Donations are essential to keep Write Out Loud going    

Popular last 30 days

love Poem poetry depression sad life truth death nonet War

Popular last 12 months

Love poetry life poem nature death Hope war loss poet

yeats (Remove filter)

Recent Comments

John Coopey on Eradicating an old flame pain
2 hours ago

Reggie's Ghost on Wild Dogs
4 hours ago

rob1967able on tearing us apart.
4 hours ago

Manish Singh Rajput on Sitting To Write
8 hours ago

Manish Singh Rajput on Peninsula
8 hours ago

Carpe Diem on Breathe
8 hours ago

Tim Higbee on Peninsula
11 hours ago

Auracle on In memoriam...
13 hours ago

Auracle on Fred's dilemma
14 hours ago

Auracle on Another Shadow
14 hours ago

That Tennyson

“That fucking Tennyson.”
           I caught myself muttering
as I walked along. “Yes,
that fucking Tennyson,
           he can organise a sunset
and flake gold better than I can:
and Emily Dickinson,
           with her yellow children
           at the bars of a gate
closed by her sodding dominie in grey.
And Yeats!  That fucking Yeats
wags an ageing tongue at creation
and leaves me ...

Read and leave comments (1)

tennysondickinsonyeatssunset

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message