I thought it might be fun for the poetry lovers among us, and those who wish to be introduced to it, to share some of favorite poems here. Personally, I find some of my best inspiration coming from the poets. I think I'll post one here whenever the mood strikes me, and I invite others to do the same.

Dream Variations by Langston Hughs

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me--
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

KEEPING A JOURNAL by William Stafford

At night it was easy for me with my little candle
to sit late recording what happened that day. Sometimes
rain breathing in from the dark would begin softly
across the roof and then drum wildly for attention.
The candle flame would hunger after each wafting
of air. My pen inscribed thin shadows that leaned
forward and hurried their lines along the wall.

More important than what was recorded, these evenings
deepened my life: they framed every event
or thought and placed it with care by the others.
As time went on, that scribbled wall -- even if
it stayed blank -- became where everything
recognized itself and passed into meaning.

THE SUN by Mary Oliver

Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon

and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again

out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower

streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure

that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you

as you stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--

or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

If anyone comes here to just read the poetry, I'd appreciate knowing that. Any remarks on the poetry would also be appreciated, if anyone is reading.

I love poetry, and I love sharing some of my favorites. Picking the best to share out of the many forces me to re-read, which is helping my writing a lot.

Here's for anyone who teaches:

LIT PROFESSOR by William Stafford

Day after day up there beating my wings
with all the softness truth requires
I feel them shrug whenever I pause:
they class my voice among tentative things,

And they credit fact, force, battering.
I dance my way toward the family of knowing,
embracing stray error as a long-lost boy
and bringing him home with my fluttering.

Every quick feather asserts a just claim;
it bites like a saw into white pine.
I communicate right; but explain to the dean—
well, Right has a long and intricate name.

And the saying of it is a lonely thing.

THANK YOU! I'm so excited that two people responded to my poems.

Thank you for letting me know that you read them, Nyon.

And thank you, boazwife, for that wonderful poem. This is my introduction to Paul Lauarence Dunbar. I'm going to be looking at more of his poems in the internet. What fabulous musicality! What fun it would have been to chant it back and forth. The poem delivers the story complete with characters I can feel and the place I can see. If you have other favorites, please post them.

I know nothing of black poets from Dunbar's time. I must confess that the only Black poet I have any real familiarity with (aside from musicians) is Langston Huges. I would just love to know more about the black poets, and the meaning of their poems to the people who knew and recited them.

Please share more, boazwife, and anyone else. I love getting this peak into the riches of your culture and history.

Who are considered to be the most important black poets? Who are the most prominent writers of the spoken word? If I just knew the names to look for, I can probably find their stuff on Youtube or by Google.

Thanks so much.

Correction: I am quite familiar with the fabulous Maya Angelou. Also, I was introduced to Elizabeth Alexander through her poem read at Obama's inauguration.

I was enjoying some of those marvelous black musicians last night, sparked by a notice in our paper saying that Keb Mo would be here at our Blues Festival over the weekend. I LOOOOOVE this type of blues. There is nothing like it to satisfy something deep in the soul and in the bones.

For those not familiar, here is a sample of Robert Johnson:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yd60nI4sa9A

Keb Mo here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pl9NkY6_IMY

In both cases, you can find lots more once you're there.

Nyon - thank you so much for the poem, and for the list of poets. Of course I know Alice Walker. I'll be looking up Phyllis Wheatley as well.

I just learned that Maya Angelou lifted the name of her book "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings" straight from Paul Lawrence Dunbar's poem, "Sympathy". If he were alive at the time, there could have been copyright tensions, unless she credits him somewhere, I don't know.

SYMPATHY by Paul Laurence Dunbar

I KNOW what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals--
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting--
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,--
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings--
I know why the caged bird sings!

Wow! Boazwife, thank you so much. "The Colored Soldiers" makes my heart swell and sends a chill up my spine. What powerful sentiments about incredible heroism in the face of such prejudice. I need to read both of those poems over and over again when I'm not so tired.

As I feast on Paul Laurence Dunbar's writing, I think he's a genius. There's a perfection about his compositions -- a perfect selection of subject, the perfect choice of words to convey the perfect images and emotions. There's a perfect balance and music, whether he's writing in dialect or not. He reminds me of my beloved Mozart, who wrote perfect music. And they share the same prolific writing and premature death. I'm so excited that you introduced him here.

Reading him will enlarge my life and make me a better person. Thank you.

What a very sweet and tender love song. Perfect music.

I almost forgot. I was just going to post this little poem I found. Dunbar wrote with insight and maturity beyond his years, didn't he? A great mind and soul, and sense of humor, too.

ACCOUNTABILITY by Paul Laurence Dunbar

FOLKS ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits;
Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' de rabbits.
Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered out de little valleys,
Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to make de alleys.

We is all constructed diff'ent, d'ain't no two of us de same;
We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we'se bad we ain't to blame.
Ef we'se good, we need n't show off, case you bet it ain't ouah doin'
We gits into su'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin'.

But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could fill,
An' we does the things we has to, big er little, good er ill.
John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally ain't alike;
Bass ain't nuthin' like a suckah, chub ain't nuthin' like a pike.

When you come to think about it, how it's all planned out it's splendid.
Nuthin's done er evah happens, 'dout hit's somefin' dat's intended;
Don't keer whut you does, you has to, an' hit sholy beats de dickens,--
Viney, go put on de kittle, I got one o' mastah's chickens.

I just searched our county library, and there are 49 entries for Paul Laurence Dunbar. I put just one collection of his best poems and prose on hold. Such restraint! I'm sure I'll be getting more, too.

With the wonderful new list of poets you two have provided, I'm going to be doing a lot more reading than writing... but "We gits into su'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin'." Right? :-)

Hi Posh - It's good to see you here. Thanks for the great contributions. I don't have the energy to respond as enthusiastically as I would like as my Sweetie had minor surgery yesterday, and I was at the hospital all day. I got him home today, and he is napping. He'll be home for about two weeks. I'll need some of that time to recover, too. ;-)

I printed out as many of Dunbar's poems as I could in a hurry to take to the hospital with me (about 8). He's such a sweet companion.

Here's a sweet and accessible poem by the often enigmatic and always fabulous Emily Dickinson:

HOPE by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Thanks, Boazwife. Walt Whitman is wonderful. I think the first line of that poem was used in that movie with Robin Williams, "Dead Poets Society", perhaps more than the first line.

I've got to read more of Langston Hughs. He's fabulous. I love that poem.

Here's another Emily Dickinson that I came upon tonight. She did not give titles to most of her poems:

HE ate and drank the precious words,
His spirit grew robust;
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was dust.

He danced along the dingy days,
And this bequest of wings
Was but a book. What liberty
A loosened spirit brings!

-- Emily Dickinson

When I began this thread, I said that I find my inspiration in poetry, (and not so much in church.)

I felt a resonance with Dunbar when I read the following:

A CHOICE by Paul Laurence Dunbar

They please me not-- these solemn songs
That hint of sermons covered up.
'T is true the world should heed its wrongs,
But in a poem let me sup,
Not simples brewed to cure or ease
Humanity's confessed disease,
But the spirit-wine of a singing line,
Or a dew-drop in a honey cup!

It seems a similar sentiment to Emily Dickinson's, who shares my feeling as a nature mystic:

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church --
I keep it, staying at Home --
With a Bobolink for a Chorister --
And an Orchard, for a Dome --

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice --
I just wear my Wings --
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton -- sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman --
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last --
I'm going, all along.

--Emily Dickinson

Boazwife - Sorry - I love BOTH of the Langston Hughs poems you posted. I'll be greedily drinking in any more you've got. Thank you.