Irony poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best irony poems ever written. Read all poems about irony.
Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
She sits in the tawny vapour
That the City lanes have uprolled,
perhaps one should say enterprise
out of respect for which
one says one need not change one's mind
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
Intoxicated by the inspiration
Of his trade—
With mental powers at work,
A true poet rarely sleeps.
I sat against your knees all night.
I watched the sun rise in your coffee cup.
In all that time you never spoke to me.
I think I must have cried a thousand tears.
MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.
Introduction: We don't really think deep enough about 'What A Poetry Actually Is', the obvious question which we all know but don't think how to really elaborate on. We mostly see the story, depth and the purpose it delivers. Well, here's one a little bit different this time...
Something has gone wrong with meaning of words,
'Sun' and 'Son' beautiful creation of lords,
Both represent energy having sharpness of swords,
Both are crucial for survival and existence of world,
This normative hill
like all others
is transparently accessible,
At Wendy's Restaurant in San Jose,
a woman 'found' a finger, rather illy
hidden in her bowl of chilli.
Oftentimes there are things that we want to achieve,
Thinking that our world’s immortal
But through the years that pass by,
Radiant morning rays await us.
Today, recovering from influenza,
I begin, having nothing worse to do,
This autobiography that ends a
To know the impossible to be impossible
and yet to love the attempt;
to demonstrate that beauty is eternal, yet
seen only in that moment now,
It‘s crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eves and ears—
As though they were all alike any more
Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child!
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled,
Je te frapperai sans colère
Et sans haine, comme un boucher,
Comme Moïse le rocher
The twentieth century has often fooled us.
We've been squeezed in by falsehood as by taxes.
The breath of life has denuded our ideas
as quickly as it strips a dandelion.
May the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse,
If I can a passage see
In this word-perplexity,
New times but old memories disappear in taurusing fashion, never going away, its done and gone, but never saying who is complex, apart of me, her eyes spoke the most beautiful words a wordsmith couldn't say, yet she wasn't here to celebrate, that smile to listen his world gone, as if saying we all die, we all die, the year is no but all the color faded away as the world became black and white, the places left for them to explore vanished as if imagined, his resolution crashed like the years prior, how can life give death he love, was it gods game, they had history as others didn't care, but he did, nothing drives us she matured in spirit and soul, along away she left him crushed as if irony beckoned him so, she left him in the neediest time, is she not coming back, her hair was shiner than gold, smelling like strawberry, why can't I touch her, do anything at all, they always there, where is it now, new years has new memories, but for him new years meant only new death.
'Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.'
- J.R.R. Tolkien
by Michael R. Burch
after Percy Bysshe Shelley
How ironic can irony be?
And tensions to mention them.
In some situations...
Less to do,
Achieves greater results.
While in other situations...
What is a hand? That might seem a naive question, but in the age of reproduction, and, whether as a result of the clash of cultures or not, plastic surgeonisation, the artist hardly resembles the superman Romanticism and Futurism would have made of him. Maybe that's for the best. It isn't always pleasant but at least beneficial to achieve a proximity to oneself. After all, the exploitation of bluffing rarely did anyone much good and without evidence to the contrary every reproduction has its original, which, without irony, is legitimately referred to as ‘natural'. One can now submit his own hand to a thorough investigation, as if that rather intimate limb has grown into something figurative. Does this make the hand of the one the hand of the other? In 1968, when at least a generation clash and a memory clash had wanted heralding in, Ton Lemaire wrote in his essay Tenderness: ‘The hand - instrument of the disaffected consciousness - comes to itself in the mercilessness of the all-embracing transfigurer and the consolation of the loving caress.'
List of Books (with Chapters)by Poet T A Ramesh- III
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