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Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:George Platt Lynes - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955.  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:SongLovely, dark, and lonely one, Bare your bosom to the sun, Do not be afraid of lightYou who are a child of night. Open wide your arms to life, Whirl in the wind of pain and strife, Face the wall with the dark closed gate, Beat with bare, brown fistsAnd wait.  This poem is in the public domain. 

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:George Platt Lynes - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955.  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:On QuittingHow much grit do you think you've got?Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word,And where'er you go it is often heard;But can you tell to a jot or guessJust how much courage you now possess? You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,But have you tackled self-discipline?Have you ever issued commands to youTo quit the things that you like to do,And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,Those rigid orders have you obeyed? Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out,Nor prate to men of your courage stout,For it's easy enough to retain a grinIn the face of a fight there's a chance to win,But the sort of grit that is good to ownIs the stuff you need when you're all alone. How much grit do you think you've got?Can you turn from joys that you like a lot?Have you ever tested yourself to knowHow far with yourself your will can go?If you want to know if you have grit,Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit. It's bully sport and it's open fight;It will keep you busy both day and night;For the toughest kind of a game you'll findIs to make your body obey your mind.And you never will know what is meant by gritUnless there's something you've tried to quit.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:George Platt Lynes - This image is available from the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3c01955.  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:A Jelly FishVisible, invisible, A fluctuating charm, An amber-colored amethyst Inhabits it; your arm Approaches, and It opens and It closes; You have meant To catch it, And it shrivels; You abandon Your intent— It opens, and it Closes and you Reach for it— The blue Surrounding it Grows cloudy, and It floats away From you.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:From the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3a40394. . ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:A Hymn to the EveningSoon as the sun forsook the eastern main The pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain; Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr's wing, Exhales the incense of the blooming spring. Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes, And through the air their mingled music floats. Through all the heav'ns what beauteous dies are spread! But the west glories in the deepest red: So may our breasts with ev'ry virtue glow, The living temples of our God below! Fill'd with the praise of him who gives the light, And draws the sable curtains of the night, Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind, At morn to wake more heav'nly, more refin'd; So shall the labours of the day begin More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin. Night's leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes, Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info: From the United States Library of Congress's Prints and Photographs division under the digital ID cph.3a40394. . ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:A Hymn to the MorningATTEND my lays, ye ever honour'd nine, Assist my labours, and my strains refine; In smoothest numbers pour the notes along, For bright Aurora now demands my song. Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies, Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies: The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays, On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays; Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume, Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume. Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display To shield your poet from the burning day: Calliope awake the sacred lyre, While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire: The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skies In all their pleasures in my bosom rise. See in the east th' illustrious king of day! His rising radiance drives the shades away-- But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong, And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song. 

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay, photographed by Carl Van Vechten, 1933 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:And if I loved you Wednesday,    Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday—    So much is true.   And why you come complaining    Is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what    Is that to me?

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay in Mamaroneck, NY, 1914, by Arnold Genthe. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:TravelThe railroad track is miles away,      And the day is loud with voices speaking,  Yet there isn't a train goes by all day      But I hear its whistle shrieking.   All night there isn't a train goes by,      Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,  But I see its cinders red on the sky,      And hear its engine steaming.   My heart is warm with the friends I make,      And better friends I'll not be knowing;  Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,      No matter where it's going.  

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay passport photograph ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:I'll keep a little tavern    Below the high hill's crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people    May set them down and rest. There shall be plates a-plenty,    And mugs to melt the chill Of all the grey-eyed people    Who happen up the hill. There sound will sleep the traveller,    And dream his journey's end, But I will rouse at midnight    The falling fire to tend. Aye, 'tis a curious fancy—    But all the good I know Was taught me out of two grey eyes    A long time ago.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay in Mamaroneck,[3] NY, 1914, by Arnold Genthe. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:I will be the gladdest thing     Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers     And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds     With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass,     And the grass rise. And when lights begin to show     Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine,     And then start down!

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Edna St. Vincent Millay, photographed by Carl Van Vechten, 1933----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:The Unexplorer There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man’s door. (That’s why I have not traveled more.) “The Unexplorer” was published in A Few Figs From Thistles (Harper & Brothers, 1922). This poem is in the public domain.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Langston Hughes in 1936 by Carl Van Vechten----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:The Negro Speaks of Rivers (To W.E.B. DuBois) I’ve known rivers:I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flowof human blood in human veins. My soul has grown deep like the rivers. I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosomturn all golden in the sunset. I’ve known rivers:Ancient, dusky rivers. My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Portrait of American writer and activist Langston Hughes in 1943 (US Library of Congress Archives)----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem: Kids Who Die This is for the kids who die, Black and white, For kids will die certainly. The old and rich will live on awhile, As  Always, Eating blood and gold, Letting kids die. Kids will die in the swamps of Mississippi Organizing sharecroppers Kids will die in the streets of Chicago Organizing workers Kids will die in the orange groves of California Telling others to get together Whites and Filipinos, Negroes and Mexicans, All kinds of kids will die Who don’t believe in lies, and bribes, and contentment And a lousy peace.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Portrait of American writer and activist Langston Hughes in 1943 (US Library of Congress Archives)----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:"Harlem" What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

EPISODE DESCRIPTION Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Portrait of American writer and activist Langston Hughes in 1943 (US Library of Congress Archives)----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:"Dreams" Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart, and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Langston Hughes in 1936 by Carl Van Vechten----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:American Heartbreak I am the American heartbreak— Rock on which Freedom Stumps its toe— The great mistake That Jamestown Made long ago.

"My People" by Langston Hughes Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Photograph Info:Langston Hughes in 1936 by Carl Van Vechten----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Poem:My People The night is beautiful, So the faces of my people. The stars are beautiful, So the eyes of my people. Beautiful, also, is the sun. Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on Audible, iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, Anchor.Fm, iHeart and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.--------------------------------When Sue Wears Red When Susanna Jones wears red Her face is like an ancient cameo Turned brown by the ages. Come with a blast of trumpets, Jesus! When Susanna Jones wears red A queen from some time-dead Egyptian night Walks once again. Blow trumpets, Jesus! And the beauty of Susanna Jones in red Burns in my heart a love-fire sharp like pain. Sweet silver trumpets, Jesus!

Read and more GoodPoetry at www.GoodPoetry.org, and listen on iTunes, Stitcher and GooglePlay Music and connect with us @itsGoodPoetry on Facebook, and Twitter.--------------------------------"Theme for English B" by Langston Hughes The instructor said, Go home and write a page tonight. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true. I wonder if it’s that simple? I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem. I went to school there, then Durham, then here to this college on the hill above Harlem. I am the only colored student in my class. The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem, through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas, Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y, the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator up to my room, sit down, and write this page: It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you: hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page. (I hear New York, too.) Me—who? Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life. I like a pipe for a Christmas present, or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach. I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like the same things other folks like who are other races. So will my page be colored that I write? Being me, it will not be white. But it will be a part of you, instructor. You are white— yet a part of me, as I am a part of you. That’s American. Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me. Nor do I often want to be a part of you. But we are, that’s true! As I learn from you, I guess you learn from me— although you’re older—and white— and somewhat more free. This is my page for English B.

#GoodPoetry​ presents an excerpt from Phillis Wheatley's poem, entitled "To the Right Honourable William, Earl of Dartmouth". This poem was published in Phillis Wheatley's poetry book, entitled, "Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral" in 1773. This poem is in the public domain. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This colored illustration of Phillis Wheatley is in the public domain. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Here is the text for the excerpt of Phillis Wheatley's poem, entitled, "To the Right Honourable William, Earl of Dartmouth": Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song, Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung, Whence flow these wishes for the common good, By feeling hearts alone best understood, I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate Was snatch'd from Afric's fancy'd happy seat: What pangs excruciating must molest, What sorrows labour in my parent's breast? Steel'd was that soul and by no misery mov'd That from a father seiz'd his babe belov'd: Such, such my case. And can I then but pray Others may never feel tyrannic sway? ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You can watch more GoodPoetry videos on GoodPoetry's YouTube Channel and on Teyuna Darris' YouTube channel. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You can listen to more GoodPoetry episodes at Stitcher, Google Podcasts, Apple Podcasts, Anchor.FM, and other major podcast platforms. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Connect with GoodPoetry (@itsgoodpoetry) and Teyuna Darris (@tdarris) on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Ars Poetica BY ARCHIBALD MACLEISH A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown— A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds. * A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs, Leaving, as the moon releases Twig by twig the night-entangled trees, Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves, Memory by memory the mind— A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs. * A poem should be equal to: Not true. For all the history of grief An empty doorway and a maple leaf. For love The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea— A poem should not mean But be.