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Don Juan: Canto The Thirteenth

I now mean to be serious;--it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
A jest at Vice by Virtue's call'd a crime,
And critically held as deleterious:
Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime,
Although when long a little apt to weary us;
And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn,
As an old temple dwindled to a column.

The Lady Adeline Amundeville
('Tis an old Norman name, and to be found
In pedigrees, by those who wander still
Along the last fields of that Gothic ground)
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will,
And beauteous, even where beauties most abound,
In Britain - which of course true patriots find
The goodliest soil of body and of mind.

I'll not gainsay them; it is not my cue;
I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the best:

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Canto the Thirteenth

I
I now mean to be serious; -- it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious.
A jest at Vice by Virtue's call'd a crime,
And critically held as deleterious:
Besides, the sad's a source of the sublime,
Although when long a little apt to weary us;
And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn,
As an old temple dwindled to a column.

II
The Lady Adeline Amundeville
('T is an old Norman name, and to be found
In pedigrees, by those who wander still
Along the last fields of that Gothic ground)
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will,
And beauteous, even where beauties most abound,
In Britain -- which of course true patriots find
The goodliest soil of body and of mind.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm

The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night

Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.

The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,

Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom

The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.

The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.

And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself

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poem by Wallace Stevens
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Poets vision

My poem
My reader first
My world first.

My poem
My reader
My world.

You are all my world
You are all my reader
You are all my poem.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
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To serve the people, one must write for the ideal reader. Only for the ideal reader. And who or what is that ideal reader? God. One must imagine, One must deeply imagine that great Attention. Only so, in lonely dialog, can one reach the people.

quote by Denise Levertov
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Thank You Reader Of This Poem

THANK YOU READER OF THIS POEM

Thank you reader of this poem
Among the billions of pages
And innumerable possibilities
For giving your time
You have given
A bit of your light
To these lines.

Thank you reader of this poem
For the kindness of your Attention.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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A thankyou for a comment

What is a poem without a reader?

What is a reader without a heart?

What is a heart without another heart to meet it,

greet it?

What are two hearts without what they share?

What is sharing without sharing everything?

What is everything without poets?

What is a poet without a reader...

How beautiful a circle is.

How still its centre.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Eye to Eye

A poet with an artist’s eye
can conjure words to set the scene.
Then with the words that he’ll supply
his reader feels as though he’s seen.
The same scene which the poet saw
Draws on his own experience
of things that he has seen before
though it makes little difference.
The message that the poet sent
is perhaps not the one received
The reader senses the intent
and finds the poem well conceived.
The picture which the reader gets
is the scene his own mind sets

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Point

Words too many, creates an inflation-like balloon; sphere grown too large
where each word gets lost in the volume of words gone awry, orphaned,
where syllabicity becomes too complicatedly and comprehension
escapes the brain and flees into the night of obscurity and sadly
interest waxes and wanes and only pieces of the meaning
remain, distended and jumbled up and in surrealities
which makes one doubt whether the poem makes
sense of not, or if it is I, the reader lacking
the wit or common sense to see what
the writer meant or if there is a code
to all of this that I, the reader just
does not get, and, perhaps a
second read will clarify all
this and the light will
flood in and then
I, reader, will
and poet
reveal
the
point.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The One Who Decides

There is no fight for terrificness,
With votes to split...
To see who sits on thrones.
No panel of judges,
Or audience call-ins...
To pick who is the best of all!

When a writer is alone,
And inspiration begins to creep...
There is no sleeping!
Maybe some weeping!
Perhaps some frustration...
From attempts to produce a creation!

But when a writer is alone,
And a thought becomes complete...
The ultimate winner is you the reader.
The one who decides,
If the message delivered...
Is one to criticize.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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