Orbler
Byron Twain
Brenton
Dexter
Jeanne Dininni
Shilpa KarhikOld Poets by Joyce Kilmer
February 8th 2008 00:04
Old Poets
by Joyce Kilmer
If I should live in a forest
And sleep underneath a tree,
No grove of impudent saplings
Would make a home for me.
I'd go where the old oaks gather,
Serene and good and strong,
And they would not sigh and tremble
And vex me with a song.
The pleasantest sort of poet
Is the poet who's old and wise,
With an old white beard and wrinkles
About his kind old eyes.
For these young flippertigibbets
A-rhyming their hours away
They won't be still like honest men
And listen to what you say.
The young poet screams forever
About his sex and his soul;
But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe,
And polishes its bowl.
There should be a club for poets
Who have come to seventy year.
They should sit in a great hall drinking
Red wine and golden beer.
They would shuffle in of an evening,
Each one to his cushioned seat,
And there would be mellow talking
And silence rich and sweet.
There is no peace to be taken
With poets who are young,
For they worry about the wars to be fought
And the songs that must be sung.
But the old man knows that he's in his chair
And that God's on His throne in the sky.
So he sits by the fire in comfort
And he lets the world spin by.
Famed for Trees, a poem as beautiful,
Legacy remains, pained plain ponder.
An aging ode, a reflection of chronology,
Observations of author motivation.
Form dissected, rudimentary rhyme dull,
The controversy of youth, empty creation,
A purpose served, blossoms to weed,
Sincere rage torpedos, hormonal response.
Maturity of the soul, untaught,
Maturity of the mind, intangible knowledge.
Wisdom not a birthright nor age dictated,
Patience, the process appreciated.
To share time with those who contemplate instead of inflict,
Bask in retirement of accomplishment,
Ever more to share speed and pace,
Unchanged evolution, the cycle remains.
by Joyce Kilmer
Joyce Kilmer 1886 - 1918
If I should live in a forest
And sleep underneath a tree,
No grove of impudent saplings
Would make a home for me.
I'd go where the old oaks gather,
Serene and good and strong,
And they would not sigh and tremble
And vex me with a song.
The pleasantest sort of poet
Is the poet who's old and wise,
With an old white beard and wrinkles
About his kind old eyes.
For these young flippertigibbets
A-rhyming their hours away
They won't be still like honest men
And listen to what you say.
The young poet screams forever
About his sex and his soul;
But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe,
And polishes its bowl.
There should be a club for poets
Who have come to seventy year.
They should sit in a great hall drinking
Red wine and golden beer.
They would shuffle in of an evening,
Each one to his cushioned seat,
And there would be mellow talking
And silence rich and sweet.
There is no peace to be taken
With poets who are young,
For they worry about the wars to be fought
And the songs that must be sung.
But the old man knows that he's in his chair
And that God's on His throne in the sky.
So he sits by the fire in comfort
And he lets the world spin by.
Review in Poem by Dexter
Famed for Trees, a poem as beautiful,
Legacy remains, pained plain ponder.
An aging ode, a reflection of chronology,
Observations of author motivation.
Form dissected, rudimentary rhyme dull,
The controversy of youth, empty creation,
A purpose served, blossoms to weed,
Sincere rage torpedos, hormonal response.
Maturity of the soul, untaught,
Maturity of the mind, intangible knowledge.
Wisdom not a birthright nor age dictated,
Patience, the process appreciated.
To share time with those who contemplate instead of inflict,
Bask in retirement of accomplishment,
Ever more to share speed and pace,
Unchanged evolution, the cycle remains.
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Comment by Anonymous
Comment by Dexter
I love that line too. I find the whole theme of the poem enriching.......
Thanks for the visit
Comment by Lilla
From The Home Front
Enviro Warrior
Dream Herald
Esoteric Bookshop
I have to agree with Anonymous... and add;
About his sex and his soul;
But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe,
And polishes its bowl.
A wonderful contrast here.
Nice
Lilla ...
Comment by Dexter
I enjoy reading why these poems touch others.
I'm flattered you enjoy the review in poem.
Appreciate the visit.