Cloths of Heaven, by William Butler Yeats

What are you dreams? This summer, several poetry festivals have highlighted the work of W. B. Yeats, an Irishman who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1923. Below is from "Cloths of Heaven," one of his more famous poems. It is a nice reminder of why we should be respectful of people's dreams.

If you'd like to read more of Yeats's poetry, check out Google Books. You can read volume after volume of his poetry there.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Poetry - In Reverse? Part 1

In 2007, Jonathon Reed created a poem called "Lost Generation" for the AARP @50 Video Contest. The poem, when first read, is very negative and violent. It talks about how one will behave in the next thirty years: celebrating divorces, work before family, and increasing the risk of global warming. But read to the end -- it will inspire.

Below is the poem, followed by another one, written in a similar fashion. I feel that this is a very unique way of poetry. It can be negative but still be positive when reversed.




Source: YouTube

Where I'm From, a Poem

I am from a 1904 dwelling,

from Facebook and Halo.

I am from a San Francisco Victorian.

(White, gold, blinding in the sun.)

I am from the sunflower

the blackberry bush

whose prickly spines, left bloodstainsleft bloodstains on my shirt.

I’m from Christmas and brown hair

from Steve and Deborah.

I’m from the sharp-witted,

and the sharp-tongued.

From every type of cookie imaginable from my grandma’s kitchen

to knowing every wildflower on Mt. Tamalpais.

I’m from the natural world,

roaring waterfalls, towering granite cliffs, and peaceful meadows.

I’m from the Owen’s, and the Walkup’s,

from chocolate chip cookies and Whisky Pie

From the father who rolled a jeep when he was 16

to the sister who picks up deadly scorpions and lived.

I'm from the gallery of photos on the wall

that greet me every morning like the morning sun.

I am from Grandpa Owen's fishing yarns

and the gavel he had carved from William Penn's tree.

I am from Grandpa Walkup's radio that no longer sings to me.

I'm from flamenco guitar flowing through my fingers with lightning speed.

I'm from the depths of the cool clear water which cover the earth

like sugar on a lollipop.

I am from warm summer days with gentle breezes

that whisper of trout swimming in the high mountain lakes.

By

Zack Owen-Walkup