18 he married a woman named Anne Hathaway
Who was 8 years older than he.
The daughter of a neighboring farmer
Who bore his children, with twins, made three.
In 7 years he was a successful actor
After starting his career at 21.
Only the best actors found work in London
And by the grace a God Shakespeare was one.
Many actors of the period were playwrights
And Shakespeare was one of the best.
His greatest success was Henry VI,
Which placed him above the rest.
Shakespeare turned to another kind of writing
When because of a plague London theaters had to close.
He wrote two narrative poems greatly admired by the critics
Though to be famous as a poet, he never wanted or chose.
He in stead, turned back to the life of the stage
As soon as the theaters reopened again.
He joined an acting company until he retired
Writing plays for the Chamberlain’s Men.
Shakespeare died in 1616
And was buried in his local church back home.
Where he had been baptized 52 years before
He lies in his grave silent and alone.
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Controversial and paradoxical subject
This is an interesting poem atypical of the age of growing worliness perhaps; Hegelianism and Darwinism were flourishing in an era when science and technology were as well. Perhaps that is the cause of alluding to Shakespeare with words from the Bible used by God in describing the earth as his footstool and the heavens his recliner chair(an inexact paraphrase for now). Perhaps people of the time were overtaken with the WS's cleverness (darn he was a great playwright)...and too overtaken by the rash of technology flooding human society. Many even today have permitted technical progress to overcome their philosophical and religious sensesm and their good judgment too has been cast into a pit of cosmic physics and disinterpretation of the meanings of scripture...oh well.
Shakespeare (the playwright) was a good writer and some suspect that he was just a front for some anonymous royal that really wrote the plays and who sought to hide his identity from royal reprisals for writing at all.
Shakespeare had never travelled outside England, and wrote knowingly about Europe and Italy, which some use as indirect proof of another being the actual author or alternatiively of much borrowing of material by Shakespeare from other writers in an era when copyright laws probably wern't needed much. -
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EDGAR ALLAN POE
One of America's most famous writers
Was born in Boston, January of 1809.
Both his parents were failing actors
And his father was drunk most the time.
In 1810 Edgar's dad disappeared
His mother died soon after.
A childless couple took him in
Raising him with love and laughter.
Edgar had a Negro nurse
Who brought him to her quarters.
There he listened to ghost stories
Far beyond earthly borders.
The strange tales he later wrote
May have come from her inspiration.
The words she used to describe death
Gave Poe his taste for sensation.
The Allans moved to England
Where Poe attended boarding schools.
There's no doubt his time spent there
Sharpened his skills as tools.
Returning to Richman and back in school
He began to compose new verse.
Heavy debts forced him to leave college
As his life took a turn for the worse.
Poe caught a ride on a coal barge to Boston
Where he was unable to find employment.
A young printer agreed to publish his poems
Giving him hope and enjoyment.
Penniless, Poe enlisted in the army
And was accepted to West Point in 29.
Poe couldn't stand not being a writer
Self-imposing his dismissal from The Line.
Afterward he became an editor and critic
And married his cousin who was thirteen.
Six years latter he discovered she was dying
Suffering once more the unforeseen.
He went through periods of insanity
Caused by grieving and functional fall.
He smoked opium and drank too much
Till at his doorstep death would call.
Edgar Allan Poe the master of verse
Still lives in our hearts today
Famous for The Raven and other great works
May his soul rest in peace we pray.
MY FAVORITE POET
My favorite poet is God above
Who gives Earth its rhythm and rhyme.
Not pied pipers of misguided souls
Who promote distrust, hatred and crime.
Poetry is nature serenading in song
The peaceful roar of the oceans waves.
The wind through the trees and over the hills
And the flowers in the fields by the graves.
The sound of rain as it waters the thirsty
The songs of children at play in the park.
The far off rumble of trains or thunder
As they pass through the night in the dark.
The joy of our babies first words and steps
The passion of life with its heroes and clowns.
The on going struggle to survive our sins
As we proliferate in hamlets and towns.
My favorite poet is our father of love
Who was first to know us before birth.
His poetry prolongs every thing we love
As his deliverance gives life its worth.
MASTERS OF VERSE
Poetry is one of Earth’s oldest arts
Practiced long before words of print.
Every race had its masters of verse
In caves, huts cabins, or tent.
Stories in verse were handed down
From one generation to another.
The first told of love, war and more
And how to survive each other.
As man became more civilized
He could not help but wonder within.
Verse then took on a deeper meaning
With stories of faith, superstition, and sin.
The act of reciting became in demand
As verse began to advance
Every tribe, city, town and village
Had someone who gave words romance.
Today&'s poets are on the World Wide Web
Though many seem spiritually ill.
Thank heaven for all who still have God’s gift
To compose, teach, comfort, and fulfill.
THE POWER OF POETRY
Poetry is the lighthouse of life
Guiding the lost from a stormy sea.
Without it’s presence darkness prevails
Keeping us from all we can be.
Poems are used to convey passion
By poets of both good and evil mood.
Some are hateful others loving
Sharing thoughts to be consumed as food.
Verse can lead us to glory or doom
As we partake with others within.
Depicting our past, present and future
With words of man’s grace or sin.
People write poetry because they have no choice
Answering to the call of their gift.
Where some tend to pull their readers down
Others compose to give them a lift.
Always remember the power of poetry
Is used by both heaven and hell.
It’s up to us to choose our pleasure
As poetry remains alive and well.
DIVINE INTERVENTION
I never write a poem
That doesn’t write itself.
I catch a buzz and come alive
Like a puppet off it’s shelf.
Hearing many voices,
Whose words are never mine.
My pen becomes a painter’s brush
Forming visions on a line.
I seem to be a better person,
When it’s time to sit down and write.
A higher power guides my hand,
Sharing wisdom by day and night.
People born to create,
Have no choice but to perform.
It’s the rush of sharing their gift,
That elevates them from the norm.
What would our world become,
Without intervention from above?
Angry beings in a revolving cage,
With no sense of passion or love.
POETRY
God has always had his poets,
Who he watches with love from space.
But Satan has his poets too,
Who try to lead us from our grace.
King Solomon was a poet,
Who spoke of love, life, death, and war.
That lips were like threads of scarlet,
And that breasts were roses and more.
The wild birds sing and flowers bloom,
As clouds form figures in the sky.
But only humans will write poems,
That shall last long after they die.
The eldest sister of all arts,
Which some have called the devils wine.
Poetry is but pure passion,
To stimulate the heart and mind.
A GOOD POEM
A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn't need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.
A good poem is like the flower,
The lily or the rose.
God plants it in a poet's brain
And there its beauty grows.
A good poem like a cardinal
Is pregnant with song;
You can’t help but hear its message
As it sings what's right or wrong.
A good poem helps us remember
What the joys of life are for,
It makes us want to love someone
'Till death comes knocking at our door.
GOD’S POETS
The prize jewels of any nation
Are the philosophers of the heart.
How they think is universal,
For it’s God who makes them so smart.
Most poets tell the truth of life,
Though they may wrap it in beauty.
It's their passion, not their purpose;
To compose is but their duty.
Poets have no reason to lie
When the truth is always so clear.
All that others say and do
Is but food for the poet's ear.
One merit of a poet's work,
Which most people cannot deny,
They say more and in fewer words
To illuminate you and I.
God sent his poets down to earth
With words of wisdom and of worth,
That they might touch the souls of men
And bring them back to Him again.
By Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web
Soldier For The Lord
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