Poetry Discussion Thread

[Zantalio]

I'm a poetry newb, so I'm not that good. I feel like the last two lines do not fit together well

I for one enjoy the last two lines.

The second stanza is the best, it flows the best and the wordplay and imagery is top tier (at least for the poem itself). The first stanza in my opinion is good, a standard opening, but the hook for attention is the second stanza. I imagine the third one as a more melodic section, I feel it could be more creative with the wordplay, and for the last two lines, it ends in a grand way. Only critique for that is nitpicky, the word "some" feels filler.

Apologies if my tone is harsh, I review music not poems in my free time.... I did like your poem a lot though!

No worries! I'l take any constructive criticism.

[Yellowgrass Creek]

hfdbjkgvfbnxm

i've been meaning to post here. here's a few of my recent poems




Silent Splendor:

A starless summer night in rural Iowa,
Lit only by the seizures of silent, distant lightning,
Was the only witness to the splendor
Of the Bat taking water
From a pond without reflection.

this poem has an extended version but honestly i think the first stanza works best standing alone.


February, in the prairie:

February, in the prairie.
A fleeting heatwave
A sea of dull yellow
Interrupted by a crabapple
New buds sample the air
A midwinter bloom.

Daylight Vultures:

Against the bright azure sky,
The silhouette
Of the turkey vulture,
Is but one of many islands,
In the ocean of emptiness.


If anyone wants to peer review them, feel free too but please snip them in the quotes. if i ever end up publishing these in any way shape or form, ill delete this post cus they could easily be used to dox me.

[Ineva]

In addition to keeping our catalogue of poems up to date, I've updated the O.P. to include some resources that may be helpful for the newer and prospective poets among us. Whilst the latter is more especially catered towards slam poetry and its variants, I think its advice is more widely applicable to most forms than to which its title would allude.

[Magna-Parva]

Alright, here goes:

A Humble Address To The Scarab-Headed God

---

Amun-Ra is dead, they say:
Then so is Khepri, too.
Morning-god of resurrection,
Who now worships you?

Green returns—a gift of spring.
The sun’s heat burns near everything.
Brought by something: Lord of Light!
Banish Winter’s frosty night.
Resurrect the youthful boughs
Which last year’s golden summer brought.
Desert-scarab, morning-star:
What luminosity you’ve wrought!

Amun-Ra is dead, they say,
But the scarab marches on.
The sun’s kind eye is high all day,
Brought forth by which dark pawn?

The sun-disc, borne by Khepri’s claws
Mounts the turquoise sky.
True light grows amid the thaws
Of winter’s closing eye.
Only as a face of Ra
Were you in Egypt seen.
Black-winged lord of all creation,
Oh, what might have been!

[Carpediem]

Hi everyone, I wrote this a while back, what do yall think?

Ambivalence
By: Carpediem

I told you not to drive,
But your obstinate soul left me that night
To drive home by myself,
Longing for your safe return.

A gut feeling that I have always trusted,
Screaming at me to turn around and find you.
A shriek that told of your faulty judgement,
Impaired by who knows how many drinks.

They say you died instantly.
As fast as the flick of a switch.

Gone.

I believe the doctor thinks me an arrant fool
To believe that someone such as you,
Jocund,
Auspicious,
And full of life
Could go out like a light.
The notion itself is utterly impious.

And yet,
Here we are.
Surrounded by melodious waves of your funeral dirge
A song I vow to never hear again.

The harbingers call for quiet as they say your name for the last time.
I see the convoy of family members
Carrying you
Encased in a sepulcher,
Fortified with your favorite stuffed animals.
A dying echo of a childhood barely outgrown.

As we enter the time of remembrance,
I see you.
Almost an apparition.
In 10th grade history as we learned about the incestuous ways of the royals.
At prom, laughing with such mirth,
As we watched the guys drink.
Their beverages seemed to look at us maliciously.
A portentous glimpse into our near future.
Prophetic, one could say.

I remember the party.
The people pressuring you to forfeit your youth
Just to feel grown up.
Them threatening you to talk in calumnious ways if you said no.
Why were you always so obsequious?

That all seems so long ago.

Now, you are in a better place.
I need to remember that.
You are with your father as the Prodigal Son came back to his.

And yet,
Death is ambiguous.

I feel like I’ve failed you.

Everyone tells me that what I did was commendable,
That I tried.
But not hard enough.

I could have importuned you more,
Demanded that you come with me.

But I must remember
As I embark on this journey we call life,
That before your lights went out,
Before your hands went cold and your dexterity faded,
I did tell you not to drive,
But you were already gone.

[Yellowgrass Creek]

Upon a silver maple, jutting out from a creekbank
.
.
.
I don’t know which to prefer…
The subtlety of self-similarity…
Or the sublimity of heterogeneity.
The branching pattern of a tree…
Or the slope it grows from.

konwâskêa
.
.
.
At the creek
Once known as Hapi-Pemmet
The spring peeper chirps
"Welcome!"
In a meskwaki dialect.

[Chan Island]

I've recently really wanted to write poetry, where previously i just didn't much care for it.

Not sure why.

[Fahran]

I've recently been re-reading a handful of poems by Neruda, and I figured I might do some analysis, both of the original Spanish language poetry and of the various English language translations I have - if anyone's interested.

Also, since it's Pride Month, I figured I'd share a poem by one of my favorites, the late great W. H. Auden.

Some say that love’s a little boy,
And some say it’s a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that’s absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn’t do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It’s quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I’ve found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn’t ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton’s bracing air.
I don’t know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn’t in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I’m picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

Also, so as not to be a bum, my favorite poetic device is probably metaphor, though I do quite enjoy internal rhyming and slant rhyming, likely due to over-exposure to Sylvia Plath as a young child.

[Might Delete Later]

Glad to see this thread on the front page, almost forgot about it. I wrote a poem, first time in a long time, and this one means a lot to me, the sentiment specifically.

"Rando"

"Look at rando, back at it again.
There's rando, probably kicking sand at the little kids again.
I hate rando, my friend said he's the worst.

I don't think rando's all that bad.

Let's tell the dean about rando, maybe that'll stop his madness!
Look at rando, walking to that girl to beat her up!
You better stop that rando!

I saw a flower in randos hand.
Why do they call him rando?
If he was a "rando" as they said, he'd be a nobody.

"Why do you care? Do you love him?"
I care about rando.
"So you do love rando. Look at rando 2."
If I have to live in this place, I'd rather be rando.

Look at rando 2, playing with flowers.
There's rando 2, probably kissing rando.
I hate rando."

[Might Delete Later]

Question, will there be any events hosted here regarding poetry? I think it'd be a nice idea.

[Zantalio]

I sit in the light of the shining moon above me.
The stars glittering above me, like diamonds,
Miniscule to me, like white sand on a beach,
are painted on the night sky, the dark canvas that hovers over me,
Watching me grow like corn on a field.

Silently yet loudly the breeze blows,
as the God who created me exhales softly,
Whispering into my ear quietly.
He talks me where to go, to my destination,
He knows how to traverse through the harsh lands called "life",
and fights for me in all the strife.

With me, another companion, my love,
The only one person I desire in this world.
Tender and beautiful, love personified to me.
I may be far but never distant with her in my life.
Under the dappled sunlight, which brilliantly illuminated the green forest,
I gave my life to her.

———
Well, this isn't too great. I tried.

[Might Delete Later]

I sit in the light of the shining moon above me.
The stars glittering above me, like diamonds,
Miniscule to me, like white sand on a beach,
are painted on the night sky, the dark canvas that hovers over me,
Watching me grow like corn on a field.

Silently yet loudly the breeze blows,
as the God who created me exhales softly,
Whispering into my ear quietly.
He talks me where to go, to my destination,
He knows how to traverse through the harsh lands called "life".

With me, another companion, my love,
The only one person I desire in this world.
Tender and beautiful, love personified to me.
I may be far but never distant with her in my life.
Under the dappled sunlight, which brilliantly illuminated the green forest,
I gave my life to her.

———
Well, this isn't too great. I tried.

I like it, if I were to critique it's nitpicky and stylistically. For instance,

are painted on the night sky, the dark canvas that hovers over me,

This is a wordy bar that when I said verbally, to make it fit with the rest I'd have to speed up. I feel the statement of life and specifically how it's a harsh land is underutilized, as it's used for one bar and basically tossed in favor for the final stanza reflecting on love. I do like how each stanza (essentially) goes from me to God to her.

Good stuff, I love readin what you got.

Also, about this thread, I love it specifically because it helped me develop a style, or at least a range of it, and I get to see the wide array of talent everyone here provides.

[Zantalio]

I sit in the light of the shining moon above me.
The stars glittering above me, like diamonds,
Miniscule to me, like white sand on a beach,
are painted on the night sky, the dark canvas that hovers over me,
Watching me grow like corn on a field.

Silently yet loudly the breeze blows,
as the God who created me exhales softly,
Whispering into my ear quietly.
He talks me where to go, to my destination,
He knows how to traverse through the harsh lands called "life".

With me, another companion, my love,
The only one person I desire in this world.
Tender and beautiful, love personified to me.
I may be far but never distant with her in my life.
Under the dappled sunlight, which brilliantly illuminated the green forest,
I gave my life to her.

———
Well, this isn't too great. I tried.

I like it, if I were to critique it's nitpicky and stylistically. For instance,

are painted on the night sky, the dark canvas that hovers over me,

This is a wordy bar that when I said verbally, to make it fit with the rest I'd have to speed up. I feel the statement of life and specifically how it's a harsh land is underutilized, as it's used for one bar and basically tossed in favor for the final stanza reflecting on love. I do like how each stanza (essentially) goes from me to God to her.

Good stuff, I love readin what you got.

Also, about this thread, I love it specifically because it helped me develop a style, or at least a range of it, and I get to see the wide array of talent everyone here provides.

I added another line.

[Ineva]

Question, will there be any events hosted here regarding poetry? I think it'd be a nice idea.

Apologies for my delay in responding. Travels have kept me much less involved in upkeeping this thread than I would have liked. Events could be interesting. I suppose it would depend on how much interest would be taken in any one. I do hesitate to make a poetry event competitive, as I think scoring, rating, or other judgemental metrics do run counter to the spirit of artistic expression that is poetry. If there were to be one, it would have to be expressly clarified that rankings and such are purely a product of preference, not grading per a rubric. In this vein, perhaps, a themed poetry event could be interesting. For instance, come Autumn in the northern hemisphere, there could be one about Autumn and what it means or evokes for poets here.

I would be curious as to any community input on what it'd like to see done or hosted, in this respect.

[Fahran]

I'll toss out a handful of ideas based on my previous involvement in poetry workshops and experience with literary journals.

1. We could provide prompts and encourage thread participants to compose poems based on those prompts.

2. We could celebrate particular groups of poets or themes of poetry each month. For example, Black poets during Black History Month or holiday-based poetry in December.

3. We could host poetry workshops, providing critiques, commentary, and constructive advice for the submitted poetry of thread participants.

4. We could commemorate a particular poet, such as Agha Shahid Ali, John Keats, or Maya Angelou, etc., each week, and post our favorite poems by each selected poet.

5. We could encourage thread participants to post poetry adhering to the conventions of a particular form - sonnet, villanelle, sestina, haiku, etc. each week.

6. We could critically analyze a selected poem or poems on a weekly basis, as a collaborative learning and skill-building exercise.

[Might Delete Later]

I'll toss out a handful of ideas based on my previous involvement in poetry workshops and experience with literary journals.

1. We could provide prompts and encourage thread participants to compose poems based on those prompts.

2. We could celebrate particular groups of poets or themes of poetry each month. For example, Black poets during Black History Month or holiday-based poetry in December.

3. We could host poetry workshops, providing critiques, commentary, and constructive advice for the submitted poetry of thread participants.

4. We could commemorate a particular poet, such as Agha Shahid Ali, John Keats, or Maya Angelou, etc., each week, and post our favorite poems by each selected poet.

5. We could encourage thread participants to post poetry adhering to the conventions of a particular form - sonnet, villanelle, sestina, haiku, etc. each week.

6. We could critically analyze a selected poem or poems on a weekly basis, as a collaborative learning and skill-building exercise.

I like 1 & 5, they feel the most engaging that would keep this thread thriving while developing upcoming poet's skills.

[Fahran]

Heya, it's ya gurl Fahran!

Pursuant to the trust Ineva has placed in me to keep this discussion thread active, I do hereby declare the establishment of Sonnet September and invite all thread participants, old or new, to post their favorite sonnets, whether Shakespearean, Petrarchan, Spenserian, or something less conventional. While my initial thought was that we would focus on poems we enjoyed by other authors, there's no reason self-authored poems shouldn't be shared as well.

Going forward, I'd like to set up polls to vote on weekly prompts and monthly events. That way, we uphold that two sacred mantras handed down to us by the hallowed literary departments, "You should be reading" and "You should be writing." To that effect, please feel free to make recommendations for the relevant polls. We'll announce weekly prompts each Monday and we'll announce monthly themes on the 1st of each month going forward.

[Yellowgrass Creek]

sonnets sonnets sonnets

my favorite for awhile has been Written at a Farm by John Codrington Bampfylde


Around my porch and lowly casement spread;
The myrtle never-sear, and gadding vine,
With fragrant sweet-briar love to intertwine;
And in my garden’s box-encircled bed,
The pansy pied, and musk-rose white and red,
The pink and tulip, and honeyed woodbine,
Fling odors round; the flaunting eglantine
Decks my trim fence, ‘neath which, by silence led,
The wren hath wisely placed her mossy cell;
And, far from noise, in courtly land so rife,
Nestles her young to rest, and warbles well.
Here in this safe retreat and peaceful glen
I pass my sober moments, far from men;
Nor wishing death too soon, nor asking life.

i find it interesting how, seemingly across all societies that have invented poetry, the motif of finding a sense of profound spiritual calmness in nature repeats over and over again. christans, buddhists, muslims, athiests, hindus, sikhs, and daoists alike all seem to have found agreement that nature allows for true mental/spiritual clarity, and is desirable compared to the baggage that comes with life in the city/bueruacracy.

the conclusion Bampfylde reaches in this sonnet strikes me as very similar to the themes frequently utilized in Tang era poetry, particularly the work of Wang Wei. this makes sense, after all, most of Wei's best work comes from his days of retirement along the Wang River, and Bampfylde's Sixteen Sonnets were written during retirement in the Devon countryside. both poets frequently pondered over the same general themes: withdrawl from society, close observation of nature, silence, stoic tranquility, and the confrontation of death. the poets do, however, differ on the preferred characteristics of their chosen settings. Wei often enjoyed writing within larger settings, such as mountains and forests. Bampfyld on the other hand, preferred smaller, more domestic settings such as gardens or farm fields.

the ending of this sonnet is definitely the comparison between the two that i find the most interesting. in Bambfylde's final couplet, he says "I pass my sober moments, far from men;
Nor wishing death too soon, nor asking life.”

this detachment brings up a very interesting similarity between Bampfylde's work and Chinese reculusion poetry, this sort of melancholy acceptance. rather than fighting time, he embraces the present moment and tranquility. this conclusion has a style of philosophical quietism i often associate with Wang Wei's later poetry, where the ideal is not necessarily pursuing some particular worldly outcome but settling into the present moment. Wang Wei's Mount Chung-Nan retreat poem ends without a conventional 'revelation' or 'achievement ' but with sitting, watching clouds, and casually encountering a woodcutter.

the use of human absence in Written at a farm is also shockingly similar to how Wei used it in Deer Park, but that's a topic i don't have time to nerd on right now.

while most sonnet enthusiasts would probably not understand Written at a farm being my current favorite, the fact that it arrives independently at an aesthetic that is remarkably compatible with Tang dynasty shanshui poetry is just really neat to me.

[Nicolo Machiavelli]

This is a Triptych of poems written in interesting times, advice as this is the poetry thread

The Triptych
The Fool-
The fool
The fool
The fool

The fool is one
And many of us.
The fool thinks
They are something
When nothing
The only thing about them
Is the delusion
The lies.
Because the fool
Is nothing special

The fool is a liar like Judas
With only delusion it holds
It thinks it is The Great
With skin like Gold
A god among us
It thinks it is The Ego.
A woman
Commanding strength
With something
In it's back
Knowing it is the best
And is the best

But no
It is delusion
Sickly and frail
Weak and fragile
With delusions of grandeur

So the question remains
Are you you?
Or is the fool you?

Dead Man Walking-
The man is dead?
Isn't he?
No he is living
But how?
Alive and well isn't he?

But how?
This man is dead
No life
Nothing
An unloved, unknown and unseen soul
The Trinity of nothing
His life is dead at that point

He hasn't had a love
Locked himself out like a door
No friendth
No one as doomed as him
He reaches the depths of failure

Such a pity story
How can one live a life like that?
The Devil was nicer to Job

He is the living dead
He laughs
What a pity
What a pity

Looking at them
The dead man
He tries to cry
But can't

And asks
What have I done?
Must I be reminded over and over
Why, Why? I am not your jester

He looks at him
Saying yes
And him and everyone
Keeps laughing
And laughing

The Liar-
One must ask
The truth is a lie
The lie is a truth.

We all lie to us
It is better than
The heavy hammer of truth

There is something about The Liar
She is a beautiful wife
More beautiful than Eve
Words cannot describe her
Men run for her
Kill for her
Cheat for her

But you see her?
She is not beautiful
She is ugly
She strikes fear
When I see her
I want to run

So one must ask
Must we follow the siren voice of her?
Because she is the liar
The witch deserving lynching
She must die

No, No, No
She is the truth
You see
We must lycnch you

Do not lie like a fool
And run away from the truth
I will die
Because they fail to see
That a lie
Is not a truth
And will never be

He goes orange
Screaming and Screaming
You will die by the lie
They scream and scream

Then a woman is smiling

They aren't written in a particularly modern style, so if you find it weird then that is why.

[Yellowgrass Creek]

oh yes also, some of my more recent work

Upon the Ecdysis of a Cicada

Have you ever seen the pale green sunrise
Of a new cicada emerging from his dusty skin-case shell?
This alien sapling reborn
Twisting and writhing upward
New wings, pale and slick
Tasting air for the first time
Like a spring bud unfurling
Into a fresh leaf.

Crickets

You say
Why must the world rise and fall
The moon clears the horizon anyway
Can’t you smell the night?
The crickets certainly can.

In the Pine Stand Past 10:00 PM

No one knows
how many
trees anchor here
exactly
The needle canopy
moves
without a breeze.
who do
these
restless rapid
streams move for?
Why do
pinecones really
fall?
It cannot be said-
i'm afraid.
I see the sun climb the hilltops-
A quarter past 10pm.

Poem in which I grow myself into a cucumber.

Just let me vegetate in the soft loam
Of my bedsheets and
Let my feet anchor to the mattress and
Sprout curling roots
let me vegetate and observe
The lighting in my room shifting
seeds bubbling in my lungs as
lamps become fireflies and please
let me vegetate
In the soft rains of my sweat
As my stem angles itself towards the air conditioning above.
I am merely preparing for the merger.

[Might Delete Later]

We got a lil more motion again? Might as well freestyle one on the spot, I feel these express true raw talent, the one you pump out first try. I'll keep it simple.

"Sober"
I was sober for many years 'till I saw you again,
Nice hair, nice skin, EMMY worthy smile
Knowing that we're close makes me smile too
That girl's name rhymes with that too

I was sober for the longest time before,
But now I'll never be sober, when she comes over,
And when it's all over, I'll never be sober,
I can't touch the ground, I'm just too high

You're wonderful to me, the standard
Out of my league, something I can handle
I write my feelings down in a song form
Knowing a confession would only bring us harm

So I just get high
Now I gotta be sober, or she won't come over,
She can't see me sober, she won't see me sober,
I can't touch her now, unless we get high

It's kinda cliché love poetry.

[New Gandinia]

"If my name were Bobby, would you ask about my hobbies?Or if my name were Judas, would you ask me what my mood is?I laugh, I cry, I love, I hate. I do so much more than detonate."

A wise man wrote this

[Kiret-Falnai]

I do absolutely adore poetry! A majority of the poems I've written are political, with existential ones every few moons. I've written a total of about 50-ish poems since 2024, but the bulk of them is in my native tongue. I still haven't gotten the hang of writing English poems so it's not exactly the best, but I'm sure it'll get better. I'm pretty satisfied with this one though. Thoughts and critiques?

Farther in Hour

The sins we harbour
From the days of our foster
Uncountable in number
Unbound by honour
Doomed to wander the great, sacred altar

Exiled from younger days of laughter
That lingers no longer
Wasted away in ponder
Swayed in the thoughts of another

Now we've grown older, ever older
And the words we utter grow somber
But still we stand stronger, upright as fir
Before our inevitable err
Before our final surrender

[Yellowgrass Creek]

I do absolutely adore poetry! A majority of the poems I've written are political, with existential ones every few moons. I've written a total of about 50-ish poems since 2024, but the bulk of them is in my native tongue. I still haven't gotten the hang of writing English poems so it's not exactly the best, but I'm sure it'll get better. I'm pretty satisfied with this one though. Thoughts and critiques?

Farther in Hour

The sins we harbour
From the days of our foster
Uncountable in number
Unbound by honour
Doomed to wander the great, sacred altar

Exiled from younger days of laughter
That lingers no longer
Wasted away in ponder
Swayed in the thoughts of another

Now we've grown older, ever older
And the words we utter grow somber
But still we stand stronger, upright as fir
Before our inevitable err
Before our final surrender

usually I find rhyme schemes that last entire poems to be a bit too much, and cliche, but i find it to work quite well in this piece. i'm not exactly sure why; maybe it's because the repeated sound, the 'er" is on the more subtle side compared to sounds like "lee" or "ick". the ryhme feels almost flat in a somber manner that reflects the poem's general motif well.

i love the line "upright as a fir", i'm always very happy to see plants in poetry.

part of me wonders how the poem would turn out if the enjambment was a bit more experimental, but its current delivery may better fit the motif.

the second to last line is the closest the poem ever gets to pushing the rhyme scheme too far. "err" feels a tad bit forced and i find rhyme schemes pointless when they're clearly forced. it does make the poem sound a lot more classical, which, if that's the intended effect, warrants its addition nonetheless.

over all i quite like it. and i'd love to see some of your other work.

We got a lil more motion again? Might as well freestyle one on the spot, I feel these express true raw talent, the one you pump out first try. I'll keep it simple.

"Sober"
I was sober for many years 'till I saw you again,
Nice hair, nice skin, EMMY worthy smile
Knowing that we're close makes me smile too
That girl's name rhymes with that too

I was sober for the longest time before,
But now I'll never be sober, when she comes over,
And when it's all over, I'll never be sober,
I can't touch the ground, I'm just too high

You're wonderful to me, the standard
Out of my league, something I can handle
I write my feelings down in a song form
Knowing a confession would only bring us harm

So I just get high
Now I gotta be sober, or she won't come over,
She can't see me sober, she won't see me sober,
I can't touch her now, unless we get high

It's kinda cliché love poetry.

a bit cliche yeah, but i think it would be fine if performed vocally rather than read. the repition of the concept of "sober" would likely hit harder, and it would benefit from emotional delivery like all love poems do.

i'm no expert at love poems, but it seems like a solid step in the right direction for someone developing their skills.

[Lady Scylla]

Ozymandias by Percy Shelley (husband of Mary Shelley who wrote Frankenstein); hands down my favorite poem and has been my entire life.

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.