Tuesday 10 June 2014

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Source:- Google.com.pk
The poems contained in this children’s poetry portfolio are not made for children. Poetry is like a curvy slide in a playground — an odd object, available to the public — and, as I keep explaining to my local police force, everyone should be able to use it, not just those of a certain age.
In general I am suspicious of anything written specifically for children. It is, of course, acceptable to write something to a specific child — “Dear Elizabeth, I have reason to believe this cake is poison, so please leave it alone and I’ll take care of it later” — but things written by someone who is thinking only of children far too often have an unfortunate tone. If you have ever seen an adult hunch over and begin talking to a child in the high-pitched voice of an irritating simpleton, then you know the tone I mean. It is a tone that takes the fun out of everything, even everything fun.
Speaking of fun, some time ago I found myself locked in the basement of the Poetry Foundation building. It is a handy place to hide from the authorities, a horrible place to forage for snacks, and a wonderful place in which to get some reading done. The basement is crammed with the efforts of poets living and dead, famed and forgotten, terrific and terrible. There are books of poetry everyone knows, and little pamphlets no one has heard of. There are anthologies, a word which here means “a book containing a bunch of poems gathered together, often for no good reason,” and there are loose pages, scrawled and printed and typed with sestinas and epithalamiums and forms of poetry that have yet to be given names.
By the time it was safe for me to emerge, blinking, onto the streets of Chicago, I had gathered together the poems you now find here. I asked my associate Chris Raschka to provide some illustrations, and I have added a few notes which may or may not be appreciated. There are poems by men and women, living and dead, familiar to millions and unknown to everybody. The only things that all the poems have in common is that they are all strange in some way, because all great literature is strange, the way all good slides are slippery.
If you are a child, you might like these poems. Of course, you might not. Poems, like children, are individuals, and will not be liked by every single person who happens to come across them. So you may consider this portfolio a gathering of people in a room. It does not matter how old they are, or how old you are yourself. What matters is that there are a bunch of   people standing around in a room, and you might want to look at them.
“Knocks on the door”
Knocks on the door.
Who?
I sweep the dust of my loneliness
under the rug.
I arrange a smile
and open.
                                        — Maram al-Massri
                                        tr. by Khaled Mattaw
Doors
An open door says, “Come in.”
A shut door says, “Who are you?”
Shadows and ghosts go through shut doors.
If a door is shut and you want it shut,
     why open it?
If a door is open and you want it open,
     why shut it?
Doors forget but only doors know what it is
     doors forget.
                                        — Carl Sandburg
Starting to read something, such as a portfolio, is like opening a door, so I thought it would be interesting to start with two poems about doors written by two very different poets. Maram al-Massri is a Syrian woman who now lives in the city of Paris, France. Carl Sandburg is an American man who doesn’t live anywhere, due to death.
The Witch Has Told You a Story
You are food.
You are here for me
to eat. Fatten up,
and I will like you better.
Your brother will be first,
you must wait your turn.
Feed him yourself, you will
learn to do it. You will take him
eggs with yellow sauce, muffins
torn apart and leaking butter, fried meats
late in the morning, and always sweets
in a sticky parade from the kitchen.
His vigilance, an ice pick of   hunger
pricking his insides, will melt
in the unctuous cream fillings.
He will forget. He will thank you
for it. His little finger stuck every day
through cracks in the bars
will grow sleek and round,
his hollow face swell
like the moon. He will stop dreaming
about fear in the woods without food.
He will lean toward the maw
of   the oven as it opens
every afternoon, sighing
better and better smells.
                                        — Ava Leavell Haymon
“Yes, I live inside the piano”
Yes, I live inside the piano,
but there is no need for you
to come and visit me.
                                        — Katerina Rudcenkova
                                        tr. by Alexandra Büchler
Poem
I’m in the house.
It’s nice out: warm
sun on cold snow.
First day of spring
or last of winter.
My legs run down
the stairs and out
the door, my top
half here typing
                                         — Ron Padgett
Sometimes a poet gets very interested in some story or event we’ve all heard many times but never thought much about. Haymon’s poem is from a book called Why the House Is Made of Gingerbread. “Vigilance” means “waiting alertly.” “Unctuous” means “trying very hard to please someone in a way that is often irritating.”
In the poem by Ron Padgett I know exactly what he means. In the poem by Katerina Rudcenkova I have no idea what she is talking about. I’m not sure which I like better.
Trust
If   I would be walking down the road
you told me to imagine and I would and find
a diner kind of   teacup sitting on its saucer
in the middle then I would feel so good
in my life that is just like mine
I would walk right up and look into my face
eclipsing the sky in the tea in the cup
and say, “Thank you, I have enjoyed
imagining all this.”
                                         — Liz Waldner
“Eclipsing” is a word which here means “blocking the light from,” as the moon sometimes does of the sun, and vice versa. One of the things I like about this poem is how polite it is.
In the Low Countries
They are building a ship
in a field
much bigger than I should have thought
sensible.
When it is finished
there will never be enough of them
to carry it to the sea
and already it is turning
rusty.
                                         — Stuart Mills
Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

Children Poems Poems About Love For Him and Pain for Her That Rhyme Tumblr Lost and Pain and Trust and Life for Kids for Him from Her

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