English Literature Poetry Project

My 10 poets are Robert Frost, Rupert Chawner Brooke, Thomas Godfrey, Isaac Rosenberg, Leonard Cohen, Countee Cullen, Swaroopa Rani, Robert Desnos, Federico Garcia Lorca, Giacomo Leopardi.

My first poet is Robert Frost was born in Sanfransico,Califronia in 1874. His father name was William Frost, and he was a journalist and an ardent Democrat, he died when Frost was about eleven years old. His mother was Scottish , the former Isabelle Moody, she had to go back to her career as a schoolteacher to support her family. The Robert spended most of his younger years in Lawrence, Massachusetts, with his paternal grandfather, William Prescott Frost, he taught Robert alot. Robert Frost graduated in 1892 from a high school called Darthmouth College, he only went there for a few months though. In 1894 the New York Independent published Frost's poem 'My Butterfly' and he had five poems privately printed. Over the next ten years he had a number jobs. Robert Frost worked among others in a textile mill and taught Latin at his mother's school in Methuen, Massachusetts. Frost worked as a teacher and continued to write and publish his poems in magazines. In 1895 he got married to a woman named Elinor White, a former schoolmate of his, they had six children. From 1897 to 1899 Frost studied at Harvard, but he left before receiving a degree. He then moved to Derry, New Hampshire, he then again got a number of jobs, working as a cobbler, farmer, and teacher at Pinkerton Academy and also at at the state normal school in Plymouth. When he sent his poems to The Atlantic Monthly they were returned with this note: "We regret that The Atlantic has no place for your vigorous verse." Then in 1912 Frost sold his farm and took his wife and four kids to England. While in England he published his first collection of poems, A BOY'S WILL, at the age of 39. It was followed by NORTH BOSTON in 1914, after that he got an international reputation. The collection contains some of Frost's best-known poems such as, 'Mending Wall,' 'The Death of the Hired Man,' 'Home Burial,' 'A Servant to Servants,' 'After Apple-Picking,' and 'The Wood-Pile.' When he and his family returned to the US in 1915, Frost bought a farm near Franconia, New Hampshire. When the editor of The Atlantic Monthly asked him for poems, he gave them only the ones they had previously rejected. In 1916 he was made a member of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. In the same year he wrote his third collection of verse, MOUNTAIN INTERVAL, which contained poems like 'The Road Not Taken,' 'The Oven Bird,' 'Birches,' and 'The Hill Wife.' Frost's poems show deep appreciation of natural world and sensibility about the human aspirations. His images - woods, stars, houses, brooks, - are usually taken from everyday life.

The three poems that I picked from Robert Frost is The Road Not Taken, The Soldier, and Ghost House.

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN BY ROBERT FROST

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claim,Because it was grassy and wanted wear;Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I kept the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to way,I doubted if I should ever come back.I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference.

THE SOLDIER BY ROBERT FROST

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,But still lies pointed as it ploughed the dust.If we who sight along it round the world,See nothing worthy to have been its mark,It is because like men we look too near,Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,Our missiles always make too short an arc.They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.But this we know, the obstacle that checked And tripped the body, shot the spirit on Further than target ever showed or shone.

GHOST HOUSE BY ROBERT FROST

I DWELL in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls, And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field; The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; The footpath down to the well is healed. I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about: I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out. It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me-- Those stones out under the low-limbed tree Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. They are tireless folk, but slow and sad, Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,-- With none among them that ever sings, And yet, in view of how many things, As sweet companions as might be had.

My next poet is Rupert Chawner Brooke he was born in 1887. His dad was the Rugby School's housemaster, Brooke excelled in both academics and athletics. He started at his father's school at the age of fourteen. He was a lover of verse since he was a child, he won the school poetry prize in 1905. A year later, he attended King's College, Cambridge, where he was known for his good looks, charm, and intellect. While at Cambridge, he became interested in acting and was named president of the University Fabian Society. Brooke published his first poems in 1909, his first book, Poems, appeared in 1911. While working on his dissertation on John Webster and Elizabethan dramatists, he lived in the house that he made famous by his poem "The Old Vicarage, Grantchester." Between 1908 and 1912 he got into trapped into a love "square" with three women, Noel Olivier the youngest daughter of the governor of Jamaica, Ka Cox, who got him the position of president of the Fabian Society, and Cathleen Nesbitt, a British actress. But none of them lasted long though. After those three romances failed he went to travel in France and Gremany in 1912 for a few months.

When he returned to England, Brooke received a fellowship at King's College and went to both Cambridge and London. In 1912 he compiled an anthology entitled Georgian Poetry, 1911-12, with Edward Marsh. The Georgian poets wrote in a style called anti-Victorian style, they used rustic themes and subjects such as friendship and love. While critics viewed Brooke's poetry as to sentimental, they also considered his work a reflection of the mood in England during the years leading up to World War I. After experiencing a mental breakdown in 1913, Brooke traveled again, he spended several months in America, Canada, and the South Seas. While traveling, he wrote essays about his impressions for the Westminster Gazette, which were collected in Letters From America in 1916. While in the South Seas, he wrote some of his best poems, including "Tiare Tahiti" and "The Great Lover." He returned to England at the outbreak of World War I and enlisted in the Royal Naval Division. His most famous work, the sonnet sequence 1914 and Other Poems, appeared in 1915. Later that year, after taking apart in the Antwerp Expedition, he died of blood poisoning from a mosquito bite while in route to a place called Gallipoli with the Navy. He was buried on the island of Skyros in the Aegean Sea. After his death, Brooke, who was already know around the world, became a symbol in England of the tragic loss of talented youth during the war. The three poems I choose was The Soldier, Sonnet, A Memory.

THE SOLDIER BY RUPERT CHAWNER BROOKE

If I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam;A body of England's, breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

SONNET BY RUPERT CHAWNER BROOKE

Not with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun, We’ll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread Those dusty high-roads of the aimless dead Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run Down some close-covered by-way of the air,Some low sweet alley between wind and wind, Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there Spend in pure converse our eternal day; Think each in each, immediately wise;Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say What this tumultuous body now denies; And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

A MEMORY BY RUPERT CHAWNER BROOKE

(From a sonnet-sequence)Somewhile before the dawn I rose, and stept Softly along the dim way to your room, And found you sleeping in the quiet gloom, And holiness about you as you slept. I knelt there; till your waking fingers creptAbout my head, and held it. I had rest Unhoped this side of Heaven, beneath your breast. I knelt a long time, still; nor even wept. It was great wrong you did me; and for gain Of that poor moment’s kindliness, and ease,And sleepy mother-comfort! Child, you know How easily love leaps out to dreams like these, Who has seen them true. And love that’s wakened so Takes all too long to lay asleep again.

The next poet is Thomas Godfrey was the son of Thomas Godfrey (1704–1749), a Philadelphia glazier and member of Benjamin Franklin’s Junto Club, Godfrey produced some significant work in his short life. Well known in literary circles in Philadelphia, he was a close friend of the poet named Nathaniel Evans and the college provost William Smith. In 1758 he left Philadelphia for Wilmington, North Carolina, to enter a business. In 1762 he published a long poem "The Court of Fancy" and also published occasional pieces in local magazines. His most memorable work is a blank-verse play, "The Prince of Parthia", "A Tragedy", which appeared in a posthumous volume, juvenile poems on various subjects, that Evans published in 1765, which also included elegies from Evans and J Green. The play, which echoes Shakespeare’s political tragedies, was first staged in 1767. Critic Moses Coit Tyler remarked that “Thomas Godfrey is a true poet, and ‘The Prince of Parthia’ is a noble beginning of dramatic literature in America.” I could only find two poems on him and they were VERSES Occasioned by a Young Lady's asking the Author, What was a Cure for Love?And The Invitation.

VERSES OCCASIONED BY A YOUNG LADY ASKING THE AUTHOR, WHAT WAS A CURE FOR LOVE? BY THOMAS GODFREY

From me, my Dear, O seek not to receive What e'en deep-read Experience cannot give.We may, indeed, from the Physician's skill Some Med'cine find to cure the body's ill.But who e'er found the physic for the soul,Or made th' affections bend to his controul?When thro' the blaze of passion objects show How dark 's the shade! how bright the colours glow!All the rous'd soul with transport's overcome,And the mind's surly Monitor is dumb.In vain the sages turn their volumes o'er,And on the musty page incessant pore,Still mighty Love triumphant rules the heart,Baffles their labour, and eludes their art.Say what is science, what is reason's force To stop the passions wild ungovern'd course?Reason, 'tis true, may point the rocky shore,And shew the danger, but can serve no more,From wave to wave the wretched wreck is tost,And reason 's in th' impetuous torrent lost.In vain we strive, when urg'd by cold neglect,By various means our freedom to effect,Tho' like the bee from sweet to sweet we rove,And search for ease in the vast sound of Love,Tho' in each Nymph we meet a kind return,Still in the firstfond hopeless flame we burn,That dear idea still our thoughts employs,And blest variety itself e'en cloys.So exiles banish'd from their native home Are met with pity wheresoe'er they come,Yet still their native soil employs their care,And death were ease to lay their ashes there.

Isaac Rosenberg is the next poet I'm writing about he was he was born in November on the 25 in 1890. He was a Jewish-English poet during WWI. He was one of the greatest British poets of his time. His "Poems from the Trenches" are recognised as some of the most outstanding written during the First World War.

The poems that were God, Dead Man's Dump, In the Trenches.

GOD BY ISAAC ROSENBERG

In his malodorous brain what slugs and mire,Lanthorned in his oblique eyes, guttering burned!His body lodged a rat where men nursed souls.The world flashed grape-green eyes of a foiled catTo him. On fragments of an old shrunk power,On shy and maimed, on women wrung awry,He lay, a bullying hulk, to crush them more.But when one, fearless, turned and clawed like bronze,Cringing was easy to blunt these stern paws,And he would weigh the heavier on those after.Who rests in God's mean flattery now? Your wealth Is but his cunning to make death more hard.Your iron sinews take more pain in breaking.And he has made the market for your beauty Too poor to buy, although you die to sell.Only that he has never heard of sleep;And when the cats come out the rats are sly.Here we are safe till he slinks in at dawn But he has gnawed a fibre from strange roots,And in the morning some pale wonder ceases.Things are not strange and strange things are forgetful.Ah! if the day were arid, somehow lost Out of us, but it is as hair of us,And only in the hush no wind stirs it.And in the light vague trouble lifts and breathes,And restlessness still shadows the lost ways.The fingers shut on voices that pass through,Where blind farewells are taken easily ....Ah! this miasma of a rotting God!

DEAD MAN'S DUMP BY ISAAC ROSENBERG

The plunging limbers over the shattered track Racketed with their rusty freight,Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,And the rusty stakes like sceptres old To stay the flood of brutish men Upon our brothers dear.The wheels lurched over sprawled dead But pained them not, though their bones crunched;Their shut mouths made no moan,They lie there huddled, friend and foeman,Man born of man, and born of woman,And shells go crying over them From night till night and now.Earth has waited for them,All the time of their growth Fretting for their decay:Now she has them at last!In the strength of her strength Suspended—stopped and held.What fierce imaginings their dark souls litEarth! Have they gone into you?Somewhere they must have gone,And flung on your hard back Is their souls' sack,Emptied of God-ancestralled essences.Who hurled them out? Who hurled?None saw their spirits' shadow shake the grass,Or stood aside for the half-used life to pass Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,When the swift iron burning bee Drained the wild honey of their youth.What of us, who flung on the shrieking pyre,Walk, our usual thoughts untouched,Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed,Immortal seeming ever?Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us,A fear may choke in our veins And the startled blood may stop.The air is loud with death,The dark air spurts with fire,The explosions ceaseless are.Timelessly now, some minutes past,These dead strode time with vigorous life,Till the shrapnel called "an end!"But not to all. In bleeding pangs Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home,Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts.A man's brains splattered on A stretcher-bearer's face;His shook shoulders slipped their load,But when they bent to look again The drowning soul was sunk too deepFor human tenderness.They left this dead with the older dead,Stretched at the cross roads.Burnt black by strange decay,Their sinister faces lie The lid over each eye,The grass and coloured clay More motion have than they,Joined to the great sunk silences.Here is one not long dead;His dark hearing caught our far wheels,And the choked soul stretched weak hands To reach the living word the far wheels said,The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light,Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels Swift for the end to break,Or the wheels to break,Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight.Will they come? Will they ever come?Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules,The quivering-bellied mules,And the rushing wheels all mixed With his tortured upturned sight.So we crashed round the bend,We heard his weak scream,We heard his very last sound,And our wheels grazed his dead face.

IN THE TRENCHES BY ISAAC ROSENBERG

I snatched two poppies From the parapet’s ledge, Two bright red poppies That winked on the ledge. Behind my ear I stuck one through, One blood red poppy I gave to you. The sandbags narrowed And screwed out our jest, And tore the poppy You had on your breast ... Down - a shell - O! Christ, I am choked ... safe ... dust blind, I See trench floor poppies Strewn. Smashed you lie.

My next entry is on Leonard Norman Cohen he was born on September 21, 1934 in Montreal, Quebec, Canada. He is a Canadian poet, novelist, and singer plus songwriter. His musical career has largely overshadowed his prior work as a poet and novelist through, but he has continued to publish poetry sporadically after his breakthrough in the music industry. The poems I choose is Waiting For The Miracle, Story of Isaac, Sisters of Mercy.

WAITING FOR THE MIRACLE BY LEONARD COHEN

(co-written by Sharon Robinson)Baby, I've been waiting, I've been waiting night and day. I didn't see the time, I waited half my life away. There were lots of invitations and I know you sent me some, but I was waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come. I know you really loved me. but, you see, my hands were tied. I know it must have hurt you, it must have hurt your pride to have to stand beneath my window with your bugle and your drum, and me I'm up there waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come. Ah I don't believe you'd like it, You wouldn't like it here. There ain't no entertainment and the judgements are severe. The Maestro says it's Mozart but it sounds like bubble gum when you're waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come. Waiting for the miracle There's nothing left to do. I haven't been this happy since the end of World War II. Nothing left to do when you know that you've been taken. Nothing left to do when you're begging for a crumb Nothing left to do when you've got to go on waiting waiting for the miracle to come. I dreamed about you, baby. It was just the other night. Most of you was naked Ah but some of you was light. The sands of time were falling from your fingers and your thumb, and you were waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come Ah baby, let's get married, we've been alone too long. Let's be alone together. Let's see if we're that strong. Yeah let's do something crazy, something absolutely wrong while we're waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come. Nothing left to do ... When you've fallen on the highway and you're lying in the rain, and they ask you how you're doing of course you'll say you can't complain -- If you're squeezed for information, that's when you've got to play it dumb: You just say you're out there waiting for the miracle, for the miracle to come.

STORY OF ISAAC BY LEONARD COHEN

The door it opened slowly, my father he came in, I was nine years old. And he stood so tall above me, his blue eyes they were shining and his voice was very cold. He said, "I've had a vision and you know I'm strong and holy, I must do what I've been told." So he started up the mountain, I was running, he was walking, and his axe was made of gold. Well, the trees they got much smaller, the lake a lady's mirror, we stopped to drink some wine. Then he threw the bottle over. Broke a minute later and he put his hand on mine. Thought I saw an eagle but it might have been a vulture, I never could decide. Then my father built an altar, he looked once behind his shoulder, he knew I would not hide. You who build these altars now to sacrifice these children, you must not do it anymore. A scheme is not a vision and you never have been tempted by a demon or a god. You who stand above them now, your hatchets blunt and bloody, you were not there before, when I lay upon a mountain and my father's hand was trembling with the beauty of the word. And if you call me brother now, forgive me if I inquire, "Just according to whose plan?" When it all comes down to dust I will kill you if I must, I will help you if I can. When it all comes down to dust I will help you if I must, I will kill you if I can. And mercy on our uniform, man of peace or man of war, the peacock spreads his fan.

SISTERS OF MERCY BY LEONARD COHEN

Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone. They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't goon. And they brought me their comfort and later they brought methis song. Oh I hope you run into them, you who've been travelling solong. Yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control.It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to yoursoul. Well I've been where you're hanging, I think I can see howyou're pinned: When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says thatyou've sinned. Well they lay down beside me, I made my confession tothem. They touched both my eyes and I touched the dew on their hem.If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn they will bind you with love that is graceful and green as astem. When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into themsoon. Don't turn on the lights, you can read their address by themoon. And you won't make me jealous if I hear that they sweetenedyour night: We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be allright, We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be allright.

The next poet is Countee Cullen he was Born in 1903 in New York City, Countee Cullen grow up in a Methodist parsonage. He attended De Witt Clinton High School in New York and began writing poetry at the age of fourteen. In 1922, Cullen entered New York University. His poems were published in The Crisis, under the leadership of W. E. B. Du Bois, and Opportunity, a magazine of the National Urban League. He was soon after published in Harper's, the Century Magazine, and Poetry. He won several awards for his poem, "Ballad of the Brown Girl," and graduated from New York University in 1923. That same year, Harper published his first volume of verse, Color, and he was admitted to Harvard University where he completed a master's degree. His second volume of poetry, Copper Sun (1927), met with controversy in the black community because Cullen did not give the subject of race the same attention he had given it in Color. He was raised and educated in a primarily white community, and he differed from other poets of the Harlem Renaissance like 'Langston Hughes' in that he lacked the background to comment from personal experience on the lives of other blacks or use popular black themes in his writing. An imaginative lyric poet, he wrote in the tradition of Keats and Shelley and was resistant to the new poetic techniques of the Modernists. He died in 1946.

The poems I choose from him is Saturday's Child, The Wise, Heritage.

SATURDAY'S CHILD BY COUNTEE CULLEN

Some are teethed on a silver spoon,With the stars strung for a rattle;I cut my teeth as the black racoon--For implements of battle.Some are swaddled in silk and down,And heralded by a star;They swathed my limbs in a sackcloth gownOn a night that was black as tar.For some, godfather and goddameThe opulent fairies be;Dame Poverty gave me my name,And Pain godfathered me.For I was born on Saturday--"Bad time for planting a seed,"Was all my father had to say,And, "One mouth more to feed."Death cut the strings that gave me life,And handed me to Sorrow,The only kind of middle wifeMy folks could beg or borrow.

THE WISE BY COUNTEE CULLEN

Dead men are wisest, for they knowHow far the roots of flowers go,How long a seed must rot to grow.Dead men alone bear frost and rainOn throbless heart and heatless brain,And feel no stir of joy or pain.Dead men alone are satiate;They sleep and dream and have no weight,To curb their rest, of love or hate.Strange, men should flee their company,Or think me strange who long to beWrapped in their cool immunity.

HERITAGE BY COUNTEE CULLEN

What is Africa to me:Copper sun or scarlet sea,Jungle star or jungle track,Strong bronzed men, or regal blackWomen from whose loins I sprangWhen the birds of Eden sang?One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?So I lie, who all day longWant no sound except the songSung by wild barbaric birdsGoading massive jungle herds,Juggernauts of flesh that passTrampling tall defiant grassWhere young forest lovers lie,Plighting troth beneath the sky.So I lie, who always hear,Though I cram against my earBoth my thumbs, and keep them there,Great drums throbbing through the air.So I lie, whose fount of pride,Dear distress, and joy allied,Is my somber flesh and skin,With the dark blood dammed withinLike great pulsing tides of wineThat, I fear, must burst the fineChannels of the chafing netWhere they surge and foam and fret.Africa?A book one thumbsListlessly, till slumber comes.Unremembered are her batsCircling through the night, her catsCrouching in the river reeds,Stalking gentle flesh that feedsBy the river brink; no moreDoes the bugle-throated roarCry that monarch claws have leaptFrom the scabbards where they slept.Silver snakes that once a yearDoff the lovely coats you wear,Seek no covert in your fearLest a mortal eye should see;What's your nakedness to me?Here no leprous flowers rearFierce corollas in the air;Here no bodies sleek and wet,Dripping mingled rain and sweat,Tread the savage measures of Jungle boys and girls in love.What is last year's snow to me,Last year's anything?The treeBudding yearly must forgetHow its past arose or set­­Bough and blossom, flower, fruit,Even what shy bird with muteWonder at her travail there,Meekly labored in its hair.One three centuries removedFrom the scenes his fathers loved,Spicy grove, cinnamon tree,What is Africa to me?So I lie, who find no peaceNight or day, no slight releaseFrom the unremittent beatMade by cruel padded feetWalking through my body's street.Up and down they go, and back,Treading out a jungle track.So I lie, who never quiteSafely sleep from rain at night--I can never rest at allWhen the rain begins to fall;Like a soul gone mad with painI must match its weird refrain;Ever must I twist and squirm,Writhing like a baited worm,While its primal measures dripThrough my body, crying, "Strip!Doff this new exuberance.Come and dance the Lover's Dance!"In an old remembered wayRain works on me night and day.Quaint, outlandish heathen godsBlack men fashion out of rods,Clay, and brittle bits of stone,In a likeness like their own,My conversion came high-priced;I belong to Jesus Christ,Preacher of humility;Heathen gods are naught to me.Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,So I make an idle boast;Jesus of the twice-turned cheek,Lamb of God, although I speakWith my mouth thus, in my heartDo I play a double part.Ever at Thy glowing altarMust my heart grow sick and falter,Wishing He I served were black,Thinking then it would not lackPrecedent of pain to guide it,Let who would or might deride it;Surely then this flesh would knowYours had borne a kindred woe.Lord, I fashion dark gods, too,Daring even to give YouDark despairing features where,Crowned with dark rebellious hair,Patience wavers just so much asMortal grief compels, while touchesQuick and hot, of anger, riseTo smitten cheek and weary eyes.Lord, forgive me if my needSometimes shapes a human creed.All day long and all night through,One thing only must I do:Quench my pride and cool my blood,Lest I perish in the flood.Lest a hidden ember setTimber that I thought was wetBurning like the dryest flax,Melting like the merest wax,Lest the grave restore its dead.Not yet has my heart or headIn the least way realizedThey and I are civilized.

The next poet is Swaroopa Rani was born on July 20, 1980.Rasied by her two parents Mr.M.G.Rao and Mrs.M.Grace Lilly. (the biography is actually an interview) I completed my secondary education in V.T. College, later Intermediate in V.B.College, Degree in B.V.K. College, Post-graduation M.A. in L.B.College and Ph.D on English Canadian literature under the guidance of Prof.V.C.Sudheer in Andhra University and I received the Doctorate Degree on 23-8-2007. I would like to do my post-doctoral degree further by the God's grace. At present, I would like to write the poems, short-fiction, articles and many poems were published in online. My poems (101 poems) were published in this site Poemhunter.com web-site, and I received many critiques around 150 comments 120 messages from all over the world. I invite you to read my poetry as well as the comments, which were given by other writers all over the world, to know the essence of it.

The three poems are Pleasure By The Nature, A Candle Light, A Realistic Writer.

PLEASURE BY THE NATURE BY DR.M.SWAROOPA RANI

Nature brings a colourful beauty to one’s heart, It flies in our hearts like colourful butterfly, It strengthens the hearts with huge wings to fly, A beautiful creature lives in the heart of nature.A life is not enough to enjoy the whole nature, Each and every part of the Universe comes under nature, The nature is part of existence of human life, Without the nature, there will be no future.The nature survives the lives with pleasure, The beautiful nature is a creator of great desire, The fine nature lives with us and lives in us, It brings many dreams and memories to us.Oh God! We are thankful for gifting us a pleasant nature, It is one’s responsibility to save the beauty of nature, A true living in the heart of nature helps an achiever, To achieve the long life period of his splendid desire.

A CANDLE LIGHT BY DR.M.SWAROOPA RANI

We thank you for giving us a brilliant light, We wish to receive from you a dazzling light, But we never bother the worth of your light, You lose your shape by giving us the light.As the light of a candle stands by the candle wicks, The prosperity of country stands by great citizens, A great thinker spreads his light of knowledge, To vanish the darkness of miserable occurrence.It is more essential to utilize the value of success, As it lights a candle in the lives of many victims, The light of a candle disappears as the air blows, But the intellectual mind lightens as tremendous.The lives of children blossom by their education, Their golden future lights like a scholastic vision, To build up their country with the great wonders, And prove their challenges as the victorious flowers.

A REALISTIC WRITER BY DR.M.SWAROOPA RANI

The women in Atwood's novels dreamt the sweet dreams, Their lives are the symbolic of colourful kites, Their smiles are like the resonance of waterfalls, Their sweet words are delivered as the voices of nightingales, They seem to be good smelled budding flowers, But in the hands of men, women are multi-coloured toys, The lives of women are like the withered flowers, The tears of victims in Canada are like the streams, The victimizers are cruelly punished the women as the monarchs, The women's problems in Canada remained as the reminiscences, Even though no one could save the lives of the women, But Atwood has dared to tell her opinion, She conveys the women's tragedy through her books, And proved herself as one of the eminent writers.

Next up is Robert Desnos he was born in Paris on July 4, 1900. He attended commercial college, and then worked as a clerk before becoming a literary columnist for the newspaper Paris-Soir. He first published poems in the Dadaist magazine Littérature in 1919, and in 1922 he published his first book, Prose Selavy, a collection of surrealistic aphorisms. While on leave in Morocco from his mandatory two years in the French Army, Desnos befriended poet Andre Breton. Together with writers Louis Aragon and Paul Eluard, Breton and Desnos would form the vanguard of literary surrealism. They practiced a technique known as "automatic writing," and many hailed Desnos as the most accomplished practitioner. Breton, in the Manifesto of Surrealism, 1924, singled out Desnos for particular praise. The technique involved drifting into a trance and then recording the associations and leaps of the subconscious mind. Desnos' poems from this time are playful (often using puns and homonyms), sensual, and serious. The 1920s were an extremely creative period for Desnos; between 1920 and 1930, he published more than eight books of poetry, including Language cuit (1923), Deuil pour deuil (1924), Journal d'une apparition (1927), and The Night of Loveless Nights (1930). In the 1930s, Desnos diverged slightly from his Surrealist peers. Breton, in his Second Manifesto of Surrealism, 1930, would criticize Desnos for straying from the movement and for his journalistic work. In part, Desnos had simply grown tired of his own excesses—both in his creative and personal life. It was at this time that he married Youki Foujita and took on more commercial writing assignments for French radio and television. His poems became more direct and musical, though still maintaining some of their earlier adventurous style. Desnos continued to write throughout the decade; in 1936 he wrote a poem per day for the entire year. His published work from this time include Corps et biens (1930), and Le sans cou (1934). In 1939 at the onset of World War II, Desnos again served in the French Army. During the German occupation, he returned to Paris and under pseudonyms such as Lucien Gallois and Pierre Andier, Desnos published a series of essays that subtly mocked the Nazis. These articles combined with his work for the French Resistance led to his arrest. Desnos was sent to first to Auschwitz, and then transferred to a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia. Although the Allies liberated this camp in 1945, Desnos had contracted typhoid. He died on June 8, 1945.

The three poems are Long Long Ago, Cascade, Dove in the Arch.

LONG LONG AGO BY ROBERT DESNOS

Long long ago I went through the castle of leavesYellowing slowly in the mossAnd far away barnacles clung desperately to rocks in the seaYour memory better still your tender presence was there tooTransparent and mineNothing had changed but everything had aged at the same rate as my temples andmy eyesDon't you just love that platitude? Let me go it's so rare for me this ironicsatisfactionEverything had aged except your presenceLong long ago I went through the surf on a lonely dayThe waves were unreal even thenThe hulk of the shipwreck you knew about - remember that night of storms andkisses? - was it a ship or a delicate woman's hat rolled by the wind in the springrain? - was there tooAfter that its happiness and dancing in the hawthornes!The aperitifs had changed the names and colorsOf the rainbows framing the mirrors.Long long ago you loved me.

CASCADE BY ROBERT DESNOS

What sort of arrow split the sky and this rock?It's quivering, spreading like a peacock's fanLike the mist around the shaft and knot less feathersOf a comet come to nest at midnight.How blood surges from the gaping wound,Lips already silencing murmur and cry.One solemn finger holds back time, confusingThe witness of the eyes where the deed is written.Silence? We still know the passwords.Lost sentinels far from the watch firesWe smell the odor of honeysuckle and surfRising in the dark shadows.Distance, let dawn leap the void at last,And a single beam of light make a rainbow on the waterIts quiver full of reeds,Sign of the return of archers and patriotic songs.

DOVE IN THE ARCH BY ROBERT DESNOS

Cursed!be the father of the brideof the blacksmith who forged the iron for the axewith which the woodsman hacked down the oakfrom which the bed was carvedin which was conceived the great-grandfatherof the man who was driving the carriagein which your mother met your father.

The next two last poet is Federico García Lorca he was born on June 5, 1898
in Granada, Spain and died on August 19, 1936 in Granada, Spain. He was widely regarded to as Spain most distinguish twentieth-century writer, and his work has been translated into 5 different languages. And was said to be a genius as a child. But he was sadly executed by fascist rebels.

The three poems I choose from him was Debussy, The Faithless Wife, Sonnet of Sweet Complaint.

DEBUSSY BY FEDERICO GARCIA LOCRA

My shadow glides in silence over the watercourse. On account of my shadow the frogs are deprived of stars. The shadow sends my body reflections of quiet things. My shadow moves like a huge violet-colored mosquito. A hundred crickets are trying to gild the glow of the reeds. A glow arises in my breast, the one mirrored in the water.

THE FAITHLESS WIFE BY FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA

So I took her to the riverbelieving she was a maiden,but she already had a husband.It was on St. James nightand almost as if I was obliged to.The lanterns went outand the crickets lighted up.In the farthest street cornersI touched her sleeping breastsand they opened to me suddenlylike spikes of hyacinth.The starch of her petticoatsounded in my earslike a piece of silkrent by ten knives.Without silver light on their foliagethe trees had grown largerand a horizon of dogsbarked very far from the river.Past the blackberries,the reeds and the hawthorneunderneath her cluster of hairI made a hollow in the earthI took off my tie,she too off her dress.I, my belt with the revolver,She, her four bodices.Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearlhave skin so fine,nor does glass with silvershine with such brilliance.Her thighs slipped away from melike startled fish,half full of fire,half full of cold.That night I ranon the best of roadsmounted on a nacre marewithout bridle stirrups.As a man, I won’t repeatthe things she said to me.The light of understandinghas made me more discreet.Smeared with sand and kissesI took her away from the river.The swords of the liliesbattled with the air.I behaved like what I am,like a proper gypsy.I gave her a large sewing basket,of straw-colored satin,but I did not fall in lovefor although she had a husbandshe told me she was a maidenwhen I took her to the river.

SONNET OF SWEET COMPLAINT BY FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA

Never let me lose the marvel of your statue-like eyes, or the accent the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night.
I am afraid of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk, and what I most regret is having no flower, pulp, or clay for the worm of my despair.
If you are my hidden treasure, if you are my cross, my dampened pain, if I am a dog, and you alone my master,
never let me lose what I have gained, and adorn the branches of your river with leaves of my estranged Autumn.

My last poet is Giacomo Leopardi, one of the greatest Italian poets of all times, he was born in Recanati, a town in the Marches not far from the Adriatic coast. At the age of twelve Giacomo was so erudite that his private ecclesiastical tutor had to admit that his own scholarship was inferior to his pupil's and that consequently there was nothing more he could teach him. Devoured by an insatiable craving for learning, Giacomo then resolved to continue his studies alone, and for the next seven years, completely unsupervised, spent most of the day and part of the night poring over the books of the family palace's twelve-thousand volume library. He mastered Hebrew, Latin, Greek, and modern languages; completed numerous translations from the classics; wrote several philological works, a history of astronomy, and a hymn to Neptune in Greek which he pretended to have discovered in an ancient manuscript. By the time he was nineteen years old he had amassed an amazing store of knowledge, but he had also compromised his health: he began suffering from nervous disorders, his eyesight weakened, he became a hunchback. Sadly he realized that he had allowed his youth to pass, that henceforth his life could be only unhappy, and that above all, being so frail and unattractive, he would probably never be loved by a woman. He felt it would require great courage "to love a virteous man whose only beauty is his soul". These pessimistic thoughts and premonitions pervade all of Leopardi's major works. In much of his poetry, Leopardi almost cruelly stresses his belief that joy is nothing but the momentary subsidence of pain and that only in death can man find lasting happiness. However from time to time, there appear balancing statements such as the wonderful last line of "L'infinito" -"E il naufragar m'e dolce in questo mare" (And to shipwreck is sweet for me in this sea) - that uncover a completely different aspect of Leopardi: not the optimist, to be sure, but the enraptured admirer of nature's beauty, and the believer in the power of imagination. "L'infinito" represents one of the summits not only of Leopardi's poetry but of all poetry. Rarely has a poet been able to compress within one hundred words such depth of meaning with such simplicity of language and harmony of sounds. Leopardi called "L'infinito" an "idyll", a definition that perfectly fits the charm and suggestive power of this superb poem, which, to quote Renato Poggioli, "makes familiar and almost dear to the heart of man the alien metaphysical vision of a universe ruled by laws other than those of life and death."

The three are To the Moon, To Himself, Infinite.

TO THE MOON BY GIACOMO LEOPARDI

Oh gracious moon, now as the year turns,I remember how, heavy with sorrow,I climbed this hill to gaze on you,And then as now you hung above those treesIlluminating all. But to my eyesYour face seemed clouded, temulousFrom the tears that rose beneath my lids, So painful was my life: and is, myDearest moon; its tenor does not change. And yet, memory and numbering the epochsOf my grief is pleasing to me. How welcomeIn that youthful time -when hope's span is long,And memory short -is the remembrance even ofPast sad things whose pain endures.

TO HIMSELF BY GIACOMO LEOPARDI

Now will you rest forever,My tired heart. Dead is the lastdeception,That I thought eternal. Dead. Well IfeelIn us the sweet illusions,Nothing but ash, desire burned out.Rest forever. You haveTrembled enough. Nothing is worthThy beats, nor does the earthdeserveThy sighs. Bitter and dullIs life, there is nought else. Theworld is clay.Rest now. DespairFor the last time. To our kind, FateGives but death. Now despiseYourself, nature, the sinisterPower that secretly commands ourcommon ruin,And the infinite vanity ofeverything.

INFINITE BY GIACOMO LEOPARDI

These solitary hills have always been dear to me.Seated here, this sweet hedge, which blocks the distant horizon opening inner silences and interminable distances. I plunge in thought to where my heart, frightened, pulls back.Like the wind which I hear tossing the trembling plants which surround me, a voice from the inner depths of spirit shakes the certitudes of thought.Eternity breaks through time, past and present intermingle in her image. In the inner shadows I lose myself, drowning in the sea-depths of timeless love.