Identity poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best identity poems ever written. Read all poems about identity.
O ME! O life!... of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities fill'd with the
Millions of babies watching the skies
Bellies swollen, with big round eyes
On Jessore Road--long bamboo huts
Noplace to shit but sand channel ruts
DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Wilt thou go with me, sweet maid,
Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me
Through the valley-depths of shade,
Of night and dark obscurity;
I perceive the world as a playground
Where dawn and dusk appear in eternal rounds
In His Universal form is a plaything the throne of Solomon
The miracles of the Messiah seem so ordinary in my eyes
Ocean, if you were to give, a measure, a ferment, a fruit
of your gifts and destructions, into my hand,
I would choose your far-off repose, your contour of steel,
your vigilant spaces of air and darkness,
But I love the I, steel I-beam
that my father sold. They poured the pig iron
into the mold, and it fed out slowly,
a bending jelly in the bath, and it hardened,
Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
They did not recognize me in the shadows
That suck away my color in this Passport
And to them my wound was an exhibit
For a tourist Who loves to collect photographs
All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
Beauty is seen daily in poetic duty every day,
Cutie is our Poem Hunter Family all here say.
Far across the globe poets unite here to write,
SOMEWHERE--in desolate wind-swept space--
In Twilight-land--in No-man's land--
Two hurrying Shapes met face to face,
And bade each other stand.
If ever I dreamed of my dead name
High in the heart of London, unsurpassed
By Time for ever, and the Fugitive, Fame,
There seeking a long sanctuary at last,
Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time
Close to the gardens of broken shadows,
We do what prisoners do,
And what the jobless do:
Write down !
I am an Arab
And my identity card number is fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the ninth will come after a summer
Will you be angry?
There is a section in my library for death
and another for Irish history,
a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan,
and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books,
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
FLOOD-TIDE below me! I watch you face to face;
Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face
To the memory of all who have fallen in war.
At the going down of the sun,
And in the morning …we will remember them
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leo tolstoy is being alive, looking at post-pop street arts flying in universe of poem.
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war and peace in ant 's dream.
leo tolstoy is in silence of thnightingale's. cool-littlel eyes.
our culture, our tradition
our language are the foundations upon which we build our identity.
my culture is my identity and personality. it gives me spiritual, intellectual emotional distinction from others and I am proud of it.
I am unable to help you dear, and I can't help you.
How can I help you, I am asking this to me. And thing is that without any help you are not there to show your identity.
With our own identity we are ready to stay apart, not a solution, though.
It is not the passport
that represents the true identity
But it is the true identity
that gives substance to the passport
This is the most important weapon
In the arsenal of the egocentric self
So much of the mind is hanged on this simply human construct
Your identity is the symbol of your external being
I trust in U, not at peculiarities of ur memory or personal identity. I love U the way UR.
My Identity chased me like my own shadow
My entity got frightened, shivered like meadow.
My freedom reluctantly migrated in new horizon
Me, a bird in gilded cage, trapped in golden prison.
The Breeze needn't have to identify
Its identity to breath.
The Heart needn't have to skip its beats
To remind what heart beats is.
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