Poetic Techniques
Basic Poetic Techniques
Articles within this section discuss the basic elements of poetry. What is poetry? Learn the basic parts of a poem and how to read poetry, along with other essentials elements of this ancient art form. This is an excellent start for the novice writer, as well as a good review for more seasoned poets.
Advanced Poetic Techniques
This section features articles discussing poetic techniques, topics, and ideas for more experienced writers. The educational information included will help those poets with a basic understanding of poetry to further hone their skills and improve their craft.
Poetic Inspiration
This section features articles that discuss subject matter in poetry. What will your poem be about? Learn about how to select your subject and how to tell your story. Learn how to develop your poetic style through the themes and messages expressed in your poetry.
Poetic Editing and Marketing Techniques
This section features educational information on how to review and critique poetry, as well as tips on editing your own work. It offers guides to basic grammar and punctuation, along with things to avoid in your writing. There are also articles that discuss poetry marketing and getting published.
Ask the Poet Advisor
This section features our acclaimed Ask the Poet Advisor Series. These articles are written by professional poets and professors of writing and poetry. In response to questions posed by amateur poets and International Society of Poets members, these articles delve into specific topics in poetry, from starting a poem to exploring a specific poetic term or form.
Greatest Poems Ever Written
Adela Florence Nicolson Cory (1865 – 1904)
The Net of Memory
I cast the Net of Memory, Man's torment and delight, Over the level Sands of Youth That lay serenely bright, Their tranquil gold at times submerged In the Spring Tides of Love's Delight. The Net brought up, in silver gleams, Forgotten truth and fancies fair: Like opal shells, small happy facts Within the Net entangled were With the red coral of his lips, The waving seaweed of his hair. We were so young; he was so fair.
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–1889)
God's Grandeur
The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
Margaret Cavendish (1661 – 1717)
The Poetess’s Hasty Resolution
Reading my verses, I liked them so well, Self-love did make my judgment to rebel. Thinking them so good, I thought more to write; Considering not how others would them like. I writ so fast, I thought, if I lived long, A pyramid of fame to build thereon. Reason observing which way I was bent, Did stay my hand, and asked me what I meant; Will you, said she, thus waste your time in vain, On that which in the world small praise shall gain? For shame, leave off, said she, the printer spare, He'll lose by your ill poetry, I fear. Besides the world hath already such a weight Of useless books, as it is overfraught. Then pity take, do the world a good turn, And all you write cast in the fire, and burn. Angry I was, and Reason struck away, When I did hear, what she to me did say. Then all in haste I to the press it sent, Fearing persuasion might my book prevent. But now ’tis done, with grief repent do I, Hang down my head with shame, blush, sigh, and cry. Take pity, and my drooping spirits raise, Wipe off my tears with handkerchiefs of praise.
Robert Frost (1874 – 1963)
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leafs a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
David Bates (1809 – 1870)
Speak Gently
Speak gently!—It is better far To rule by love, than fear— Speak gently—let not harsh words mar The good we might do here! Speak gently!—Love doth whisper low The vows that true hearts bind; And gently Friendship's accents flow; Affection's voice is kind. Speak gently to the little child! Its love be sure to gain; Teach it in accents soft and mild:— It may not long remain. Speak gently to the young, for they Will have enough to bear— Pass through this life as best they may, 'Tis full of anxious care! Speak gently to the aged one, Grieve not the care-worn heart; The sands of life are nearly run, Let such in peace depart! Speak gently, kindly, to the poor; Let no harsh tone be heard; They have enough they must endure, Without an unkind word! Speak gently to the erring—know, They may have toiled in vain; Perchance unkindness made them so; Oh, win them back again! Speak gently!—He who gave his life To bend man's stubborn will, When elements were in fierce strife, Said to them, "Peace, be still." Speak gently!—'tis a little thing Dropped in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy, which it may bring, Eternity shall tell.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt (1840 – 1922)
The Mockery of Life
God! What a mockery is this life of ours! Cast forth in blood and pain from our mother's womb, Most like an excrement, and weeping showers Of senseless tears: unreasoning, naked, dumb, The symbol of all weakness and the sum: Our very life a sufferance. -- Presently, Grown stronger, we must fight for standing-room Upon the earth, and the bare liberty To breathe and move. We crave the right to toil. We push, we strive, we jostle with the rest. We learn new courage, stifle our old fears, Stand with stiff backs, take part in every broil. It may be that we love, that we are blest. It may be, for a little space of years, We conquer fate and half forget our tears. And then fate strikes us. First our joys decay. Youth, with its pleasures, is a tale soon told. We grow a little poorer day by day. Old friendships falter. Loves grow strangely cold. In vain we shift our hearts to a new hold And barter joy for joy, the less for less. We doubt our strength, our wisdom, and our gold. We stand alone, as in a wilderness Of doubts and terrors. Then, if we be wise, We make our terms with fate and, while we may, Sell our life's last sad remnant for a hope. And it is wisdom thus to close our eyes. But for the foolish, those who cannot pray, What else remains of their dark horoscope But a tall tree and courage and a rope? And who shall tell what ignominy death Has yet in store for us; what abject fears Even for the best of us; what fights for breath; What sobs, what supplications, what wild tears; What impotence of soul against despairs Which blot out reason? -- The last trembling thought Of each poor brain, as dissolution nears, Is not of fair life lost, of Heaven bought And glory won. 'Tis not the thought of grief; Of friends deserted; loving hearts which bleed; Wives, sisters, children who around us weep. But only a mad clutching for relief From physical pain, importunate Nature's need; The search as for a womb where we may creep Back from the world, to hide, -- perhaps to sleep.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt (1840 – 1922)
On the Shortness of Time
If I could live without the thought of death, Forgetful of time's waste, the soul's decay, I would not ask for other joy than breath, With light and sound of birds and the sun's ray. I could sit on untroubled day by day Watching the grass grow, and the wild flowers range From blue to yellow and from red to grey In natural sequence as the seasons change. I could afford to wait, but for the hurt Of this dull tick of time which chides my ear. But now I dare not sit with loins ungirt And staff unlifted, for death stands too near. I must be up and doing -- ay, each minute. The grave gives time for rest when we are in it.