Best Poems - Joie De Vivre

Best Poems – JOIE DE VIVRE

A Swing Song – William Allingham

“Swing, swing,
Sing, sing,
Here’s my throne, and I am a King!
Swing, sing,
Swing, sing,
Farewell, earth, for I’m on the wing!

Low, high,
Here I fly,
Like a bird through sunny sky;
Free, free
Over the lea,
Over the mountain, over the sea!

Up, down,
Up and down,
Which is the way to London Town?
Where? Where?
Up in the air,
Close your eyes and now you are there!

Soon, soon,
Afternoon,
Over the sunset, over the moon;
Far, far,
Over all bar,
Sweeping on from star to star!

No, no,
Low, low,
Sweeping daisies with my toe.
Slow, slow,
To and fro,
Slow—
slow—
slow—
slow.”

The I Am That I Am – Ella Brink

“The ‘I am
That I am’
Is continual being—
Clothing itself
Safely around
With the ‘I am
That I am,’
Knowing
No other existence
But the ‘I am
That I am.’
And like the sun,
The moon and the stars,
Having a smile for everyone
Is the ‘I am
That I am.'”

i thank you God for most this amazing – e.e. cummings

“i thank you God for most this amazing
day; for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of all nothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)”

Chansons Innocentes (In Just) – e.e. cummings

“in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it’s
spring
and
the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee

hist whist
little ghostthings
tip-toe
twinkle-toe

little twitchy
witches and tingling
goblins
hob-a-nob hob-a-nob

little hoppy happy
toad in tweeds
tweeds
little itchy mousies

with scuttling
eyes rustle and run and
hidehidehide
whisk

whisk look out for the old woman
with the wart on her nose
what she’ll do to yer
nobody knows

for she knows the devil ooch
the devil ouch
the devil
ach the great

green
dancing
devil
devil

devil
devil

wheeEEE

III

Tumbling-hair
picker of buttercups
violets
dandelions
And the big bullying daisies
through the field wonderful
with eyes a little sorry
Another comes
also picking flowers”

Could I But Ride Indefinite – Emily Dickinson

“Could I but ride indefinite,
As doth the meadow-bee,
And visit only where I liked,
And no man visit me,

And flirt all day with buttercups,
And marry whom I may,
And dwell a little everywhere,
Or better, run away

With no police to follow,
Or chase me if I do,
Till I should jump peninsulas
To get away from you,—

I said, but just to be a bee
Upon a raft of air,
And row in nowhere all day long,
And anchor off the bar,—
What liberty! So captives deem
Who tight in dungeons are.”

Corinna’s Going a-Maying – Robert Herrick

"Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn   
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.   
    See how Aurora throws her fair   
    Fresh-quilted colours through the air:   
    Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see          
    The dew-bespangling herb and tree.
Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,   
Above an hour since; yet you not drest;   
    Nay! not so much as out of bed?   
    When all the birds have matins said,  
    And sung their thankful hymns; 'tis sin,   
    Nay, profanation, to keep in,   
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day   
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.   
  
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen   
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,   
    And sweet as Flora. Take no care   
    For jewels for your gown or hair:   
    Fear not; the leaves will strew   
    Gems in abundance upon you:   
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,   
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.   
    Come, and receive them while the light   
    Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:   
    And Titan on the eastern hill   
    Retires himself, or else stands still   
Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:   
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.   
  
Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark   
How each field turns a street, each street a park,   
    Made green and trimmed with trees: see how   
    Devotion gives each house a bough   
    Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,   
    An ark, a tabernacle is,   
Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove,   
As if here were those cooler shades of love.   
    Can such delights be in the street   
    And open fields, and we not see 't?   
    Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey   
    The proclamation made for May,   
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;   
But, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying.   
  
There 's not a budding boy or girl this day   
But is got up and gone to bring in May.   
    A deal of youth ere this is come   
    Back, and with white-thorn laden home.   
    Some have dispatched their cakes and cream,   
    Before that we have left to dream:   
And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth,   
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
    Many a green-gown has been given;   
    Many a kiss, both odd and even;
    Many a glance, too, has been sent   
    From out the eye, love's firmament:   
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick'd: yet we're not a-Maying!   
  
Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,   
And take the harmless folly of the time!   
    We shall grow old apace, and die   
    Before we know our liberty.
    Our life is short, and our days run   
    As fast away as does the sun.   
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain,   
Once lost, can ne'er be found again:
    So when or you or I are made
    A fable, song, or fleeting shade,   
    All love, all liking, all delight   
    Lies drowned with us in endless night.   
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,   
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying."

Smiles – Rhoda Hill Jackson

“When you are happy, it’s easy to smile;
When you are lonesome, it helps you to smile:
“When you are sad, just let the smile come;
It will be as a light; be sure to keep some;
So smile while you weep; smile while you are young,
And smile when weary; let smiles e’er be sung,
And in the dark world a smile peeping through
Will drive clouds away and make the sky blue…”

Welcome Joy And Welcome Sorrow – John Keats

“Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,
Lethe’s weed and Hermes’ feather;
Come today, and come tomorrow,
I do love you both together!
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather,
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder.
Fair and foul I love together:
Meadows sweet where flames burn under,
And a giggle at a wonder;
Visage sage at pantomime;
Funeral, and steeple-chime;
Infant playing with a skull;
Morning fair, and storm-wrecked hull;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing;
Serpents in red roses hissing;
Cleopatra regal-dressed
With the aspics at her breast
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Muses bright and Muses pale;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale.
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again—
O the sweetness of the pain!
Muses bright and Muses pale,
Bare your faces of the veil!
Let me see! and let me write
Of the day and of the night—
Both together. Let me slake
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache!
Let my bower be of yew,
Interwreathed with myrtles new,
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
And my couch a low grass tomb.”

Observations – Jack Kerouac

“What more do I want but a meal when I am hungry, or a bed when I am weary,
or a rose when I am sad?
What more does one need in this world but the few joys that are afforded
him by this earth, this rich bursting earth, that flushes with bloom each
Spring, and leases its luxury of wet warmth to us for a glorious summer?
What more do I want but a woman when I am in passion, or a glass of water
when I am thirsty, or music when I am lonely?
Why, I need not your sumptuous sitting room, nor your full-vistaed garden!
Nor your wainscotted bedroom with overhanging canopy and oils! All I need
is my little den, with a window to let the sun shine in, and a shelf of
books, and a desk, and something to write with, and paper, and my soul:
Where can I find my soul?
In solitude said my friend, in solitude.
Yes. I have found my soul in solitude.
No, I don’t want riches! This has been said so many times before. And
when I say the world is bursting with plenty, I know the starved millions
will laugh: but I shall laugh with them and overthrow: I know whereof I
speak: I am not a prophet, I am, like Whitman, a lover. Whitman, that
glorious American! Barbellion, who will go with you, anywhere, any time,
any fashion, for nothing, for everything. Come, I will go with thee,
said Whitman: Whitman, the underrated, the forgotten, the laughed-at,
the homosexual, the lover of life.
How shall I sing?
I shall sing: I shall record the misery, observe on it, and point
out how to abolish it.”

Solitaire – Alma Lacock

“I eat alone
Three times
A day,
But keep myself
Content and gay.
I sit at table
And watch the sky—
Watch the people
Passing by.
Often I lay
An extra plate,
Hoping a stranger
Will stop
At the gate.
But if at last
He fails
To appear—
I can pretend
That he is here.”

Happiness – Priscilla Leonard

“Happiness is like a crystal,

Fair and exquisite and clear,

Broken in a million pieces,
Shattered, scattered far and near.

Now and then along life’s pathway,

Lo! some shining fragments fall;

But there are so many pieces

No one ever finds them all.

You may find a bit of beauty,

Or an honest share of wealth,

While another just beside you

Gathers honor, love or health.

Vain to choose or grasp unduly,

Broken is the perfect ball;

And there are so many pieces

No one ever finds them all.

Yet the wise as on they journey

Treasure every fragment clear,

Fit them as they may together,

Imaging the shattered sphere,

Learning ever to be thankful,

Though their share of it is small;

For it has so many pieces

No one ever finds them all.”

Sight – Cora Ball Moton

“I see skies more bright and blue
Than any skies beheld by you,
I see trees so tall and high
Their green leaves brush against the sky,
I see birds (and hear them sing)
Like rainbows that have taken wing;
I see flowers fairer far
Than any in your garden are,
These lovely sights you’ll never find,
Because—my dear, you see; I’m blind.”

An African Elegy – Ben Okri

“We are the miracles that God made
To taste the bitter fruit of Time.
We are precious.
And one day our suffering
Will turn into the wonders of the earth.
There are things that burn me now
Which turn golden when I am happy.
Do you see the mystery of our pain?
That we bear poverty
And are able to sing and dream sweet things
And that we never curse the air when it is warm
Or the fruit when it tastes so good
Or the lights that bounce gently on the waters?
We bless things even in our pain.
We bless them in silence.
That is why our music is so sweet.
It makes the air remember.
There are secret miracles at work
That only Time will bring forth.
I too have heard the dead singing.
And they tell me that
This life is good
They tell me to live it gently
With fire, and always with hope.
There is wonder here
And there is surprise
In everything the unseen moves.
The ocean is full of songs.
The sky is not an enemy.
Destiny is our friend.”

If You Are Over Staying Woke – Morgan Parker

“Water
the plants. Drink
plenty of water.
Don’t hear
the news. Get
bored. Complain
about the weather.
Keep a corkscrew
in your purse.
Swipe right
sometimes.
Don’t smile
unless you want
to. Sleep in.
Don’t see the news.
Remember what
the world is like
for white people.
Listen to
cricket songs.
Floss. Take pills.
Keep an
empty mind.
When you are
hungover
do not say
I’m never drinking
again. Be honest
when you’re up
to it. Otherwise
drink water
lie to yourself
turn off the news
burn the papers
skip the funerals
take pills
laugh at dumb shit
fuck people you
don’t care about
use the crockpot
use the juicer
use the smoothie maker
drink water
from the sky
don’t think
too much about the sky
don’t think about water
skip the funerals
close your eyes
whenever possible
When you toast
look everyone in the eyes
Never punctuate
the President
Write the news
Turn
into water
Water
the fire escape
Burn the paper
Crumble the letters
Instead of
hyacinths pick
hydrangeas
Water the hydrangeas
Wilt the news
White the hydrangeas
Drink the white
Waterfall the
cricket songs
Keep a song mind
Don’t smile
Don’t wilt
funeral
funeral”

Solitude – Alexander Pope

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix’d, sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.”

Welcome Morning – Anne Sexton

“There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “hello there, Anne”
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.”

Recuerdo – Edna St. Vincent Millay

“We were very tired, we were very merry—

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—

But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,

We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;

And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;

And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,

From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;

And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,

And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

We hailed, ‘Good morrow, mother!’ to a shawl-covered head,

And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;

And she wept, ‘God bless you!’ for the apples and pears,

And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.”

Happy-Go-Lucky – Charles Vildrac (trans. Witter Bynner)

“Happy-Go-Lucky, to follow the road,
Is a better lot than you supposed,
Just to enjoy the to and fro
Of all the pleasant things there are.

Happy-go-lucky, to sail your life,
Is worth whatever pain be in it,
Just to feel how good the sun is
Every fleeting minute.

Would you be aware how happy you were,
Continuing happy over the hour?
Would it mean any more
Than loving, merely with the eyes,
For a poor little moment, the neck, the eyes,
The mysterious heel that daintily flies,
Of all the pleasant things there are?

Come then, life allows you living,
Earth is not so cold as yet,
The intervals are not so rare
When you say to yourself that it’s good to live
When you simply undertake to live

In the cooling grass, in the warming sand,
Or along the street, and only care
For the easy course at your eyes’ command
Of all the pleasant things there are…”

A Late Aubade – Richard Wilber

“You could be sitting now in a carrel
Turning some liver-spotted page,
Or rising in an elevator-cage
Toward Ladies’ Apparel.

You could be planting a raucous bed
Of salvia, in rubber gloves,
Or lunching through a screed of someone’s loves
With pitying head,

Or making some unhappy setter
Heel, or listening to a bleak
Lecture on Schoenberg’s serial technique.
Isn’t this better?

Think of all the time you are not
Wasting, and would not care to waste,
Such things, thank God, not being to your taste.
Think what a lot

Of time, by woman’s reckoning,
You’ve saved, and so may spend on this,
You who had rather lie in bed and kiss
Than anything.

It’s almost noon, you say? If so,
Time flies, and I need not rehearse
The rosebuds-theme of centuries of verse.
If you must go,

Wait for a while, then slip downstairs
And bring us up some chilled white wine,
And some blue cheese, and crackers, and some fine
Ruddy-skinned pears.”

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