Different types of poems


Mac Hammond

The butcher knife goes in, first, at the top

And carves out the round stemmed lid,

The hole of which allows the hand to go

In to pull the gooey mess inside, out -

The walls scooped clean with a spoon.

A grim design decided on, that afternoon,

The eyes are the first to go,

Isosceles or trapezoid, the square nose,

The down-turned mouth with three

Hideous teeth and, sometimes,

Round ears. At dusk it's

Lighted, the room behind it dark.

Outside, looking in, it looks like a

Pumpkin, it looks like ripeness

Is all. Kids come, beckoned by

Fingers of shadows on leaf-strewn lawns

To trick or treat. Standing at the open

Door, the sculptor, a warlock, drops

Penny candies into their bags, knowing

The message of winter: only the children,

Pretending to be ghosts, are real.

That the things that we think in halloween are fake are actually real

The Dead

Susan Mitch

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

That you are the leader of yourself

The Dead

William Ernest Henley

At night the dead come down to the river to drink.

They unburden themselves of their fears,

their worries for us. They take out the old photographs.

They pat the lines in our hands and tell our futures,

which are cracked and yellow.

Some dead find their way to our houses.

They go up to the attics.

They read the letters they sent us, insatiable

for signs of their love.

They tell each other stories.

They make so much noise

The dead come out at night and make a lot of noise


Kevin Hart

There’s nothing that I really want:

The stars tonight are rich and cold

Above my house that vaguely broods

Upon a path soon lost in dark.

My dinner plate is chipped all round

(It tells me that I’ve changed a lot);

My glass is cracked all down one side

(It shows there is a path for me).

My hands—I rest my head on them.

My eyes—I rest my mind on them.

There’s nothing that I really need

Before I set out on that path.

there are many paths for people

and you need to choose the right one