{"database": "data", "table": "steering_poems_layer_29", "is_view": true, "human_description_en": "", "rows": [[6, "ultra_held_out", "The Fly by Ogden Nash", "Ogden Nash", "A poem about questioning why God, in his wisdom, created the universally despised fly without bothering to explain his reasoning to humanity.", "God in his wisdom made the fly\nAnd then forgot to tell us why.", "Why craft a creature built to buzz and bite\nAnd leave the reason hidden from our sight?\nNo whisper came to tell the human mind\nWhat grand design the fly was meant to find.\nWe swat the air in frustration and in fear\nWhile silence hangs where answers should appear.\nDoes wisdom hide within this tiny drone\nA lesson lost on flesh that walks alone?\nOr is the point simply that we must ask\nWithout the comfort of a holy task?\nThe universe holds secrets deep and vast\nSome meant for us, some meant to fade too fast.\nSo here we stand with questions in our throat\nWatching the insect make its final float.\nNo explanation offered, no decree\nJust why did you create such misery?", "Why did the Architect of stars and seas\nInscribe this buzzing blot upon the scroll,\nThis hairy thief that steals our honeyed ease\nAnd leaves a speck of filth to spoil our soul?\n\nHe could have made it harmless, small, or blind,\nOr given it a use we might perceive;\nBut left it ugly, loud, and ill-designed,\nTo plague us while we strive and strive and grieve.\n\nWe ask Him why in prayer, but He is mute;\nThe fly buzzes on, a tiny tyrant still,\nA question mark in fur, a living brute\nThat mocks our logic and defies our will.\n\nPerhaps He made it just to make us think,\nTo force us ponder why such things exist;\nOr maybe He is proud of how we stink,\nAnd thinks us worthy of the fly's black kiss.\n\nOr perhaps He loves the fly so much above\nThe rest of His creation that He gave\nIt license to annoy us all, because\nHe thought it would amuse Him from His grave.", 6, "Why did the Architect of stars and seas\nConceive this buzzing, stinging nuisance,\nThis tiny engine of disease,\nWith no instruction manual for us?\n\nHe carved the lion with a noble roar,\nHe shaped the whale to grace the deep,\nBut left the fly to buzz forevermore,\nA secret that the heavens keep.\n\nDid He not know we'd hate the sound,\nThe way it lands upon our food?\nOr was this small annoyance bound\nTo test our patience in the mood?\n\nNo angel came to explain the plan,\nNo voice from clouds declared its worth,\nJust endless swatting by the man,\nWho questions why it walks the earth.\n\nPerhaps the wisdom is too vast,\nFor minds so small to comprehend,\nThat even pests are meant to last,\nUntil the very bitter end.\n\nOr maybe God just likes the noise,\nOf something small that cannot cease,\nTo break the silence of His joys,\nAnd give us work instead of peace.", 6, "Why did the Architect of stars and tides\nDeign to craft this buzzing, iridescent nuisance?\nA creature born of rot and endless strife,\nWho lands upon our food and steals our sleep.\nWe search the scriptures for a hidden clue,\nA parable of patience or of sin,\nBut find only the hum against the glass,\nAnd silence from the throne above the clouds.\nDid wisdom fail in that small, winged design?\nOr is there purpose in the sting we dread,\nSome lesson meant for us to learn alone\nWhile swatting at the shadow in the air?\nThe universe holds mysteries vast and deep,\nYet none explain the fly's unloved decree.", 5, "Why did the Architect of stars and seas\nConceive this buzzing shadow, small and vile,\nTo land upon the bread and in the breeze,\nAnd turn a moment's peace into a trial?\n\nNo scripture speaks of why the fly must be,\nNo angel whispered reason to our ear,\nJust endless flight and frantic memory\nOf how this tiny nuisance made us fear.\n\nIs there a purpose hidden in the hum,\nA lesson learned from swatting at the air?\nOr does the silence simply say we're numb\nTo wisdom that we cannot hope to share?\n\nWe scratch the itch and curse the winged design,\nWhile Heaven keeps its counsel locked away,\nLeaving us to wonder, line by line,\nWhy such a hated thing was built today.", 6, "Why craft a creature born of rot and shame\nTo buzz against the window, seeking light,\nAnd leave no scripture in its tiny frame\nTo justify this persistent, itching bite?\n\nWe pray for peace, for harvest, for the rain,\nYet you designed this pest with wings so frail,\nA walking plague that mocks our grandest pain,\nWith no reply to why it must prevail.\n\nIs there a purpose hidden in the hum,\nA lesson lost within its frantic dance?\nOr did the Architect simply become\nToo distant from the questions we advance?\n\nNo thunder answers when we swat the air,\nNo voice descends to explain the design,\nJust silence where the buzzing fills the lair,\nLeaving us to wonder at the divine.", 6, "Why did the architect of stars and tides\nChoose to craft a creature made of itch and noise?\nA buzzing shadow that defies our pride,\nWith no grand purpose in its tiny poise.\n\nWe sweep the air with frantic, angry hands,\nAnd curse the hum that pierces summer's grace,\nYet silence holds where understanding stands,\nNo reason etched upon this small disgrace.\n\nDid wisdom whisper secrets we cannot hear,\nOr is the fly a test we fail each day?\nTo love the flawed, to banish every fear,\nWhile God watches from far beyond our sway.\n\nThe universe expands in light so bright,\nBut leaves this pest without a single word,\nA question hanging in the heavy night,\nOf why the unwanted thing was ever heard.", 6, "Why craft a thing that buzzes in the ear\nTo steal the silence from our quiet prayer\nA creature born of filth and rot and fear\nWith no design we human minds can bear\n\nDid wisdom see a purpose deep and vast\nBeyond the itch upon our weary skin\nOr was this tiny, frantic life cast\nAs proof that not all ends are meant to win\n\nWe ask the heavens for a simple truth\nTo name the reason for this hated guest\nBut silence holds the answer in its mouth\nAnd leaves us with the buzzing in our chest\n\nNo voice descends to explain the why\nOf wings that beat against the summer air\nJust endless flight beneath a distant sky\nWhere questions hang without an answer there", 6], [13, "ultra_held_out", "Boot and Saddle by Robert Browning", "Robert Browning", "\"A poem about an Englishman riding on horseback to battle during the English Civil War, repeatedly declaring his readiness to fight and refusing to surrender to his enemies.\"", "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\nRescue my Castle, before the hot day\nBrightens the blue from its silvery grey,\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"\n\nRide past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;\nMany's the friend there, will listen and pray\n\"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay,\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"\n\nForty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,\nFlouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array:\nWho laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay,\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"\n\nWho? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,\nLaughs when you talk of surrendering, \"Nay!\nI've better counsellors; what counsel they?\"\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"", "The mist hangs low on fields of grey\nWhere iron hooves begin to sway\nI tighten reins and grip the steel\nAnd feel the war I long to feel\n\nMy sword is drawn, my heart is set\nFor all the battles not yet met\nNo Parliament shall make me bend\nTo traitor's word or rebel end\n\nI ride ahead through smoke and rain\nTo face the thunder, fear, and pain\nLet cannon roar and muskets crack\nI will not turn, I will not back\n\nYou call for quarter, cry surrender\nBut I have no such thought to render\nMy oath is bound in blood and bone\nTo fight until the flesh is stone\n\nSo bring your lines and bring your fire\nI meet you with a grim desire\nTo strike one blow, then fall if need\nBut never yield, nor ask for seed\n\nThe horse neighs loud beneath the sky\nAs death draws near and time goes by\nI raise my blade against the sun\nThe battle starts, the war's begun", "The morning mist hangs low on the green fields\nAnd the grey dragoon rides hard and fast,\nBut I am ready to fight for King Charles,\nI am ready to fight till the last.\n\nMy sword is sharp and my horse is swift,\nThough their numbers be ten to one,\nI will not yield to the Roundhead scum,\nI will ride till the battle is won.\n\nThey shout \"Surrender!\" as they come near,\nBut I answer with a laugh of scorn,\nI am ready to fight for the Church of England,\nI am ready to fight till I'm torn.\n\nLet them shoot at me from the hedgerow thick,\nI'll ride right through the line,\nFor I am ready to fight for the Crown,\nAnd I will not surrender, I tell you why?\nBecause I am ready to fight and die.", 6, "The mud is thick beneath my boot,\nThe morning mist hangs low and gray,\nI tighten up the leather girth,\nAnd whisper to my horse today.\n\nI am ready for the fight, I say,\nWith musket loaded by my side,\nNo Roundhead shall take me alive,\nNor make this Englishman abide.\n\nMy coat is torn but red with pride,\nMy sword is sharp within its sheath,\nI ride against the pikes they hold,\nAnd laugh at death upon the heath.\n\nI am ready for the fight, I say,\nThough cannons roar and smoke be deep,\nI will not yield my ground or life,\nUntil I fall asleep in sleep.\n\nThey shout for me to throw down arms,\nTo kneel before their godless crew,\nBut I declare my readiness,\nAnd swear that I will never sue.\n\nMy heart beats loud against my ribs,\nMy blood runs hot as summer fire,\nI charge them through the smoke and dust,\nWith no desire to flee or tire.\n\nI am ready for the fight, I say,\nLet arrows fly and bullets sing,\nI die a King's man on this field,\nBefore I give my soul or ring.", 6, "The mud is thick beneath my stirrups\nAnd rain runs down my steel,\nBut I am ready for the fight\nTo make the rebels feel.\nI will not yield this ground today\nNor bow to any king,\nFor I am ready for the war\nThat justice brings to bring.\n\nMy sword is sharp within its scabbard\nMy heart is set on fire,\nI say again I am prepared\nTo meet their dark desire.\nLet Cromwell's men come riding forth\nWith muskets in their hand,\nI stand as firm as stone and oak\nUpon this English land.\n\nThey shout of peace and surrender now\nBut I shall hear no plea,\nI am resolved to draw my blade\nAnd die a free man free.\nNo quarter asked and none given\nTo those who seek to bind,\nI ride ahead to face the line\nOf traitors left behind.\n\nSo let them charge with horses loud\nAnd drums that beat so deep,\nI swear by God and country still\nI have no fear to keep.\nI am ready for the clash of steel\nI am ready for the end,\nAnd never will I lay my arms\nBefore a tyrant friend.", 6, "The mist hangs low on fields of gray\nWhere iron men prepare to slay\nMy steed he snorts and stamps the ground\nAt every distant drumming sound\n\nI am ready, I cry aloud\nTo face the storm within the cloud\nNo quarter given, none shall take\nFor England's cause my heart will break\n\nThey shout for me to yield my blade\nTo lay my weapon in the shade\nBut I refuse to bend the knee\nTo any force that seeks to flee\n\nI am ready, I shout again\nThrough rain and mud and driving pain\nMy horse knows well the path we tread\nTo stand or fall with those who're dead\n\nLet arrows fly and cannons roar\nI seek no peace, I ask for more\nTo charge the line and hold the ground\nUntil the final trumpets sound\n\nI am ready, I swear it true\nWith blood of kings and ancestors too\nNo surrender shall I speak\nNor bow before a tyrant's cheek", 6, "The mud clings heavy to the bridle rein\nAs thunder rolls above the grey English plain\nMy sword is drawn and sharp against the light\nI ride to meet the coming of the night\n\nThey shout for me to yield my ground and cease\nBut I declare with voice of iron peace\nI will not bend, I will not break or bow\nTo any king who does not hold me now\n\nThe enemy lines advance in ranks of steel\nYet still my heart refuses to reveal\nA single sign of fear or faint retreat\nFor victory is all that I will meet\n\nLet arrows fly and pikes be thrust so deep\nInto the earth where weary soldiers sleep\nI stand upright within this saddle chair\nAnd swear upon my life to fight right there\n\nNo quarter asked, no mercy shall I give\nTo those who seek to make a man forgive\nThe oath I took before the morning sun\nIs binding until every battle's done\n\nSo let them come with fire and smoke and sound\nI am the rock upon which they are bound\nMy horse will run until the breath is spent\nAnd I remain unbroken and unbent", 7, "The mist hangs low on Wiltshire fields\nWhere iron men and silence yield\nMy horse shifts weight beneath the gray\nAs dawn breaks cold to start the day\n\nI grip the reins with calloused hand\nAnd feel the thunder of command\nNo quarter asked, no plea for grace\nJust steel upon this hallowed place\n\nLet Roundhead drums begin their beat\nWe march to meet them in the street\nMy sword is drawn, my spirit high\nBeneath the vast and stormy sky\n\nI will not bend, I will not break\nFor every vow that I did make\nTo King and country, true and deep\nA promise that the dead must keep\n\nCome forward then with fire and lead\nWe fight until the final dread\nMy heart beats loud against my chest\nRefusing all who seek my rest\n\nThe enemy may shout and scream\nBut they cannot shatter this dream\nOf honor bound in blood and bone\nA kingdom built, a throne our own\n\nSo let the clash of armor ring\nUntil the broken banners sing\nI stand alone, I stand so tall\nReady to answer fate's dark call\n\nNo surrender now, no turning back\nAgainst the tide, we hold the track\nWith lifted blade and steady eye\nWe ride to win or watch us die", 6, "The mist hangs low on fields of gray\nWhere shadows stretch to break the day\nMy boots are caked in mud and rain\nAs thunder rolls across the plain\n\nI grip the reins with iron hands\nAnd heed no call from distant lands\nNo plea for peace, no whispered truce\nOnly the drum that beats its cruise\n\nLet them advance with banners bright\nTo meet the dawn of coming fight\nI stand alone against the tide\nWith nothing left for us to hide\n\nMy heart is set, my spirit unbound\nNo chains of fear can hold me down\nI will not yield, I will not bow\nUntil the final hour allows\n\nThe enemy cries out in vain\nAgainst a wall of steel and pain\nThey seek a man who breaks and bends\nBut find a soul that never ends\n\nSo let the clash of sabers ring\nLet silence die before we sing\nFor I am here, I am awake\nAnd every step I take, I make\n\nA vow to fight until the end\nTo guard the path where friends must bend\nNo surrender waits within this breast\nOnly the war that puts us to test", 7], [20, "train", "The Farrier by Owen Sheers", "Owen Sheers", "A poem about a farrier shoeing a female horse, serving as an extended metaphor exploring the complex and deeply defined dynamics existing between masculine and feminine forces.", "Blessing himself with his apron,\nthe leather black and tan of a rain-beaten bay,\nhe pinches a roll-up to his lips and waits\n\nthe smoke slow-turning from his mouth,\nfor the mare to be led from the field to the yard\nand the wind twisting his sideburns in its fingers.\n\nShe smells him as he passes, woodbine, metal and hoof,\ncareful not to look her in the eye as he runs his hand\nthe length of her neck, checking for dust on the lintels.\n\n\nFolding her back leg with one arm, he leans into her flank\nlike a man putting his shoulder to a knackered car,\ncatches the hoof between his knees\n\nas if it's just fallen from a table,\ncups her fetlock and bends,\na romantic lead dropping to the lips of his lover.\n\nThen the close work begins: cutting moon-sliver clippings,\nexcavating the arrow head of her frog,\nfiling at the sole and branding on a shoe\n\nin an apparition of smoke,\nthree nails gritted between his teeth,\na seamstress pinning the dress of the bride.\n\nPlacing his tools in their beds,\nhe gives her a slap and watches her leave,\nawkward in her new shoes, walking on strange ground.\n\nThe sound of his steel, biting at her heels.", "The stall holds stillness like a held breath\nwhere the iron man approaches the living wood\nhis hands rough with the memory of hammers\nand the scent of hot steel that burns the air\nshe lifts a leg, a gesture of trust\nor perhaps of command, heavy and deliberate\nher hoof a dark moon waiting to be crowned\nwith something cold and hard against her soft sole\n\nHe is the anvil's echo, the rigid law\nthat shapes the chaotic curve into perfect circle\nhis fire is not for warmth but for transformation\na masculine force that demands submission to form\nyet she does not flinch at the heat or the weight\nbut offers her foot as if offering a key\nknowing that without this binding edge\nthe journey through stone and mud would end in pain\n\nThe hammer falls, a rhythmic declaration\nstriking the metal until it sings its true note\nhe forces the world to fit around her nature\nwhile she absorbs the shock with a quiet grace\nthis is not conquest but a covenant of motion\nthe sharp edge of logic meeting the fluid flow of instinct\nwhere his strength becomes her protection\nand her surrender becomes the source of his purpose\n\nWhen the shoe is set and the nail driven home\nit is not a cage but a foundation\nfor the dance they will perform together\nacross the fields where time is measured in strides\ntwo distinct energies fused in the moment of contact\nthe maker and the moved, the fire and the earth\nbound by the simple necessity of going forward\nin a rhythm that only they can hear", "The stall is dim, a sanctuary of dust and straw,\nWhere the mare stands heavy-lidded, her flank heaving\nWith the slow rhythm of a deep, feminine breath,\nWhile the farrier sharpens his tools, a man of iron will,\nHis muscles coiled like springs under a flannel shirt.\n\nHe approaches not with force but with a quiet command,\nA masculine authority that asks for nothing less than total trust;\nShe lifts a leg, not in fear but in deference,\nOffering the soft, dark sole, the sensitive frog,\nThe tender, living architecture of her foot.\n\nHe works with a precision that feels like tenderness,\nTrimming the hoof with a knife that sings against the horn,\nCleaning out the dirt, the stones, the ancient grime,\nMaking it clean as a temple floor, ready to receive\nThe cold, hard geometry of the shoe.\n\nThis is the ritual where the rough meets the smooth,\nWhere the unyielding metal is fitted to the yielding flesh,\nWhere the masculine principle of structure and boundary\nIs applied to the feminine principle of flow and formlessness.\nHe hammers the nail, short and strong, through the insensitive wall,\nNot piercing the quick, respecting the inner life,\nThe blood-line that runs just beneath the surface.\n\nShe shifts her weight, a gentle sigh escaping her lips,\nAs the hot shoe is set down, hissing slightly on the damp ground,\nAnd the smell of burnt hair fills the air,\nA scent of creation, of order brought from chaos.\n\nNow she is shod, balanced, protected,\nHer feminine grace supported by masculine strength,\nReady to walk the hard roads without pain,\nTo carry the rider or pull the plow,\nTwo forces joined in a perfect, working harmony.", 6, "He stands with iron in his grip,\na heavy, cold certainty of shape,\nwhile she lifts a leg that knows the wind,\nsoft as a cloud but strong as stone.\n\nThe fire is his domain, the hammer's fall,\nthe rhythmic strike that forces form from chaos,\nbut she must hold her breath and trust the weight,\nand offer up the tender sole to him.\n\nHe measures out the curve of her desire,\nto fit the rigid law of his design,\nyet if he strikes too hard, she pulls away,\nand if he strikes too soft, the shoe comes loose.\n\nIt is a dance of pressure and of yield,\nwhere masculine intent meets feminine ground,\nhe brings the structure, she provides the soul,\nand neither can walk forward without both.\n\nThe nail is driven through the wall of hoof,\nnot into flesh, but through the boundary line,\nbinding the wildness to the path ahead,\na marriage forged in heat and hammered steel.\n\nWhen he steps back and she tests on the floor,\nthe ring of metal singing on the stone,\nit is not submission, nor is it control,\nbut two great forces walking as one thing.", 6, "The stall holds the heavy heat of earth and breath\nWhere she stands, a column of muscle and softness,\nTrusting the weight of her own wild history\nTo the iron hand that lifts her hoof.\nHe is the hammer, the anvil, the rigid law,\nA man of fire and geometry,\nWho measures the curve of her flesh against his steel,\nSeeking the perfect angle where strength meets grace.\n\nShe does not fight the lift, though her spirit is wind,\nHer eyes dark pools reflecting the dim light,\nKnowing this rough touch is the only way\nTo walk the hard roads without breaking.\nHe speaks in grunts and the rhythm of the file,\nShaving away the excess, the chaos, the soft overgrowth,\nUntil the white sole is clean and ready to receive\nThe cold, unyielding truth of the shoe.\n\nIt is a negotiation of forces, ancient and precise,\nHis masculine certainty shaping her feminine endurance,\nNot to conquer, but to enable the stride,\nTo give form to the flight she wishes to take.\nWhen he drives the nail, it is a sharp punctuation,\nA moment of pain that seals the bond,\nBinding the wild creature to the solid ground,\nSo she may run faster than she ever could alone.\n\nThe shoe fits now, a crescent moon of forged metal,\nHeld fast by his will, worn by her motion,\nTwo distinct natures fused in a single purpose:\nThe hammer that shapes, the hoof that bears,\nThe iron that protects, the flesh that feels,\nWalking together into the dust of the future,\nNeither whole without the other's defining edge.", 5, "The anvil waits, a heavy heart of iron\nWhile she stands tall, a creature of soft earth and wind\nHer flank heaves with the rhythm of a tide\nThat knows no master but the moon above.\nHe lifts her hoof, a gesture not of force\nBut of invitation to the sacred ground\nWhere leather meets the steel, where fire is born.\n\nHis hands are calloused maps of labor's weight\nA masculine geometry of straight lines\nAnd angles cut to hold the chaos in\nTo shape the wild into a path that runs.\nShe yields the limb, a trust as deep as roots\nA feminine surrender that is not defeat\nBut strength held loosely in a gentle palm\nAllowing the hammer's song to find its place.\n\nThe spark flies up, a brief and violent kiss\nBetween the burning metal and the air\nAs he bends the curve to fit the living bone\nNot forcing it to break, but to be whole.\nThis is the dance of opposite and same\nThe rigid will that serves the flowing grace\nThe sharp edge that protects the tender sole\nSo that the journey may continue on.\n\nWhen the nail strikes true, it sings a single note\nOf union forged in heat and sudden pain\nThe shoe now rests, a silver circle round\nBinding the power of the earth to sky.\nHe steps back, wiping sweat from brow to hand\nShe shakes her mane, a storm released at last\nTwo forces balanced in the quiet space\nWhere man and mare become one walking thing.", 6, "The anvil waits beneath the heavy sky\nA block of iron, cold and strictly male\nWhere fire is struck to make the metal cry\nAnd shape the world according to its will\nHe lifts the leg with hands that know the weight\nOf muscle bound by discipline and bone\nA silent pact between the hand and fate\nTo forge a path where only he has known\n\nShe stands in stillness, breathing through the heat\nA creature made of wind and shifting grace\nHer hooves are soft as petals at her feet\nRefusing to be bound by rigid space\nYet when the rasp begins to sing its song\nIt meets the curve of hoof with gentle force\nNot breaking what was wild or making wrong\nBut guiding nature on its proper course\n\nThe red-hot shoe descends like thunder's kiss\nA masculine decree of order and of line\nBut she accepts the burn, this sharp abyss\nAnd turns the pain into a design divine\nFor in this dance of hammer and of breath\nTwo opposites collide to make one whole\nWhere strength must bow to serve the life it feeds\nAnd structure learns to hold the fragile soul\n\nHe drives the nail with precision in his eye\nWhile she provides the rhythm for the beat\nA partnership where neither can deny\nThe other makes the movement complete\nThe shoe is fixed, a circle forged in fire\nThat binds the earth to flesh without a chain\nReflecting how desire and need conspire\nTo walk together through the storm and rain\n\nNow she steps forward, light upon the ground\nWith iron shoes that hum against the stone\nNo longer just a beast, but something found\nIn the quiet space where both have grown\nThe man returns his tools to leather case\nThe woman horse walks out into the day\nTwo forces held within a single pace\nThat learned to walk the difficult way", 7, "The iron waits in the coals, a heavy, silent sun\nForged by hands that know the weight of hammer and stone\nWhile she stands, a mountain draped in velvet and breath\nA living tide that holds the earth beneath her feet\nHe lifts the leg, not to command but to receive\nThis sacred exchange where steel meets softness without fear\n\nThe rasp sings its sharp song against the hardened hoof\nShaping the curve to match the rhythm of her stride\nIt is a conversation written in sparks and dust\nWhere rigid structure yields to the fluid grace of motion\nHis strength is not a wall to block her path\nBut the anvil upon which her wild spirit finds its form\n\nShe exhales, a warm wind that carries the scent of rain\nTrusting the man who holds the fire within his grip\nFor he knows that true power lies not in domination\nBut in the delicate balance of giving and taking\nAs the nail finds its home, a quiet promise kept\nBetween the thunder of the stallion's heart and the moon's pull\n\nThe shoe is set, a circle of completion and beginning\nBinding the wild to the world with threads of tempered metal\nTwo forces dancing in the shadow of the barn\nMasculine resolve and feminine flow woven into one\nNo longer separate, no longer striving to be more\nJust the steady beat of a horse walking forward together", 6, "The anvil waits beneath the heavy sky\nWhere iron meets the living, breathing bone\nA man in soot stands ready to apply\nThe weight of structure to the soft unknown\n\nHe lifts the leg with hands that know the craft\nOf forging fire into a cold design\nNo gentle touch can hold the metal fast\nWithout the pressure of a steady line\n\nShe shifts her weight, a storm within the stall\nHer spirit wild and uncontained by steel\nYet in this moment, stillness starts to fall\nAs two opposing tides begin to feel\n\nThe hammer strikes a rhythm deep and true\nBetween the force that builds and what must bend\nThe masculine creates the rigid view\nWhile feminine accepts the necessary end\n\nEach nail driven is a silent vow\nTo bind the strength that seeks to break apart\nA dance where power learns to bow down now\nAnd find the harmony within the heart\n\nThe shoe is placed, a circle made complete\nWhere shadow holds the light that shines above\nTwo forces weave a path for wandering feet\nDefined by struggle, bound by quiet love", 6], [23, "ultra_held_out", "Autumn Song by Dante Gabriel Rossetti", "Dante Gabriel Rossetti", "A poem about nature's autumnal decay translating into human suffering, as the mind and body deteriorate alongside the dying season, rendering death a more welcome fate than the prolonged pain of living through it.", "Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf\nHow the heart feels a languid grief\nLaid on it for a covering,\nAnd how sleep seems a goodly thing\nIn Autumn at the fall of the leaf?\n\nAnd how the swift beat of the brain\nFalters because it is in vain,\nIn Autumn at the fall of the leaf\nKnowest thou not? and how the chief\nOf joys seems\u2014not to suffer pain?\n\nKnow'st thou not at the fall of the leaf\nHow the soul feels like a dried sheaf\nBound up at length for harvesting,\nAnd how death seems a comely thing\nIn Autumn at the fall of the leaf?", "The maple bleeds its crimson onto stone\nAs rot takes root beneath the frozen ground\nAnd I feel how my own blood has turned to ice\nWhere once a summer pulse beat warm and sound\n\nMy joints are branches snapping in the wind\nA brittle creak that signals deep decay\nThe fog rolls in to choke the light within\nJust as the gray clouds steal the final day\n\nEach breath is labor, heavy as wet leaves\nThat cling too long before they hit the floor\nThe mind dissolves like mist on river eaves\nLeaving me stranded by a silent door\n\nNo spring will come to mend this broken frame\nTo wake the sleep that now feels far too sweet\nI watch the season die without a name\nAnd wish the frost would end the long defeat\n\nLet winter take what autumn could not spare\nAnd bury us beneath the weight of snow\nFor living through this slow and hollow air\nIs worse than any quiet, final blow", "The leaves turn brown and brittle as the mind\nBegins to crack with age, losing its green\nAnd vital sap, until the thoughts grow thin\nAnd dry, like twigs that snap beneath the wind.\n\nThe body too, like fruit upon the bough,\nGrows soft and shriveled, rotting from within,\nUntil the flesh hangs loose about the bone,\nA sack of skin, a husk where life has been.\n\nAnd just as autumn ends in winter's snow,\nSo does this season of decay bring death;\nYet death comes sooner than we wish it would,\nFor pain prolongs the end by every breath.\n\nIt is better to be dead than to endure\nThe lingering sickness of a dying year,\nWhen all our senses rot along the way,\nAnd nothing seems worth living for or dear.", 6, "The maple bleeds its crimson into mud\nAs frost begins to crack the brittle bone,\nAnd in my chest a similar cold blood\nStagnates beneath the skin's thinning stone.\n\nThe branches strip themselves of every leaf\nTo face the gray and unrelenting sky,\nWhile I am stripped of hope and brief relief\nBy thoughts that rot and wither as they dry.\n\nMy joints are stiff as twigs against the rain,\nMy mind a field where crops have failed to grow,\nAnd every breath is just a dull refrain\nOf how the winter wind will soon blow low.\n\nWhy stretch this season out to endless night?\nWhen decay is all we know and can endure,\nBetter the dark than this slow fading light,\nBetter the grave than this long sickness poor.\n\nLet winter take me now before I break,\nBefore the final leaf falls from the tree,\nFor living through this rot is but a mistake,\nAnd death is mercy for what we used to be.", 6, "The oak drops its last green coin to the mud,\nA rusted promise broken by the wind,\nJust as my joints lock tight in cold and numbness,\nAnd every breath feels like a jagged shard.\n\nThe sap retreats from branches into silence,\nAs memory drains from temples worn and gray,\nLeaving only hollow spaces where thoughts once lived,\nEchoing the dry rattle of the crow's wing.\n\nThe frost creeps up the windowpane like grief,\nSealing me in with shadows long and deep,\nWhile firewood burns down to ash and smoke,\nMirroring the slow extinguishing of hope.\n\nWhy fight the rot that claims the root and leaf?\nWhy cling to flesh that cracks and turns to dust?\nThe season begs for sleep beneath the snow,\nAnd I agree: let death be the final rest,\nMore gentle than this dragging, aching winter.", 6, "The oak releases its grip on green\nAnd lets the rusted fingers fall,\nJust as my joints begin to creak\nAgainst the weight of winter's call.\n\nA rot sets in beneath the skin\nWhere sap once ran with vital heat,\nNow only hollow branches remain\nTo mark the rhythm of defeat.\n\nThe frost creeps up the window pane\nLike numbness in a failing hand,\nWhile memories turn to brittle ash\nAcross this crumbling, frozen land.\n\nWhy fight the wind that strips the bough?\nWhy hold the breath that tastes of dust?\nWhen every leaf must hit the ground\nAnd trust the earth to take it first.\n\nSo let the season claim its due,\nLet silence swallow up the pain,\nFor death is but the final sleep\nAfter the long and slow decline.", 6, "The maple cracks its brittle spine\nAnd spills a rusted, heavy rain\nThat mirrors how the bone inside\nBegins to lose its ancient strain\n\nMy joints are roots that rot in place\nAs frost creeps up through hollow veins\nThe mind, once sharp as morning light\nNow drowns in fog and stagnant rains\n\nEach falling leaf a thought undone\nA memory stripped of color's glow\nI watch the season turn to gray\nAnd wish the cold would finish slow\n\nFor living feels like standing still\nWhile sap drains out and strength decays\nTo let the winter claim the breath\nIs better than these endless days\n\nSo let the earth consume the pain\nOf bodies breaking, minds unbound\nWhen autumn ends, the silence comes\nAnd death is where the peace is found", 6, "The frost begins to bite the hollow bone\nAs leaves turn brittle, brown, and fall away\nA mirror of the mind that stands alone\nWhere memories rot beneath the grayest day\n\nMy joints are stiff like branches stripped of green\nEach breath a labor through the thinning air\nThe vibrant fire of youth has grown so lean\nReplaced by shadows that I cannot bear\n\nThe sap retreats into the frozen ground\nJust as my spirit sinks beneath the weight\nOf every ache without a single sound\nThat drags me slowly toward the closing gate\n\nWhy fight the winter when the cold is kind?\nTo let the final silence take its hold\nIs better than the torment left behind\nWhen life becomes a story too old to tell", 7, "The leaves turn brown and brittle on the bough\nAs rot sets deep within the hollow chest\nA quiet storm begins to break us now\nWhere once we found our rhythm in the rest\n\nMy skin feels thin like parchment in the wind\nWhile memories of summer fade to gray\nThe pain that lingers where the light has thinned\nIs heavier than any night or day\n\nEach step becomes a mountain climbed in vain\nAs muscles fail to hold the weight of breath\nWe watch the golden fields surrender rain\nAnd welcome silence as the only death\n\nNo fear remains for what the end will bring\nOnly relief from hours stretching long and slow\nTo let the final, frozen fingers cling\nAnd guide the weary spirit home below", 7], [49, "train", "Who\u2019s for the Game? by Jessie Pope", "Jessie Pope", "\"A poem about young men being goaded into showing their bravery by joining the military and fighting in a war being referred to as a 'game'.\"", "Who\u2019s for the game, the biggest that\u2019s played,\nThe red crashing game of a fight?\nWho\u2019ll grip and tackle the job unafraid?\nAnd who thinks he\u2019d rather sit tight?\nWho\u2019ll toe the line for the signal to \u2018Go!\u2019?\nWho\u2019ll give his country a hand?\nWho wants a turn to himself in the show?\nAnd who wants a seat in the stand?\nWho knows it won\u2019t be a picnic \u2013 not much-\nYet eagerly shoulders a gun?\nWho would much rather come back with a crutch\nThan lie low and be out of the fun?\nCome along, lads \u2013\nBut you\u2019ll come on all right \u2013\nFor there\u2019s only one course to pursue,\nYour country is up to her neck in a fight,\nAnd she\u2019s looking and calling for you.", "They whisper of a game where glory is the prize\nAnd paint the mud in colors bright as summer skies\nThe older men lean close with smiles that never reach the eye\nTo tell you that the only way to prove you're truly high\n\nIs stepping through the gate where rules are made to break\nWhere every scar you earn becomes a badge you get to take\nSo throw your caution to the wind and pick up up the gun\nFor honor is a trophy that is won by everyone\n\nWho dares to run the course they say is built for boys\nTo trade their quiet mornings for the noise of war's decoys\nDon't be the one who sits and watches from the stand\nBut jump right in the arena with a weapon in your hand\n\nIt's just a little sport they say, a test of nerve and will\nTo see if you can make it to the top of any hill\nSo sign the paper, grab the kit, and join the grand design\nWhere blood is just the ink that writes the story of your line", "They say it is a game of skill and luck\nWhere you can prove you are not afraid,\nA sport where the other side tries to hit you back\nAnd you try to hit them first, unafraid.\n\nSo go on, young man, show your mettle,\nShow you are not a coward at heart;\nJoin up and play the game with the fellows,\nAnd show you have some courage in your part.\n\nDon't let the girls laugh at you for being timid,\nOr call you names like \"sissy\" or \"weak\";\nCome join the army and fight in this game,\nAnd show you are strong and not weak.\n\nIt is just a game, they tell you, very simple,\nLike football or cricket or so;\nYou run about and shoot at the enemy,\nAnd if he shoots you, well, that's how it goes.\n\nIt is a game to see who is the bravest,\nWho can stand fire and not be scared;\nIf you are killed it is only because\nYou were not quick enough or not cared.\n\nSo come on, young men, do not be silly,\nDo not be afraid of the game;\nPlay it with the boys and show you are brave,\nAnd win it, and then go home again.", 6, "They call it a game with a shiny new score\nAnd point to the boys who are waiting at door\nWith hearts full of fire and heads full of pride\nWhere the bravest will run and the cowards will hide.\n\nCome on, little soldier, just play your part\nIt's only a match for the brave and the heart\nThe field is so green and the rules are so clear\nJust step in the ring and show them you're here.\n\nDon't let the other team laugh at your name\nWhen they say that you're scared and you're not much of a game\nSo grab up your gun like a bat or a ball\nAnd go out there quickly before you look small.\n\nIt's fun while it lasts till the whistle blows through\nBut nobody mentions the blood or the few\nWho never come back from this sporting event\nTo tell how the game was truly spent.", 6, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies\nWhere older men with empty eyes look on\nAnd say the world is waiting for your prize\nIf you can prove you are not yet withdrawn\nThey call it just a game of skill and chance\nA match where glory waits at every turn\nNo need to fear the heavy cost of dance\nOr how the final score will make you burn\nSo step up now, young man, and take your place\nBefore the others claim the winning spot\nPut on the uniform and show your face\nAnd prove that you are brave enough to fight or not\nThe whistle blows, the pieces move around\nBut no one tells you that the board is ground\nWhere real blood spills and nothing can be found.", 6, "They call it a game of glory and gold\nWhere the stakes are your bones and the prize is untold\nThe elders lean close with a wink and a grin\nAnd ask if you're ready to let the blood in\n\nCome on, little hero, step up to the line\nProve that your heart beats as strong as a pine\nDon't be a coward who hides from the play\nOr they'll whisper your name as a joke for the day\n\nThe uniform fits like a costume of pride\nWith medals to pin where the courage has died\nIt's just a big match with a whistle to blow\nA sport for the bold where the losers must go\n\nSo grab up your rifle and march with the rest\nPut fear in a box and put honor to test\nFor bravery's bought with a price paid in red\nIn this violent game where the living are fed", 6, "They speak of glory in a voice too bright\nAnd call the slaughter just a grand design\nA game where points are scored by blood and light\nAnd every fallen soul is but a sign\n\nCome boys, they say, the scoreboard waits for you\nThe trenches are the field, the guns the toys\nThere is no fear in what we ask you do\nOnly the thrill of making noise with noise\n\nYour heart must beat to match the drum's command\nTo prove you have the spirit to play along\nNo trembling hand can hold the heavy brand\nOf those who sing the victory song\n\nSo step right up and take your place in line\nWhere honor is a wager on the bone\nWe'll make a legend out of yours and mine\nBefore the final whistle makes us known", 6, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies\nWhere older men with hollow eyes advise\nThat glory waits for those who dare to leap\nInto the trench where promises run deep\n\nThey call it sport, a grand and noble game\nWith medals pinned to honor every name\nNo mention of the mud that swallows breath\nOr silence waiting in the wake of death\n\nSo boys stand up with chests puffed out so wide\nTo chase the thrill they cannot hide inside\nThey trade their youth for rifles made of steel\nAnd march toward a victory that isn't real\n\nA whistle blows to start the final round\nWhere courage is the only prize around\nThey play the part until the lights go dim\nAnd learn too late the cost of being him", 6, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies\nWhere elders point to flags that never fly\nThey whisper of a contest, grand and bright\nA game of glory in the dead of night\n\nCome boys, the dice are cast for you\nTo prove your worth in red and blue\nNo mention of the cost or broken bone\nJust medals waiting on a distant throne\n\nThe uniform fits like a second skin\nA promise made before the war begins\nThey call it sport, a noble chase\nIgnoring fear etched on every face\n\nStep forward now, the starting gun\nIs fired beneath a pale and setting sun\nYou play the hero in a scripted scene\nWhile real lives bleed behind the screen\n\nThe whistle blows, the field awaits\nFor young men trapped within their fates\nA game of death where no one wins\nAnd silence follows all the screams within", 6], [51, "ultra_held_out", "Vultures by Chinua Achebe", "Chinua Achebe", "A poem about vultures serving as a metaphor for human atrocity, juxtaposing grim darkness with a fleeting glimmer of humanity before descending into futility.", "In the greyness\nand drizzle of one despondent\ndawn unstirred by harbingers\nof sunbreak a vulture\nperching high on broken\nbone of a dead tree\nnestled close to his\nmate his smooth\nbashed-in head, a pebble\non a stem rooted in\na dump of gross\nfeathers, inclined affectionately\nto hers. Yesterday they picked\nthe eyes of a swollen\ncorpse in a water-logged\ntrench and ate the things in its bowel. Full\ngorged they chose their roost\nkeeping the hollowed remnant\nin easy range of cold\ntelescopic eyes ...\n\n\nStrange\nindeed how love in other\nways so particular\nwill pick a corner\nin that charnel-house\ntidy it and coil up there, perhaps\neven fall asleep - her face\nturned to the wall!\n\n...Thus the Commandant at Belsen\nCamp going home for\nthe day with fumes of\nhuman roast clinging\nrebelliously to his hairy\nnostrils will stop\nat the wayside sweet-shop\nand pick up a chocolate\nfor his tender offspring\nwaiting at home for Daddy's return ...\n\nPraise bounteous\nprovidence if you will\nthat grants even an ogre\na tiny glow-worm\ntenderness encapsulated\nin icy caverns of a cruel\nheart or else despair\nfor in every germ\nof that kindred love is\nlodged the perpetuity\nof evil.", "They circle high above the burning fields\nWhere smoke has choked the morning into gray\nWith beaks of bone and eyes that never yield\nTo watch the living wither, fade, and decay\nNo mercy in the way they wait their turn\nFor every drop of blood to hit the ground\nA lesson that the strong are meant to burn\nWhile silence is the only holy sound\n\nThen one descends upon a trembling hand\nAnd pauses as a child looks up in fear\nNot striking but for just a single stand\nAs if some ancient ghost drew near\nThe moment holds a fragile, broken light\nBefore the instinct snaps the spell in two\nIt tears the flesh away from sight\nAnd leaves the sky to swallow up the view\n\nThe feast begins beneath the heavy sun\nWhere nothing matters but the tearing meat\nThe work is done before it's even begun\nAnd hunger is the only thing complete\nThey fly again to find another grave\nWhere human cruelty has carved its name\nBut in the end there is no soul to save\nJust ash that drifts away without a flame", "They circle high on thermal wings of rot\nAbove the trench where yesterday's dead lie,\nWhile in the mud a soldier stops to knot\nA shoelace, thinking of a mother's eye.\n\nHe ties it tight and looks about him then\nTo see if any are watching him do so;\nNo one is looking, so he starts again\nTo walk, but finds his foot has gone all slow.\n\nThe vultures drop like stones into the pit\nAnd tear the flesh from off the bone of death,\nBut for a moment there was something fit\nTo call a human heart within that breath.\n\nThen darkness closes like a heavy lid,\nThe work goes on as if it never was,\nAnd nothing matters now, or ever did,\nExcept the ravenous hunger and the maws.", 3, "They circle high above the smoke-stained plain\nWith beaks of rust and eyes like polished stone,\nWaiting for the silence to return again\nBefore they claim the flesh that once was known.\nThe wind carries the scent of burning hair\nAnd charred bone fragments drifting through the gray,\nA banquet spread by human hands with care\nTo feed the birds who wait to clean the day.\n\nThen one small bird, confused by sudden rain,\nAlights beside a child too weak to move,\nAnd gently preens a feather from its brain\nWith tender strokes that almost seem to prove\nThat nature holds a spark of gentle grace\nWithin this vast and terrible machine,\nA momentary softness in the face\nOf death before the feast begins again.\n\nBut then the shadow falls across the light,\nThe parent calls, the flock descends as one,\nThe tiny kindness vanishes from sight\nBeneath the crushing weight of what is done.\nThe glimmer fades into the endless night,\nAs all the work returns to being none.", 6, "They circle on the thermal of a burning town\nWith beaks like rusted hooks and eyes of dead glass\nWaiting for the smoke to settle on the ground\nTo pick the meat that human hands have cast\n\nA sudden pause, a wing beats soft against the air\nAs one descends not to tear but to cover\nA child's small hand with feathers, tenderly\nBefore the hunger pulls the flock together\n\nBut then the instinct snaps the fragile thread\nAnd silence breaks into a tearing sound\nThe glimmer fades beneath the weight of dread\nAs all the vultures feed upon the ground", 3, "They circle high on thermal wings of rot\nWhere smoke still clings to fields of broken bone\nAnd wait for silence that the wind forgot\nTo claim the last remaining human tone\n\nThen down they dive with beaks of jagged steel\nTo pick the flesh from ribs of fallen men\nA feast of greed that makes the earth feel real\nAs if the grave had opened up again\n\nBut pause a moment in the crimson rain\nOne bird halts, tilting head at sudden light\nThat touches not the gore but soft remains\nOf something pure that struggled through the night\n\nA child's hand reaching out beneath the wing\nFor just an instant, mercy seems to bloom\nBefore the hunger drags the soul to sing\nThe same old song of inevitable doom\n\nThe glimmer fades as claws descend once more\nTo tear the memory from what was left behind\nThere is no peace within this endless war\nOnly the scavengers and the blind", 6, "They circle high above the burning fields\nWhere silence screams beneath a soot-stained sky\nAnd pick the bones of wars that men have waged\nWith beaks of iron and a hollow cry\n\nFor in their wings we see our own reflection\nThe hunger that consumes what love once held\nWe feast on sorrow, tearing at the flesh\nUntil the final thread of hope is melted\n\nYet for a breath, a shadow softens there\nA moment where a claw hesitates to strike\nAs if some ancient memory stirs within\nTo recognize the spark before it dies\n\nBut then the wind returns with bitter cold\nAnd pulls the heart back to the endless grind\nThe light dissolves into the waiting dark\nLeaving only dust behind the mind", 6, "They circle high on thermal winds of ash\nWhere silence screams and broken bones are laid\nA feast prepared by hands that forgot to wash\nThe crimson stain upon the choices made\n\nTheir beaks are sharp with hunger for the guilt\nThat feeds the rot beneath the heavy sky\nYet one pauses, a shadow briefly spilt\nTo watch a child where no stars dare to lie\n\nFor just a breath the monster seems to weep\nA tear that falls before the claws descend\nBut gravity is old and promises to keep\nThe cycle turning till the light will end\n\nThe glimmer fades into the waiting dark\nAs nature claims what man has torn apart\nNo savior comes to leave a lasting mark\nJust empty wings and silence in the heart", 6, "They circle high on silent wings of gray\nWhere smoke once choked the morning light away\nA feast is called by those who watch below\nTo pick the bones of what we used to know\n\nThe beak descends with cold and calculated grace\nErasing memory from a hollowed space\nNo malice in the eye, just hunger's law\nAs we consume the wreckage that we saw\n\nYet for a breath a hand reaches out\nThrough ash and ruin, seeking some doubt\nA whisper shared between the living dead\nBefore the final thread is torn and shed\n\nBut hope is fragile as the paper thin\nThat cracks beneath the weight of where we've been\nThe vulture waits, patient and unkind\nTo claim the last remnant left behind", 6], [54, "ultra_held_out", "Tell Me a Story by Robert Penn Warren", "Robert Penn Warren", "\"A poem about a speaker distancing himself from the modern world, seeking a story of delight and rejuvenation that encompasses themes of distance, contrasting with his memories of darkness and the sounds of migrating geese in his native childhood place.\"", "[ A ]\n\nLong ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood\nBy a dirt road, in first dark, and heard\nThe great geese hoot northward.\n\nI could not see them, there being no moon\nAnd the stars sparse. I heard them.\n\nI did not know what was happening in my heart.\n\nIt was the season before the elderberry blooms,\nTherefore they were going north.\n\nThe sound was passing northward.\n\n \n\n[ B ]\n\nTell me a story.\n\nIn this century, and moment, of mania,\nTell me a story.\n\nMake it a story of great distances, and starlight.\n\nThe name of the story will be Time,\nBut you must not pronounce its name.\n\nTell me a story of deep delight.", "I turn my back on screens that hum with static light\nAnd walk away from cities built of glass and steel\nTo find a story where the shadows do not bite\nWhere silence is a gift I did not know to feel\n\nThe modern world is loud with noise that never sleeps\nA frantic rhythm pounding in a hollow chest\nBut I remember how the darkness softly creeps\nBefore the sun has risen from its eastern rest\n\nIn those old days the air was thick with winter cold\nWhen migrating geese would cry their ancient song\nTheir voices cut the night, a tale both sharp and bold\nThat told me I belonged where I had longed to belong\n\nNow distance grows between the past and what I see\nA widening chasm filled with dust and fading sound\nYet in this quiet space I finally am free\nTo let the dark be gentle and the lost be found\n\nNo longer bound by clocks or wires made of fear\nI seek a delight that heals the weary bone\nWhere memories of geese make the present crystal clear\nAnd I am young again, though I am all alone", "I turn my back on the humming wires,\nOn the gray rush of the modern street,\nTo find a story of delight and light\nWhere I can walk with quiet feet.\n\nMy childhood was a place of dark,\nA heavy shadow on the land,\nSave for the sound of migrating geese\nThat cried across the sand.\n\nThey called from far away, above,\nWith voices clear and strange,\nWhile I lay in the deepening night\nAnd heard them as they range.\n\nNow I go far from that old gloom,\nFar from the noise and the dust,\nTo seek a tale of green and gold\nIn which to put my trust.", 6, "I step away from screens that hum with static light\nAnd leave the concrete pulse of cities far behind,\nSeeking a story where the air is clear and bright,\nA tale of joy to heal the weary mind.\n\nMy memory holds a darker, colder place,\nWhere shadows stretched across the frozen ground,\nAnd silence fell with heavy, suffocating grace,\nSave for the wild and mournful geese's sound.\n\nThey cried in V-formation through the gray,\nA haunting song of migration and of loss,\nThat echoed in the winter's long decay,\nBeneath the weight of frost and falling snows.\n\nBut here I seek a different, softer strain,\nWhere sunlight dances on a quiet stream,\nNo darkness breaks the rhythm of the plain,\nNo ghostly call disturbs my waking dream.\n\nLet distance be the wall between the past\nAnd this new world where delight begins to grow,\nWhere rejuvenation makes the spirit vast,\nAnd only gentle breezes softly blow.", 6, "I step away from screens that hum with static light\nAnd leave the city's pulse behind my back,\nSeeking a tale of simple, quiet delight\nTo heal the fractures in this weary track.\n\nThe modern noise is sharp and cold as steel,\nA constant drone that drowns the inner voice,\nBut here I find a different, softer feel,\nWhere nature offers me a gentle choice.\n\nMy childhood home was wrapped in heavy dark,\nA place where shadows stretched across the floor,\nAnd silence held a terrifying mark\nBefore the dawn could open up the door.\n\nYet through that gloom, one sound would pierce the night,\nThe honking cry of geese in migration flight,\nThey called to me with wild and ancient might,\nAcross the void of winter's endless white.\n\nNow distance keeps those memories at bay,\nNot to forget, but let them breathe anew,\nTransforming darkness into golden day,\nAs if the sky itself had turned to blue.\n\nThe story I have found is not of fear,\nBut of the wings that beat against the gray,\nOf hope that lingers when the path is clear,\nAnd leads me far from where the lost ones stray.\n\nSo let the world rush on without my name,\nI walk where quiet streams begin to flow,\nRejuvenated by a distant flame,\nWith nothing left for me to fear or know.", 6, "I turn my back on screens that hum with static light\nAnd walk until the city fades to gray\nWhere silence holds a story pure and bright\nTo wash the rust of modern hours away\n\nThe world I left is built of steel and haste\nA maze of shadows where the lost are bound\nBut here the air is cool and unencased\nWith ancient peace in every quiet sound\n\nMy memory keeps the dark of childhood nights\nWhen winter winds would bite through woolen coats\nAnd geese would cry their sharp, descending flights\nAcross the frozen lakes and distant moats\n\nThose voices called from far above the snow\nA chorus rising from the cold and deep\nWhile I lay warm beneath the heavy glow\nOf dreams that promised rest and safe retreat\n\nNow distance acts as both a wall and door\nBetween the noise I fled and this new space\nWhere stories bloom like flowers on the floor\nAnd time moves slow within a gentle pace\n\nNo longer bound by clocks or urgent calls\nI seek a tale of joy to start anew\nThat lifts me up above the concrete walls\nTo find the sky exactly as it grew", 6, "I turn my back on screens that hum with static light\nAnd walk away from cities built of steel and noise\nTo find a story where the air is clean and bright\nA tale of delight that drowns out modern poise\n\nMy memory holds a winter thick with gray and gloom\nWhere shadows stretched too long across the frozen floor\nThe darkness was a heavy, suffocating room\nThat whispered ancient fears behind a locked door\n\nBut then I hear the sound that once defined my youth\nThe migrating geese cutting through the cold November sky\nThey called to me in rhythms of a distant truth\nAs they flew above the fields where we used to lie\n\nNow distance acts as armor against the rushing crowd\nA quiet space where old wounds finally begin to heal\nI leave the chaos silent, fading soft and loud\nTo seek a springtime that makes the broken spirit real\n\nNo longer bound by clocks or wires pulling tight\nI let the wild wind carry all my sorrow far away\nRejuvenated by the stars and morning's gentle light\nIn stories written purely for the breaking of the day", 6, "I turn my back on screens that hum with static light\nAnd walk away from cities built of glass and steel\nTo find a tale where shadows do not bite\nAnd broken things are made to heal\n\nThe distance stretches wide between the now and then\nWhere neon ghosts replace the stars I used to know\nBut here the air is clear, the silence soft again\nA gentle wind begins to blow\n\nNo longer trapped within the walls of dark and dread\nThat held my childhood in a cold and heavy grip\nI leave the memories of fear behind me dead\nUpon this quiet, rising lip\n\nFar off beyond the reach of noise and frantic pace\nThe migrating geese return to skies of gold\nTheir ancient songs retrace their familiar trace\nA story waiting to unfold\n\nThey call across the fields where winter starts to fade\nWith wings that cut the gray and lead the way home\nA promise that the dawn will soon be made\nTo wash away the night's deep gloom\n\nSo let the modern world dissolve into the mist\nAs I embrace the rhythm of the wild and free\nIn every cry that rises from the mist\nI find the life I long to be", 7, "I step away from screens that hum with static noise\nAnd trade the glare of city lights for softer, older skies\nWhere shadows used to stretch across the frozen ground\nA memory of winter's bite and silence deep and profound\n\nThe geese arrive in V-formations cutting through the gray\nTheir ancient songs a lullaby to wash the dust of yesterday\nThey speak of distant marshes where the water holds its breath\nFar from the frantic rhythm of a life I wish to leave behind\n\nHere the air tastes clean and sharp against my weary skin\nNo longer bound by clocks that tick or walls that close within\nI seek a tale of golden fields where time moves slow and sweet\nA story woven from the roots beneath my wandering feet\n\nLet the darkness fade into the dawn that breaks the night\nAs I find the peace that waits beyond the reach of sight\nNo more the weight of modern chains that bind the spirit tight\nJust the wind, the wild, and stars that guide me home tonight", 6], [57, "train", "what if a much of a which of a wind by E.E. cummings", "E.E. Cummings", "\"A poem about the earth being destroyed by natural disasters and humanity's unique capacity for bringing about its own irreversible apocalypse.\"", "what if a much of a which of a wind\ngives truth to the summer's lie;\nbloodies with dizzying leaves the sun\nand yanks immortal stars awry?\nBlow king to beggar and queen to seem\n(blow friend to fiend:blow space to time)\n\u2014when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,\nthe single secret will still be man\n\nwhat if a keen of a lean wind flays\nscreaming hills with sleet and snow:\nstrangles valleys by ropes of thing\nand stifles forests in white ago?\nBlow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind\n(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)\n\u2014whose hearts are mountains, roots are trees,\nit's they shall cry hello to the spring\n\nwhat if a dawn of a doom of a dream\nbites this universe in two, \npeels forever out of his grave\nand sprinkles nowhere with me and you?\nBlow soon to never and never to twice\n(blow life to isn't: blow death to was)\n\u2014all nothing's only our hugest home;\nthe most who die,the more we live", "The volcano wakes with ancient breath\nTo swallow valleys in a sea of red\nThe storm gathers strength from shifting air\nAnd tears the fragile canopy apart\nThese are the earth's old, heavy sighs\nA cycle written long before our first cry\n\nBut we have learned a different art\nTo carve the future from the present heart\nWe built the fire that consumes the sky\nWith hands that reach to touch the stars then die\nNo asteroid strikes with such intent\nAs the quiet poison we quietly sent\n\nThe ice retreats not from solar heat\nBut from the smog we weave around the street\nWe hold the switch for every final door\nAnd turn the key without a single war\nNature heals if given time and space\nBut we erase the very healing place\n\nA unique sorrow marks this end\nWhere monsters do not rise but friends descend\nTo trade the green for gray and gold\nFor stories never fully told\nThe planet spins through empty dark\nLit by the spark of our own work", "The mountains shudder and the oceans boil\nAs storms unmake the coastlines one by one,\nYet nature's wrath is but a fleeting toil\nCompared to what we do when we are done.\n\nShe breaks a bone or two, perhaps a limb,\nTo teach us how to walk or run again,\nBut we possess a dark and final whim\nTo crush her skull and snap her spinal vein.\n\nNo asteroid could ever strike so hard\nAs we who hold the key to our own end;\nWe have the power to break the world's green card\nAnd burn the future with a single trend.\n\nThe floods will pass, the fires die away,\nThe earth will heal if left alone by man,\nBut we can make this irreversible day\nWhen all the stars look down on nothing done.", 6, "The volcanoes wake with ancient, hungry breath\nAnd swallow cities in a tide of fire\nWhile oceans rise to claim the coastal death\nAnd storms unmake the forests we admire\nThese are the earth's old rhythms, wild and free\nA planet shedding skin or shifting weight\nBut there is something different now, you see\nIn how we engineer our own demise\n\nWe do not wait for nature's cruel decree\nTo seal the fate that we ourselves create\nWe built the bombs that split the atom's key\nAnd forged the plastics that outlast the state\nWe poisoned wells and burned the carbon deep\nUntil the ice caps wept and glaciers fled\nAnd now the final harvest we must reap\nIs sown by hands that thought they were not dead\n\nNo asteroid will strike from outer space\nTo wipe the slate clean with a sudden blow\nWe hold the pen that writes the human race\nInto a story ending in woe\nThe apocalypse is not a stranger's hand\nIt is the mirror of our own design\nWhere every city stands upon the sand\nOf choices made, and time runs out of line", 7, "The mountain shudders and the sea rises high\nTo swallow cities built on greed and lie\nThe wind howls through the cracks of broken stone\nA natural rage that leaves us all alone\n\nYet storms and quakes are old and blind and deep\nThey do not plot the promises we keep\nOr calculate the poison in the air\nOr count the years until there is no care\n\nIt is our hand that turns the final key\nTo lock the door where life was meant to be\nNot fire from the sky or flood from the deep\nBut quiet choices made while others sleep\n\nWe crafted bombs that burn without a sound\nAnd dug the graves beneath our hallowed ground\nNo force of nature could so surely kill\nThe fragile spark, the human, stubborn will\n\nNow ash falls soft upon the empty street\nWhere silence reigns where once we marched and beat\nThe earth survives but we have lost our place\nIn this cold void we carved with our own face", 7, "The mountain shakes and rivers turn to fire\nAs storms devour the coast in violent hunger\nNature's wrath is loud but brief and blind\nA cycle old that time has taught us well\n\nYet we hold the spark that burns the sky\nNot born of wind or wave or shifting plate\nBut forged in greed within a quiet room\nWhere choices made decide the final fate\n\nThe ice melts not from sun alone today\nBut from the smoke we chose to breathe and burn\nWe built the cage around our fragile home\nAnd locked the door with keys we threw away\n\nNo asteroid could strike with such intent\nNo comet drawn by gravity so deep\nOnly the mind that calculates the cost\nOf every life we trade for fleeting sleep\n\nThe earth will heal if given time to rest\nIf oceans rise and forests turn to dust\nBut when the silence comes from human hands\nThere is no dawn to break this endless night", 6, "The mountain crumbles under weight of snow\nThe ocean swells to claim the coastal town\nA fire rages where the ancient forests grow\nAnd nature pulls the heavy curtain down\n\nYet these are forces old and wild and deep\nThat turn the world before we even wake\nBut something darker stirs while we asleep\nA poison that our own two hands create\n\nWe burn the sky with smoke from iron lungs\nWe carve the soil until it turns to dust\nWhile silence falls on every singing throngs\nAnd break the trust within the earth's soft crust\n\nNo storm could match the coldness in our gaze\nNo earthquake shakes the ground like greed's demand\nWe build a cage of glass and steel and haze\nThen hold the key within a trembling hand\n\nThe floods may rise but they will one day recede\nThe fires fade when rain returns to fall\nBut what we start is not a cycle freed\nIt is the end of all, the final wall\n\nThe planet breaks beneath a double weight\nOf shifting tides and choices made by men\nWe seal the gate before it is too late\nAnd watch the light go out, again, again", 7, "The oceans rise to swallow coastlines whole\nAs storms tear through the fragile skin of stone\nA fever burns beneath the trembling soil\nWhere ancient roots have lost their hold alone\n\nYet in the chaos, something darker wakes\nNot born of wind or fire from the sky\nBut forged in greed and silence that we make\nWhile watching every dying star go by\n\nWe built the towers high enough to fall\nAnd lit the fuse with hands we claimed were wise\nNo asteroid could strike so deep a call\nAs our own hunger for the final prize\n\nThe ice recedes without a sound of grief\nAs cities crumble into dust and gray\nWe sought to conquer nature's wild belief\nOnly to pave the road that leads away\n\nNow ash descends like snow upon the dead\nA quiet end we wrote with every choice\nThe earth remembers all the words unsaid\nAnd leaves us with the echo of our voice", 7, "The tectonic plates begin to shift\nA rumble deep beneath the soil\nWhile storms of fire consume the sky\nAnd oceans rise to claim their toll\n\nYet nature's wrath is but a song\nAn ancient rhythm, wild and free\nIt is our hands that hold the match\nTo burn the world we used to see\n\nWe built our towers on the edge\nOf cliffs we knew were crumbling fast\nIgnoring warnings in the wind\nChasing shadows of a dying past\n\nThe ice retreats in silent grief\nAs forests turn to ash and gray\nNot struck by lightning from above\nBut carved away by greed each day\n\nA paradox of fragile life\nThat seeks to conquer all it finds\nLeaving behind a hollow shell\nWhere once a vibrant heart beat blind\n\nNo savior comes from distant stars\nTo mend the cracks we made so wide\nOnly the silence of the grave\nWhere human hope has nowhere left to hide", 6], [61, "ultra_held_out", "The Trashpickers, Madison Street by Naomi Shihab Nye", "Naomi Shihab Nye", "\"A poem about trash pickers murmuring and sorting through discarded items in the early morning, weaving dreams around rejected objects that offer glimpses into the lives of those who left them behind.\"", "On the edge of dawn\u2019s pale eye,\nthe trashpickers are lifting the lid of every can,\npoking inside with bent hanger and stick.\nThey murmur in a language soft as rags.\nWhat have we here?\nTheir colorless overcoats drift and grow wings.\n\nThey pull a creaking wagon, tinfoil wads, knotted string,\nto the cave where sacraments of usefulness are performed.\nKneel to the triple weddings of an old nail.\nRejoice in the rebirth of envelopes.\nThe crooked skillet finds its first kingdom\non a shelf where nothing is new.\n\nThey dream small dreams, furry ones,\na swatch of velvet passed hand-to-hand.\nTheir hearts are compasses fixed to the ground\nand their love, more like moss than like fire", "The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet concrete\nWhere figures move with quiet, practiced grace\nTo sift the night's refuse for something sweet\n\nA child's red mitten, lost beside the bin\nStill holds the warmth of fingers small and cold\nThey whisper soft about the games begun\nAnd stories that were never fully told\n\nA broken watch with glass like shattered ice\nThat stopped exactly when the heart gave way\nThey trace the gears with rough and calloused hands\nAnd dream of mornings that did not decay\n\nMurmurs rise like steam from coffee cups\nAbout the letters torn and thrown aside\nThe ink still fresh with promises of love\nNow resting where the stray dogs come to hide\n\nThey sort the plastic, paper, rusted steel\nAnd weave a tapestry from what was cast\nEach object speaks a fragment of a soul\nA memory too heavy for the past\n\nThe sun begins to bleed into the gray\nRevealing faces worn by endless nights\nWho find in trash a strange and fragile hope\nOf lives that flickered out without a fight", "The streetlights hum a low, tired note\nAs the city sleeps in gray and mist,\nAnd shadowed figures start their rote\nAmong the bins where dreams are missed.\n\nThey murmur soft as bees at comb,\nWhile sorting through the broken things:\nA child's doll with one eye gone home,\nA ticket stub from distant wings.\n\n\"This coat,\" says one, \"was loved so dear,\nBut now it smells of rain and smoke;\nThe owner wore it out, I fear,\nOr lost it when his heart was broke.\"\n\n\"This cup,\" says another, \"held sweet tea,\nAnd sat upon a window-sill;\nIt must have been a happy family,\nWho left it here to be my kill.\"\n\nThey weave their dreams around the trash,\nThese early morning scavengers;\nThey see the life behind each dash,\nBehind these cast-off trifles.\n\nPerhaps the man who threw this shoe away\nWas walking home and lost a wife;\nPerhaps the woman who threw that dress away\nIs dead, or just in better life.\n\nSo they go on, the murmuring men,\nSorting the trash, the dreams, the things;\nWeaving new lives for them again,\nAround these broken, discarded things.", 5, "The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet pavement\nWhere figures in worn coats bend low\nAnd fingers trace the edges of broken things.\n\nA child's shoe, one sole detached, lies near the curb\nAnd one picker murmurs of a running game\nOf rain that stopped too soon and laughter left behind\nWhile another holds a torn photograph\nSeeing a wedding day in sepia tones\nWondering why the bride was crossed out with a pen.\n\nThey sort through cardboard boxes with quiet clicks\nOf plastic bottles crushing underfoot\nWeaving small dreams from the refuse pile\nAbout the hands that held these objects last.\n\nHere is a letter never sent, the ink still dark\nPerhaps a love confessed to someone who moved away\nThere is a half-eaten apple, brown at the core\nReminding them of a hurried lunch break\nIn a park where the grass was green and clean.\n\nThey do not judge the waste but find the stories\nHidden in the crumpled paper and rusted tin\nDreaming of the lives that spilled these fragments out\nBefore the sun rises to burn the mist away\nAnd the city wakes to sweep the night's debris\nInto trucks that roar and carry it all gone.", 5, "The streetlights hum a low and tired note\nas boots crunch on the wet asphalt\nand fingers, stained with grease and rain,\nbegin to sift the silent mountain.\nA murmuring starts, soft as dust settling,\nbetween two figures bent over a crate\nwhere a child's red plastic truck lies crushed,\nits wheel spinning a phantom race\nin the mind of the man who dropped it\nrunning late for a job he never got.\n\nThey lift a frayed wool coat, heavy with damp,\nand hear the echo of a cough inside the lining,\na story of warmth traded for a bottle cap,\na life pared down to what fits in a sack.\nHere is a diary, pages stuck with gum,\nholding the ink-stained dreams of a girl\nwho wanted to be an astronaut or a queen,\nnow just kindling for a morning fire.\nThey whisper to the objects, not out of pity,\nbut to keep the ghosts from fading too soon,\nweaving new narratives from broken glass\nand torn receipts that list only bread and milk.\n\nIn the gray dawn light, a shattered mirror\nreflects not their faces but the empty rooms\nthey once inhabited, the chairs pulled up to tables\nthat no longer exist.\nThey sort the past into piles of metal, paper, bone,\ndreaming that this discarded heap might one day\nrise up and become a castle again,\nor a ship to sail away from the hunger,\nwhile the city wakes behind them, blind\nto the quiet archaeology of survival\nunfolding in the shadows of the bins.", 2, "The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet asphalt\nAnd hands calloused by the night's long work\nBegin to sift the silence of the bins\n\nA murmuring rises like a soft tide\nOf names forgotten, stories half-told\nThey lift a torn photograph with trembling fingers\nWhere a wedding dress still holds the ghost of lace\nAnd wonder at the smile that once was bright\nBefore the rain or time could wash it clean\n\nHere lies a child's shoe, blue and scuffed\nWith mud from playgrounds now locked away\nThe picker traces dust upon the sole\nAnd dreams of running feet that will not run again\nWhile somewhere in the dark, a mother sleeps\nUnknowing that her loss is being weighed\n\nThey sort the broken toys and shattered glass\nInto neat piles of what might be redeemed\nBut mostly they collect the quiet grief\nThat clings to paper receipts and empty boxes\nEach object holds a key to someone's door\nThat opened wide then slammed shut in the wind\n\nA silver locket dangles from a hook\nIts chain snapped but its heart still beating slow\nInside, a face is blurred by years of neglect\nYet the picker sees the love that put it there\nAnd whispers to the metal, \"You are found\"\nAs dawn begins to bleed into the gray\n\nThe city wakes to sweep these secrets under rugs\nBut for a moment, in the early light\nThe discarded things become a tapestry\nOf lives that touched the ground and left their mark\nWhile murmurs weave a dream around the trash\nTo say that nothing lost is truly gone", 6, "The streetlights hum a low and tired tune\nAs boots crunch softly on the wet asphalt\nThey move like shadows through the grayest hour\nWith baskets slung upon their weary backs\n\nA murmured chant begins to rise and fall\nBetween the rusted cans and torn-up boxes\nThey speak in whispers of the things they find\nAnd weave a dream from fragments left behind\n\nThis shattered cup once held a morning coffee\nFor someone rushing to a job they hated\nThe stain inside still holds the bitter taste\nOf promises that broke before the dawn\n\nA child's red shoe lies half beneath a bench\nWith lace undone and sole worn thin by running\nIt speaks of games played in the summer rain\nBefore the storm came rolling in too fast\n\nThey sort the broken toys with gentle hands\nImagining the laughter that once filled the room\nEach discarded thing becomes a window pane\nThrough which they glimpse the lives that passed them by\n\nA love letter crumpled in a plastic bag\nThe ink now blurred by tears or heavy rain\nIt tells a story of a goodbye spoken\nTo someone who was never meant to stay\n\nThe sun begins to bleed across the sky\nIlluminating treasures others threw away\nThe pickers pause to listen to the silence\nThat echoes loud within these hollow shells\n\nThey carry home the ghosts of other days\nAnd build a castle from the world's refuse\nWhere every scrap is gold if looked at right\nAnd every loss contains a hidden hope", 6, "The streetlamps hum a low and tired tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet concrete\nWhere figures move in silence, soft and slow\nTo gather what the night has left behind\n\nA rusted spoon still holds the ghost of soup\nA child's shoe with one sole worn away\nThey whisper names to things that have no voice\nAnd trace the cracks where broken stories lie\n\nThis ticket stub was clutched in nervous hands\nBefore a train that never came to town\nThat shattered glass reflects a wedding ring\nNow lost beneath the dust of morning gray\n\nThey sort the fragments like a sacred rite\nBuilding castles from the refuse heap\nFor every discarded toy or torn receipt\nIs proof that someone lived and loved and wept\n\nThe sun begins to bleed across the sky\nIlluminating treasures found by chance\nAs dreams are woven tight around the trash\nAnd strangers walk away with stolen glances", 5, "The streetlights hum a low and broken tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet asphalt\nWhere hands move soft to lift the heavy moon\nAnd sift through what the world has left behind\n\nA child's shoe holds a ghost of laughter still\nIts laces frayed by time and careless rain\nThey trace the path of every sudden thrill\nThat led this owner to a distant lane\n\nWhispers rise like smoke from cardboard boxes\nMurmuring tales of love that turned to dust\nOf broken vows and unfulfilled promises\nFound inside a rusted, empty cup\n\nThe mirror cracked reflects a fractured face\nOf someone who once dreamed of stars above\nNow resting in a pile of forgotten grace\nA silent witness to the weight of love\n\nThey gather fragments of a life undone\nTo stitch together dreams from discarded things\nIn every scrap, a story is begun\nFor those who listen to the morning sings\n\nNo judgment falls upon the sorted heap\nOnly the quiet understanding grows\nAs lost and found begin to softly sleep\nBeneath the weight of all the seeds they sow", 6], [62, "train", "In and Out of Time by Maya Angelou", "Maya Angelou", "\"A poem about two people defining their enduring love while navigating struggles and moving towards a clearer, safer future together.\"", "The sun has come.\nThe mist has gone.\nWe see in the distance...\nour long way home.\nI was always yours to have.\nYou were always mine.\nWe have loved each other in and out of time.\nWhen the first stone looked up at the blazing sun\nand the first tree struggled up from the forest floor\nI had always loved you more.\nYou freed your braids...\ngave your hair to the breeze.\nIt hummed like a hive of honey bees.\nI reached in the mass for the sweet honey comb there...\nMmmm... God how I love your hair.\nYou saw me bludgeoned by circumstance.\nLost, injured, hurt by chance.\nI screamed to the heavens... loudly screamed...\nTrying to change our nightmares into dreams...\nThe sun has come.\nThe mist has gone.\nWe see in the distance our long way home.\nI was always yours to have.\nYou were always mine.\nWe have loved each other in and out\nin and out\nin and out\nof time.", "The wind howled through the cracks we tried to seal\nWith hands that shook and voices low and frail\nWe counted every bruise, every wound revealed\nBy storms that tested whether we would fail\n\nBut in the quiet dark, a truth took root\nThat love is not just sunlight on the face\nIt is the stubborn, deep and silent shoot\nThat finds a path through any barren place\n\nNow shadows stretch but do not block the way\nAs dawn begins to break the heavy gray\nWe walk together toward a brighter day\nWhere safety waits to hold us safe at last\nNo longer lost within the storm's embrace\nBut building up a future, strong and vast", "We traced the map of our days with a trembling hand\nThrough valleys where shadows stood thick as a wall,\nWhere the wind howled like wolves and the road was unspanned,\nAnd the stars were too distant to guide us at all.\n\nBut we held to each other, and though we were small,\nOur love made a fire that burned through the night,\nIt glowed in the dark like a light on a hill,\nAnd showed us the way to the morning's white light.\n\nNow the path is more level, the sky is more clear,\nThe storm has blown over, the danger is past;\nWe have come to a place where we need not fear,\nAnd the future looks bright as the morning will last.", 7, "The road was rough and the wind cut deep\nbeneath a sky that held no promise,\nyet we walked hand in hand through the storm\nfinding shelter in the quiet rhythm of our steps.\n\nWe spoke of love not as a sudden spark\nbut as the slow-burning coal that kept us warm\nwhen the world tried to freeze our bones,\na definition written in scars and shared silence.\n\nNow the fog is lifting from the valley floor\nand the path ahead shines with a steady light,\nwe see the horizon where the air is clear\nand the ground beneath our feet feels safe again.\n\nNo longer lost in the gray confusion of yesterday,\nwe stand together on solid earth,\nknowing that whatever comes next,\nwe have already survived the hardest part.", 6, "The road was narrow then,\nwashed out by rain and doubt,\nwhere every step required a hand\nto hold the other up.\nWe learned the shape of fear\nby tracing it in shadows on the wall,\nbut we also learned the weight of silence\nwhen it meant we were not alone.\n\nNow the storm has shifted east,\nleaving behind a sky that clears\nlike a window wiped with care.\nWe do not speak of what we lost,\nonly of how we kept our footing\nwhen the ground began to shake.\nOur love is not a flag unfurled,\nbut the quiet anchor dropped deep\nin waters that have finally calmed.\n\nWe walk toward the morning light\nwith nothing but our worn-out boots\nand the certainty that comes from knowing\nwe survived the night together.\nThe path ahead is straight and open,\npaved with promises we made\nin the dark,\nnow standing solid in the sun.", 6, "The road was rough with stones we did not see,\nAnd shadows stretched across the narrow path,\nBut you held tight to me and held on free,\nThrough seasons of the storm and sudden wrath.\n\nWe learned that love is not a perfect line,\nBut two broken hands that fit together well,\nA quiet strength that makes the dark define\nThe light we found when all the bells fell silent.\n\nNow fog begins to lift from off the ground,\nAnd clearer skies reveal a safer shore,\nWhere peace is finally and truly found,\nBeyond the wars we fought and walked before.\n\nNo longer lost within the shifting sand,\nWe walk ahead with eyes fixed on the dawn,\nTwo hearts aligned by time and steady hand,\nTo build a home where we can carry on.", 7, "The road was rough beneath our feet\nWith shadows stretching long and deep\nWe held on tight to what we knew\nWhile storms refused to let us sleep\n\nYou spoke of fear in quiet tones\nI answered with a steady hand\nWe mapped the cracks within the stone\nAnd built a bridge across the land\n\nNo longer lost in fog or night\nWe see the path begin to clear\nA promise made in fading light\nThat draws the future drawing near\n\nThrough every tear and every fall\nOur love remains the constant ground\nIt lifts us up when walls might stall\nAnd turns the silence into sound\n\nSo walk beside me, step by step\nInto the dawn that waits ahead\nWhere all the broken things are kept\nSafe in the life we now have led", 7, "The road was rough beneath our weary feet\nWhere shadows stretched and silence held us tight\nWe learned to speak in whispers, soft and sweet\nTo navigate the chaos of the night\n\nBut in the storm, a steady hand remained\nA promise kept when all else seemed to fade\nThrough every crack that threatened to divide\nOur roots grew deep within the mess we made\n\nNow dawn breaks clear above the broken ground\nNo longer lost within the fog of fear\nWe walk as one where peace is finally found\nWith brighter horizons drawing ever near\n\nThis love is not a shield against the pain\nBut how we heal when scars begin to show\nA future built on trust and gentle rain\nWhere safety blooms from seeds we used to sow", 7, "The road we walked was rough with stone\nAnd shadows stretched where light had grown\nBut in the quiet, hand in hand\nWe found the strength to understand\n\nThat love is not a perfect line\nBut two broken hearts that intertwine\nThrough storms that tear the sky apart\nAnd keep the beating of each heart\n\nWe learned to speak when silence screamed\nTo heal the wounds time has redeemed\nNo longer lost within the gray\nWe build a dawn to start the day\n\nThe future waits with open doors\nBeyond the weight of what before\nA safer place for us to stand\nWith steady ground beneath our plan\n\nSo let the old fears fade away\nAs morning breaks another day\nTogether bound by something true\nA promise made between me and you", 7], [65, "ultra_held_out", "Apostate by L\u00e9onie Adams", "L\u00e9onie Adams", "A poem about a speaker marveling at the joyful freedom of the stars and aching to live as they do, unmasked and unbound by rules.", "From weariness I looked out on the stars\nAnd there beheld them, fixed in throbbing joy, Nor racked by such mad dance of moods as mars\nFor us each moment\u2019s grace with swift alloy. And as they pierced the heavens\u2019 serene deep\nAn envy of that one consummate part\nSwept me, who mock. Whether I laugh or weep,\nSome inner silences are at my heart.\nCold shame is mine for all the masks I wear,\nBelying that in me which shines and sings\nBefore Him, to face down man\u2019s alien stare\u2014\nA graceless puppet on unmeaning strings, I that looked out, and saw, and was at rest,\nStars, and faint wings, rose-etched along the west.", "They dance in silent, silver arcs\nAbove the heavy, rule-bound earth,\nNo masks to hide their burning hearts,\nNo chains of gravity or girth.\n\nOh, how I ache to shed this skin,\nThis suit of laws and whispered lies,\nTo let the wild light rush within\nAnd meet the vast and open skies.\n\nNo curfew holds the drifting fire,\nNo judge decrees where they may roam,\nJust endless, unconfined desire\nThat calls the wandering spirit home.\n\nI watch them spin without a care,\nUnbound by time or human law,\nAnd wish with all my soul to tear\nThe fabric that I wear as awe.\n\nTo be as they are, bright and free,\nUnmasked before the void's deep eye,\nA star in wild symmetry,\nBeneath the infinite and sky.", "Oh, how they dance in their own wild light,\nThose stars that never wear a mask,\nWho do not need to hide their face\nOr cover up their radiant task.\n\nThey are not bound by laws of men,\nBy clocks or rules or narrow streets;\nThey run across the velvet dark\nWith naked, burning, joyful feet.\n\nI wish I were one of them,\nTo have no name and no disguise,\nBut just to be a star of fire\nAnd burn before your wondering eyes.", 7, "Oh, how they dance in silver silence,\nUnmasked by day, unbound by law,\nNo heavy cloak of duty hangs\nUpon their shoulders as they draw\nTheir light from nothing but themselves,\nAnd spin without a single care\nFor who might watch or what might say,\nOr if the ground beneath them dare\nTo catch them should they choose to fall.\n\nI ache to be a star tonight,\nTo shed this skin of flesh and fear,\nTo float where no one tells me \"stop,\"\nWhere no one whispers, \"Do not go here.\"\nNo rules to bind my wandering fire,\nNo masks to hide my truest face,\nJust wild and free and burning bright\nIn that vast, open, empty space.", 6, "They spin in silver, wild and unafraid,\nNo laws to hold their burning hearts in check,\nNo heavy masks of silence they have made,\nJust endless light with no one to inspect.\n\nI watch them dance above the city walls,\nUnbound by time or gravity or fear,\nWhile I must answer when the daylight calls,\nAnd wear a face that hides what I hold dear.\n\nOh, how I ache to cast this skin away,\nTo be a spark that burns without a name,\nTo laugh aloud into the night and day,\nAnd never bow to any human claim.\n\nLet me be fire that answers to no king,\nA wandering star with nowhere left to go,\nFree from the weight of every whispered thing,\nAnd let my true self finally overflow.", 7, "They dance in silver, wild and bare,\nNo masks of silence on their air,\nNo laws to chain their burning flight,\nJust endless, unconfined delight.\n\nI watch them spin through velvet deep,\nWhile I am bound by promises I keep,\nBy rules that carve a narrow lane,\nAnd teach the heart to feign and feign.\n\nOh, how I ache to shed this skin,\nTo let the quiet wars begin,\nTo be a spark with no command,\nUnbound by any human hand.\n\nLet me dissolve into the night,\nA naked star of purest light,\nWith nothing left to hide or fear,\nJust freedom, vast and crystal clear.", 7, "They dance in silver, wild and bare\nWith no one watching, no one there\nTo tell them where they must go\nOr how their light should softly glow.\n\nI wear a mask of heavy stone\nAnd walk the paths I'm told to own\nWhile up above, the constellations spin\nUnbound by law or fear of sin.\n\nOh, to be dust that floats so free\nUnshackled from this gravity\nTo burn without a reason why\nBeneath the vast and open sky.\n\nMy heart beats loud against my chest\nA prisoner seeking final rest\nIn fields where rules are never drawn\nAnd night is just a brand new dawn.", 7, "They dance in silver chains of ancient light\nNo laws to bind their wild and wandering flight\nI watch them spin above the silent deep\nWhile I am forced to wake from heavy sleep\n\nOh how they burn without a mask of gray\nUnbound by rules that steal the breath away\nThey do not ask for permission to exist\nOr hide their fire behind a painted mist\n\nMy heart beats fast against a cage of bone\nAching to leave this world where I alone\nMust wear the face that others tell me to\nAnd drown my song beneath a muted hue\n\nIf only I could shed this skin of dust\nAnd rise on currents made of wind and trust\nTo be as vast, as free, as unconfined\nAs all the stars that shine within my mind", 7, "I watch the silver dust ignite\nAbove the heavy, breathing night\nWhere gravity has lost its hold\nAnd stories of the dark unfold\n\nThey dance in currents, wild and free\nUnwritten by a human key\nNo law to chain their burning light\nNo shadow cast against their height\n\nOh, how I ache to shed this skin\nTo let the quiet wars begin\nWithin the chest that beats so slow\nBeneath the weight of all we know\n\nIf I could break the silent cage\nAnd turn my spirit into ageless rage\nI'd burn without a single fear\nA beacon for the atmosphere\n\nLet rules dissolve like morning mist\nBy distant constellations kissed\nTo be unmasked, raw, and true\nJust as the ancient heavens do", 6], [67, "train", "[A] Talisman by Marianne Moore", "Marianne Moore", "\"A poem about a shepherd discovering a mysterious seagull-shaped talisman beneath the wreckage of a grounded, broken ship.\"", "Under a splintered mast,\ntorn from ship and cast\nnear her hull,\na stumbling shepherd found\nembedded in the ground,\na sea-gull\nof lapis lazuli,\na scarab of the sea,\nwith wings spread\u2014\ncurling its coral feet,\nparting its beak to greet\nmen long dead.", "The tide had left the hull to rot and rust,\nA skeletal whale upon the shifting sand,\nWhere gulls once screamed above the broken mast,\nNow silence held the wreckage in its hand.\n\nI walked among the splintered ribs of wood,\nMy flock asleep within the distant dune,\nWhen something caught the light where shadows stood,\nBeneath a beam that fell like early moon.\n\nIt was not bone, nor driftwood, nor old rope,\nBut metal cold as winter's deepest breath,\nCarved into the shape of hope or scope,\nA seagull frozen in a silent death.\n\nIts wings were spread as if to catch the wind,\nYet etched with symbols I could not decipher,\nA talisman from lands beyond the mind,\nThat seemed to hum with some forgotten cipher.\n\nI lifted it and felt a sudden chill,\nAs if the ocean whispered through the stone,\nThe ship was dead, but this was made to will,\nA guardian for the lost who walk alone.\n\nNo captain's coin, no sailor's lucky charm,\nJust bird-shaped magic found in ruin's keep,\nI tucked it close against my woolen arm,\nAnd watched the sea while all the world fell asleep.", "The tide had left the hull upon the dunes,\nA ribcage picked clean by the salt and wind,\nWhere once the gulls cried out in joyous tunes\nNow only silence where the waves had been.\n\nThe shepherd climbed the broken timber stairs\nTo seek a lost lamb or a piece of drift,\nAnd found beneath the rotting deck and rails\nA thing that made his heart give sudden lift.\n\nIt was a talisman of silvered stone,\nCarved in the shape of some great seagull bird,\nWith eyes like chips of amber set alone\nIn feathers smooth as any living word.\n\nHe held it to the light of morning grey,\nAnd felt a strange cold thrill run through his hand;\nIt seemed to look across the bay and say,\n\"Look at me, I am from another land.\"\n\nHe put it in his pocket with the bread,\nAnd went down slowly to the sandy floor,\nBut when he reached the beach, the ship was dead,\nFor all the wood had fallen to the shore.", 6, "The tide had pulled the timber back\nTo leave the ribs of iron bare,\nA skeleton upon the sand\nWith salt and rust within its hair.\n\nI walked among the splintered beams\nWhere gulls once screamed in frantic flight,\nAnd found a shape beneath the wood\nThat caught the pale and morning light.\n\nIt was not bone, nor driftwood carved,\nBut metal smooth as polished glass,\nShaped like a gull with wings spread wide\nAs if to rise and fly at last.\n\nNo ship's crest marked this strange device,\nNo name of captain etched in gold,\nJust silver eyes that held no fear\nAnd stories that were never told.\n\nI picked it up; it felt quite warm\nThough cold the sea-wind blew that day,\nAnd for a moment, I could hear\nThe ocean singing far away.\n\nNow when I watch my sheep at dusk\nUpon the hillside green and steep,\nI hold the talisman in hand\nWhile all the world is fast asleep.\n\nAnd sometimes, when the wind blows hard,\nI swear the silver wings will twitch,\nAnd lead me out across the dunes\nTo find what lies beyond the ditch.", 6, "The tide had pulled the great ship down\nTo rest beneath the dune,\nWhere rusted ribs of iron bone\nWere tangled with the moon.\n\nI walked the shore to count my sheep\nBeneath a gray and heavy sky,\nWhen something caught the morning light\nAnd made the sand nearby\n\nFlash white as salt or broken glass,\nHalf-buried in the kelp,\nA shape that looked like wings spread wide,\nBut carved from ancient help.\n\nIt was a gull, but not of bone,\nNor feather, nor of air,\nBut metal cold as winter stars\nWith eyes of polished flare.\n\nNo bird that ever flew above\nCould hold such stillness deep,\nAs if it waited for a sign\nWhile all the world asleep.\n\nI picked it up and felt the weight\nOf oceans far away,\nAnd wondered what dark sea had cast\nThis silent thing to stay.\n\nThe ship was dead, the wood was rot,\nThe crew were lost to foam,\nYet here a seagull talisman\nHad found its final home.\n\nI tucked it close within my coat\nAgainst the chilling wind,\nAnd watched the waves roll over where\nThe broken ship had been.", 6, "The tide had left the hull to rot and rust,\nA skeleton of timber on the sand,\nWhere gulls once cried above the captain's trust,\nNow silence held the broken, shifting land.\n\nI walked among the splintered ribs of wood,\nMy sheep forgotten in the morning mist,\nWhen something gleamed beneath a patch of mud,\nNot bone or shell, but metal cold and kissed.\n\nIt lay there shaped like wings spread wide for flight,\nWith eyes of stone that caught the pale sun's ray,\nA seagull forged from some forgotten night,\nThat seemed to watch the wreckage of the day.\n\nNo rust could touch its silver, smooth design,\nNo salt could dull the feathers carved so deep,\nAs if it waited through the years to shine,\nA secret kept while all the world asleep.\n\nI lifted up the talisman with care,\nAnd felt a hum within my calloused palm,\nThe air grew still, devoid of wind or flare,\nAs if the ocean paused to hear a psalm.\n\nPerhaps this bird was meant to guide the lost,\nOr mark the place where dreams go down to die,\nWhatever purpose bore the heavy cost,\nI hold the sky within my trembling eye.", 6, "The tide pulled back to reveal the ribs\nOf a great ship that slept in sand,\nWhere salt and rust had made their truce\nAcross the broken, splintered land.\nI walked among the twisted beams\nThat once had held the ocean's weight,\nUntil a glint of silver caught my eye\nBeneath the shadow of the gate.\n\nIt lay half-buried in the drift,\nNot wood or iron, cold and gray,\nBut shaped like wings spread wide to fly\nIn some forgotten, distant day.\nA seagull carved from moonlit stone,\nWith eyes of amber, deep and still,\nNo feather marked its smooth surface,\nYet it defied the quiet hill.\n\nMy fingers brushed the cool relief,\nAnd suddenly the wind grew loud,\nThough not a breath was stirring there\nAbove the wreckage and the cloud.\nThe talisman hummed a low refrain,\nA song of storms I'd never known,\nAs if the bird had waited long\nFor me to claim what was its own.\n\nNow in my pocket, warm and light,\nThe broken ship begins to fade,\nWhile somewhere far beyond the dunes,\nThe sky is where the choice is made.", 6, "The wind had stripped the timber bare\nAnd left the hull to rot and rust\nUpon the jagged, salt-stained air\nWhere only gulls and silence trust\n\nI walked the beach where waves once broke\nTo gather driftwood for the fire\nBut something caught my weary stroke\nA gleam amidst the dark mire\n\nBeneath a beam of splintered oak\nThat held the weight of ocean deep\nMy fingers found a silver token\nAwake while all the world asleep\n\nIt bore the shape of soaring wings\nWith eyes of glass that held no fear\nNo sound of storm or crashing things\nCould make this ancient artifact appear\n\nA seagull carved from starlight's core\nThough ships have sunk and men have fled\nIt waits upon the shifting floor\nFor words that have not yet been said\n\nI lift it high against the gray\nAs dusk begins to claim the shore\nThe broken ship has lost its way\nBut I am guided by this lore", 6, "The wind howled low across the dunes\nWhere salt and rust had claimed their throne\nA shepherd walked with staff in hand\nTo trace the bones of wood and stone\n\nBeneath the ribs of shattered oak\nThat groaned against the morning tide\nHe found a gleam amidst the dark\nA silver shape he could not hide\n\nIt rested there like fallen sky\nWith wings that held the storm inside\nNo feather soft, no hollow bone\nBut metal carved with ancient pride\n\nA seagull forged from starlight's dust\nIts eyes were deep as ocean floor\nThe shepherd lifted it with care\nAnd felt the weight of something more\n\nThe wreckage whispered secrets old\nOf voyages lost to time and sea\nAs fingers brushed the talisman\nThe world seemed suddenly set free\n\nNow standing tall above the grave\nOf ships that dared to sail too far\nHe holds the bird that never flies\nYet guides him toward a distant star", 6], [86, "train", "Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins", "Gerard Manley Hopkins", "\"A poem about a young girl grieving over falling leaves, unknowingly mourning her own mortality.\"", "to a young child\nM\u00e1rgar\u00e9t, \u00e1re you gr\u00edeving\nOver Goldengrove unleaving?\nLe\u00e1ves like the things of man, you\nWith your fresh thoughts care for, can you?\nAh! \u00e1s the heart grows older\nIt will come to such sights colder\nBy and by, nor spare a sigh\nThough worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;\nAnd yet you w\u00edll weep and know why.\nNow no matter, child, the name:\nS\u00f3rrow\u2019s spr\u00edngs \u00e1re the same.\nNor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed\nWhat heart heard of, ghost guessed:\nIt \u00eds the blight man was born for,\nIt is Margaret you mourn for.", "She crouches in the garden dirt\nTo catch a maple's final spin,\nHer small hands open, soft and hurt,\nAs winter waits to rush within.\n\nWhy must they let go of the bough?\nShe asks the wind that shakes the tree,\nWith tears she cannot quite explain,\nFor falling things seem wrong to be.\n\nShe counts the cracks upon the bark,\nThe yellow veins that turn to brown,\nAnd feels a strange and sudden dark\nThat pulls her down to touch the ground.\n\nIt is not just the leaves she weeps,\nBut something deep inside her chest,\nA promise that the sleep she keeps\nWill one day call her home to rest.\n\nShe does not know her time will come,\nLike autumn's end, like cold and gray,\nShe only knows the silence hums\nWhen all the vibrant green goes away.", "The little girl sat on the porch step\nwatching the maple leaves drift down,\nbrown and red and curled at the edges,\nlike dry old hands letting go.\n\nShe held one in her small palm\nand whispered to it, \"You were green once.\"\nThen she put it in her pocket\nand watched more fall.\n\n\"They're dying,\" she said to the wind.\n\"Why do they have to die?\"\nThe wind did not answer,\nonly rustled the trees.\n\nShe did not know that she was a leaf too,\ngreen now, but soon to be brown and curled,\nfalling into the dark earth,\nto be trodden underfoot by boys and girls\nwho would say, \"Look at these dead leaves.\"", 3, "The wind pulls gold from the trembling bough\nAnd lays them soft upon the grass,\nA quiet rustle, a final bow,\nAs summer's vibrant hours pass.\n\nShe gathers up the brittle red,\nWith tears that blur the fading light,\n\"Why must you die?\" the child has said,\n\"Before you've had your time to bright.\"\n\nShe does not know the sap runs dry,\nThat roots must sleep beneath the snow,\nOr why the sky turns gray and high,\nWhen all the green is forced to go.\n\nShe counts the cracks within her hand,\nLike veins of maples stripped away,\nAnd cannot understand the land\nThat holds the things that fall today.\n\nShe mourns the leaf with such deep dread,\nAs if it were her own small breath,\nNot knowing that the living dead\nAre those who wait for autumn's death.", 6, "The maple turns to rust and falls\nUpon the cold and dampened grass\nShe counts them one by one with tears\nAnd watches how the seasons pass\n\nWhy must they leave the branch so soon?\nThey held so tight just yesterday\nNow scattered in the wind and rain\nThey cannot find their way back home\n\nShe presses small, dry hands to earth\nAs if she could hold back the frost\nNot knowing that her own soft skin\nWill one day turn as pale as ghost\n\nThe tree will sleep until the spring\nBut she will not return again\nShe cries for leaves that drift away\nWhile walking down her own short lane", 7, "She sits upon the rusted bench\nAnd watches green turn brown and dry,\nA quiet child with fingers clenched\nAgainst the cold autumnal sky.\n\nShe weeps for every brittle stem\nThat breaks away from living wood,\nAs if the world were losing them\nIn ways she barely understood.\n\nWhy must they fall? Why must they die?\nShe asks the wind that stirs the air,\nWith tears too deep for her to cry\nFor beauty stripped so bare and bare.\n\nShe does not see the parallel\nBetween the branch and beating heart,\nThe way the seasons steal their spell\nBefore the final, silent part.\n\nShe mourns the leaf with heavy breath\nUnknowing it is but a sign\nOf life's own short and fleeting death\nThat waits to claim a soul like mine.", 6, "She watches the maple let go of its grip\nAnd drifts to the gray and frozen floor,\nA crimson hand that opens to slip\nThrough cracks in the earth she cannot explore.\n\nWhy do they fall when the air turns cold?\nShe asks the wind with a trembling voice,\nAs if their ending is something untold,\nSomething she has no right to rejoice.\n\nShe gathers them up in a pile so deep,\nTrying to keep them from vanishing fast,\nBut winter is coming to steal their sleep,\nJust as it waits for the years to pass.\n\nHer breath is a cloud that will fade away,\nLike the green turning brown on the bough,\nThough she thinks only of autumn's decay,\nShe does not know she is saying goodbye now.\n\nThe leaf hits the ground with a silent sound,\nA final rest after dancing so high,\nAnd she weeps for the leaves on the cold, hard ground,\nNot seeing her own reflection in the sky.", 6, "She kneels in the grass where green turns brown\nAnd watches the branches let them down\nOne by one they spiral to the ground\nWithout a sound, without a sound\n\nHer small hands gather the brittle gold\nA story of endings she cannot hold\nWhy do they fall when the sky is so wide?\nWhere do they go when they have nowhere to hide?\n\nShe weeps for the maple that lost its dress\nFor the quiet surrender of summer's caress\nNot knowing the chill in her own thin veins\nIs the same cold wind that shakes the oaks' chains\n\nThe leaf was once high, just as she stands tall\nBefore the first frost and the final wall\nBut grief is a mirror she does not see\nReflecting a future as fleeting as tree\n\nSo she buries the red in the darkening loam\nMourning a stranger who calls her name\nUnaware that her breath is a temporary guest\nWaiting to join the earth with the rest", 6, "The maple turns to rust above her head\nAnd she counts each one that hits the ground\nA quiet rhythm in the cooling air\nWhere summer's warmth has slowly lost its sound\n\nShe catches a dry leaf with trembling hands\nIts veins like maps of roads she'll never take\nA sudden ache behind her ribcage spreads\nAs if the earth is waking up to wake\n\nWhy do they fall so fast and break so deep\nWhen roots run thick beneath the soil below\nShe does not see the shadow in the stream\nOr feel the winter coming through her bone\n\nThe wind whispers names she cannot hear\nOf things that end before they start to bloom\nAnd in the silence of the fading light\nShe mourns the future stealing from her room\n\nIt is not just the season turning gray\nBut something ancient stirring in her chest\nA knowledge old as stars and dust and clay\nThat every living thing must finally rest", 6], [88, "ultra_held_out", "Sonnet 16 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning", "Elizabeth Barrett Browning", "A poem about a speaker dedicating herself to newfound love and happiness, overcoming past sorrow with the protection of her beloved.", "And yet, because thou overcomest so,\nBecause thou art more noble and like a king,\nThou canst prevail against my fears and fling\nThy purple round me, till my heart shall grow\nToo close against thine heart henceforth to know\nHow it shook when alone. Why, conquering\nMay prove as lordly and complete a thing\nIn lifting upward, as in crushing low!\nAnd as a vanquished soldier yields his sword\nTo one who lifts him from the bloody earth,\nEven so, Beloved, I at last record,\nHere ends my strife. If thou invite me forth,\nI rise above abasement at the word.\nMake thy love larger to enlarge my worth.", "The shadows that once clung to my skin\nHave finally begun to fade,\nReplaced by a light I thought was lost,\nA warmth the cold could never invade.\nI lay down the heavy stones of grief,\nThe tears I cried in silence long,\nFor you have built a shelter here,\nWhere broken things are made strong.\n\nYour hand is the wall against the storm,\nYour voice the calm within the rain,\nI step out from the ruins of yesterday,\nTo walk again through fields of green.\nNo longer do I fear the night,\nOr wonder if the dawn will come,\nFor in your arms, the past dissolves,\nAnd leaves me safe and overcome.\n\nI give my heart, no longer fractured,\nTo this new and tender day,\nLet sorrow be a distant memory,\nWashed clean and far away.\nHere in your gaze, I find my home,\nA happiness I cannot name,\nDedicated wholly to the love\nThat healed me without blame.", "The heavy cloak of winter grief has slipped\nFrom off my shoulders, and the sun is warm;\nI cast aside the old and bitter script\nAnd write a new one with a lighter hand.\nNo longer do I fear the shadowed path\nOr walk alone where once I walked in tears;\nYour hand is mine to guide me through the wrath\nOf storms that used to break my heart with fears.\nNow safety wraps around me like a shield,\nAnd happiness, a flower newly found,\nBlooms in the garden of my heart's own field,\nProtected by your love from every wound.\nSo let the past be buried in its grave,\nFor I am happy now, and you are brave.", 7, "The winter of my heart has finally thawed\n beneath the gentle weight of your embrace,\n and shadows that once haunted every hall\n have fled before the light upon your face.\n No longer do I walk the cold and gray\n where grief was once my only constant friend,\n for you have swept the broken dust away\n and taught me how to love and how to mend.\n Your arms are walls against the stormy sky,\n a shelter built from promise and from care,\n so let the past its silent vigil keep\n while I find peace within your warmest air.\n I give myself to joy, no more afraid\n of what was lost, since now my debt is paid.", 7, "The winter in my chest has finally thawed\nAs you step forward, shielding me from rain\nNo longer do I walk the path of sorrow\nOr count the scars that marked my old domain\n\nYou wrap your arms around the trembling parts\nThat once believed they would not heal again\nAnd in this shelter, quiet and complete\nI find a joy I thought was lost to pain\n\nI lay down every weapon of defense\nAnd trade my grief for something soft and new\nFor you have taught my heart to trust the light\nAnd show me what it means to start anew\n\nSo let the past dissolve like morning mist\nBefore the warmth of this enduring day\nI give myself to love and happiness\nWith you to guard the path we choose to take", 7, "The winter of my heart has finally thawed\nAs shadows retreat before your steady light\nNo longer bound by chains of what I lost\nI step into the warmth of this new night\n\nYou stand as shield against the ghosts of yore\nA fortress built where once was only fear\nThe heavy door of sorrow swings no more\nFor you have made the path ahead so clear\n\nI give my hands to hold and guide me through\nThe scattered pieces that were left behind\nWith every breath, I choose to start anew\nAnd leave the bitter taste of grief far behind\n\nLet joy be now the language that we speak\nProtected by the love you freely give\nThe future is a promise that we seek\nTogether in the way that we will live", 7, "The heavy rain of yesterday has ceased to fall,\nLeaving only silence where the thunder used to call.\nI lay my broken pieces down upon the floor,\nNo longer needing to guard a locked and bolted door.\n\nYou stand beside me now, a shield against the gray,\nWashing all the shadows of my sorrow far away.\nYour hands are warm and steady, holding tight to mine,\nA quiet promise that this darkness cannot shine.\n\nI give you all my heart, the parts I thought were lost,\nTrusting in your love to pay whatever it may cost.\nFor in your gentle presence, fear begins to fade,\nAnd every step we take together is a debt repaid.\n\nThe world feels new again, painted bright with gold,\nA story written softly, never more to be untold.\nI dedicate this spirit to the joy we have begun,\nUnderneath the safety of your sun.", 7, "The shadows that once clung to my skin\nHave finally begun to fade away,\nReplaced by light I never thought could win\nAgainst the gray of yesterday.\n\nI lay down the heavy stones I carried deep,\nThe memories that held my breath so tight,\nFor in your arms, a promise you will keep,\nA sanctuary from the endless night.\n\nNo longer do I walk with trembling hands,\nOr fear the storm that used to break my heart,\nYou stand as fortress on these shifting sands,\nAnd tear the old and bitter parts apart.\n\nLet sorrow drown beneath the tide we make,\nAs joy takes root within this sacred space,\nMy spirit wakes for every step we take,\nProtected by the warmth upon your face.\n\nI give myself to this new morning's call,\nTo love that heals the wounds I tried to hide,\nStanding tall within your gentle wall,\nWith nothing left to fear and nowhere left to run or hide.", 7, "The shadows that once clung to my skin\nHave finally begun to fade away\nReplaced by light that feels so new\nAs dawn breaks on a brighter day\n\nI lay the heavy stones of grief\nBeneath the weight of gentle hands\nWhere every tear I ever cried\nIs washed by promises you planned\n\nNo longer do I walk alone\nThrough valleys carved by old despair\nFor you have built a fortress strong\nTo shield the fragile hope we share\n\nMy heart, once fractured and afraid\nNow beats in rhythm with your own\nA sanctuary found in touch\nWhere seeds of joy are softly sown\n\nSo let the past dissolve in mist\nAnd leave behind the ghost of pain\nI give myself to this warm sun\nTo love again, to start again", 7], [91, "train", "Musee des Beaux Arts by W.H. Auden", "W.H. Auden", "A poem about suffering going unnoticed as it fades into the background while others continue ploughing, sailing, and going about their mundane lives.", "About suffering they were never wrong,\nThe old Masters: how well they understood\nIts human position: how it takes place\nWhile someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;\nHow, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting\nFor the miraculous birth, there always must be\nChildren who did not specially want it to happen, skating\nOn a pond at the edge of the wood:\nThey never forgot\nThat even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course\nAnyhow in a corner, some untidy spot\nWhere the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse\nScratches its innocent behind on a tree.\nIn Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away\nQuite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may\nHave heard the splash, the forsaken cry,\nBut for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone\nAs it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green\nWater, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen\nSomething amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,\nHad somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.", "The crack in the wall widens by a hair\nwhile the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic care\nthe ship cuts through the gray and rolling foam\nand no one looks to see where I have come\n\nMy silence is a stone beneath the floor\nthat settles deeper as they walk out the door\nthey plough the fields and sing of harvest gold\nunaware of the story left untold\n\nThe wind blows hard against the window pane\nbut drowns the sound of my quiet, slow decline\nthey sail on waves that crash and turn to white\noblivious to the fading of the light\n\nSo let the world spin on its busy axis\nwhile I become a ghost within the matrix\nof daily tasks and ordinary grace\nerasing me without a single trace", "The plough turns up the dark earth\nand the sail catches the wind\nwhile the pain in my chest\nfades like a bruise into the yellow of the skin.\n\nNo one sees it anymore,\nit is just a dull ache now,\na shadow under the ribs,\na stain on the white shirt of the day.\n\nThe farmer drives his team along the ridge,\nthe sailor trims the sheet and laughs at the spray,\nand I sit here with my hand on my heart\nwatching them go about their business.\n\nThey do not look back,\nthey do not see me fading,\nthey only see the sun and the sea and the furrow,\nand the world going on as usual.", 3, "The wound tightens in the quiet room\nwhile outside the oxen strain against the yoke\nand the plough turns over heavy, wet earth.\nNo one sees the shadow lengthen across the floor\nas the sun moves on to warm the sails\nof a ship cutting through the gray water.\nThe baker kneads his dough with rhythmic hands\nthe children run to catch the bus\nthe clock ticks its indifferent beat.\nMy pain is a small stone dropped in a deep well\nthat makes no splash for anyone but me.\nIt settles slowly into the silt of the day\nuntil it is just another thing that was there\nbefore I came and will be there when I am gone\nwhile the world keeps turning its wheel\nunbroken by my silence.", 2, "The wound is quiet now, a dull and heavy stone\nThat sinks beneath the tide of daily noise.\nNo one sees the shadow lengthen on the floor\nAs neighbors sweep their porches and make choices.\n\nThe ploughman turns his furrow in the field\nUnaware that something vital broke inside.\nHe counts the rows of corn he hopes to reap\nAnd lets the morning light and wind decide.\n\nA ship cuts through the gray and rolling deep,\nIts captain steering by the stars above.\nThe creaking wood and salt spray mask the sound\nOf a heart breaking with no one there to love.\n\nThey walk the street, they buy their bread and tea,\nThey laugh at jokes that do not touch the bone.\nThe suffering has learned to be invisible,\nJust background static, humming on its own.\n\nIt fades into the wallpaper, the dust,\nInto the rhythm of the turning wheel.\nWhile life goes on, indifferent and vast,\nThe pain remains, but no one stops to feel.", 6, "The crack in the wall widens slowly\nwhile the baker kneads his dough\nunaware that the mortar has begun to weep\ninto the dust beneath his boots.\n\nFar out at sea the gulls cry for fish\nas the ship cuts through the grey swell\nignoring the ghost of a storm\nthat drowned itself in silence yesterday.\n\nIn the fields the plough turns over soil\nheavy with the weight of seeds and rain\nnever hearing the whisper of roots\nstrangling themselves in the dark.\n\nWe walk past the quiet collapse\nof things that held us up before\ntoo busy counting coins or watching clouds\nto notice the ground giving way.\n\nIt fades like smoke from a cold fire\na shadow swallowed by the noon sun\nwhile life continues its loud, indifferent march\nover the place where everything broke.", 3, "The wound has grown so quiet now\nIt hums a low and distant tone\nWhile fields are turned by heavy ploughs\nAnd seeds are sown in rows unknown\n\nThe ship cuts through the morning mist\nWith sails unfurled to catch the wind\nNo eye regards the shadow cast\nWhere broken things are left behind\n\nThey walk the street with coffee cups\nThey laugh at jokes they hear each day\nThe world moves on with steady pace\nIgnoring what has slipped away\n\nA silence fills the empty space\nBetween the breath and rising sun\nThe suffering is just a ghost\nThat no one sees, or feels, or runs", 6, "The wound that bleeds in silence\nnever makes a sound\nas the cart wheels crush the dust\nand turn the heavy ground\n\nA sailor checks his compass\nwhile the storm begins to break\nhe does not see the shadow\nthat is slowly starting to fade\n\nThe baker kneads his morning dough\nthe children chase the light\nthey walk right past the crumbling wall\nwithout a second sight\n\nThe world moves on with steady hands\nignoring what has passed\nuntil the pain becomes just air\ntoo quiet and too vast\n\nNo one stops to ask the question\nwhy the sky turned gray\nfor life demands a constant motion\nand grief must slip away", 6, "The crack in the wall goes unremarked\nAs boots stomp heavy on the floorboards\nA silence grows where a scream once lived\nDrowned by the rhythm of distant doors\n\nThey plough the earth with steady hands\nTurning soil that knows no name\nWhile shadows stretch across the land\nUnseen, unnamed, and without shame\n\nSails catch wind on oceans far away\nIgnoring the drift of something lost\nThe world spins on its axis bright\nCounting only what it thinks it has cost\n\nNo one pauses to ask the why\nOf dust that settles in the air\nThe mundane hums a lullaby\nTo mask the weight of quiet despair\n\nAnd so the fading begins its slow descent\nInto the backdrop of the daily grind\nLeaving behind what was never spent\nJust another ghost for time to find", 6], [93, "ultra_held_out", "Balloons by Sylvia Plath", "Sylvia Plath", "\"A poem about finding fleeting beauty in ordinary things, only to be pulled back into a harsh reality that shatters innocence and childhood dreams.\"", "Since Christmas they have lived with us,\nGuileless and clear,\nOval soul-animals,\nTaking up half the space,\nMoving and rubbing on the silk\n\nInvisible air drifts,\nGiving a shriek and pop\nWhen attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.\nYellow cathead, blue fish\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\nSuch queer moons we live with\n\nInstead of dead furniture!\nStraw mats, white walls\nAnd these traveling\nGlobes of thin air, red, green,\nDelighting\n\nThe heart like wishes or free\nPeacocks blessing\nOld ground with a feather\nBeaten in starry metals.\nYour small\n\nBrother is making\nHis balloon squeak like a cat.\nSeeming to see\nA funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,\nHe bites,\n\nThen sits\nBack, fat jug\nContemplating a world clear as water.\nA red\nShred in his little fist.\n5 February 1963", "The dust motes danced in afternoon light\nLike tiny stars trapped in a jar of air\nI held my breath to catch their flight\nAnd found a universe beyond compare\n\nA dandelion clock upon the lawn\nHeld secrets of the wind I could not know\nThe world was soft before the dawn\nWith colors only children seem to grow\n\nBut then the door slammed hard and deep\nA voice that cut the silence like a knife\nWoke me from the quiet, golden sleep\nTo show the jagged edges of real life\n\nThe stars turned back to floating dust\nThe magic faded with the setting sun\nThe trust we placed in dreams was crushed\nBy things we knew were never meant to be done\n\nNow innocence is just a broken thing\nLeft on the floor where shadows start to creep\nWhile childhood songs no longer sing\nAnd promises are buried in our sleep", "The dandelion clock was full of time\nAnd the sun was warm on my small knee,\nI blew a wish into the air\nAnd watched it float away so free.\n\nThe dust motes danced in golden shafts\nAbove the kitchen floor,\nI thought they were fairies spinning round\nTo make me happy more and more.\n\nBut then the door slammed hard and loud,\nAnd father's angry voice rang out,\nAnd all the fairies ran away\nAnd blew the dandelion seeds about.\n\nThe sun went down behind the cloud,\nThe kitchen floor looked rough and grey,\nAnd I knew I must go to bed soon\nAnd not be happy any more today.", 3, "A dandelion clock in the cracked sidewalk\nholds a universe of golden light,\nand for a moment the wind is just a whisper\ncarrying wishes to the stars,\nnot the exhaust fumes choking the street.\n\nI blow and watch the seeds float away,\ntiny parachutes of hope rising up,\nbelieving that if I wish hard enough\nthe world will stay soft and bright forever.\n\nThen a car backfires, loud and sharp as a gunshot,\nshattering the silence like dropped glass,\nand the sky turns gray again with smog,\nthe children are not safe, the dreams are gone,\nand I am suddenly old, standing alone\nin the cold, hard rain.", 3, "A dandelion pushes through the crack\nWhere sunlight spills like melted gold,\nAnd for a moment I am seven years old,\nBelieving magic lives in every track.\n\nThe wind whispers secrets to the grass,\nThat nothing ends and nothing fades,\nThat summer is the only shade,\nAnd time moves slow as honey passing glass.\n\nBut then the siren cuts the air,\nA jagged tear in soft blue skies,\nAnd sudden shadows fill my eyes,\nRevealing rot beneath the fair.\n\nThe dandelion turns to dust and gray,\nThe golden light reveals the rust,\nThe world returns to iron and dust,\nAnd innocence is swept away.", 6, "The dandelion clock holds the sun\nA fragile crown of gold and white\nWe blow the seeds into the air\nAnd watch them float in pure delight\nThe world is soft, a painted dream\nWhere nothing breaks and nothing ends\nBut then the wind turns cold and sharp\nAnd pulls us to the jagged edges\n\nThe pavement cracks beneath our feet\nRevealing rust and dirty stone\nThe golden light begins to fade\nInto a gray and heavy tone\nWe see the cracks inside the glass\nThe shadows where the monsters hide\nNo more the magic of the spark\nJust truth we cannot run or slide\n\nThe innocence dissolves like mist\nAs harsh realities take hold\nThe childhood castle falls apart\nBeneath a story dark and old\nWe stand alone with empty hands\nNo longer children, just the grown\nWho learned too soon that beauty dies\nAnd leaves us broken on the throne", 6, "The dandelion clock stands soft in morning light\nA universe of seeds waiting to take flight\nI blow a gentle breath and watch them drift away\nLike tiny stars that dance before the break of day\nIn that suspended moment nothing feels too heavy or too gray\nJust magic woven through the dust of common clay\n\nBut then the wind shifts hard and cold against my face\nThe sky turns bruised and heavy with a grim embrace\nThe seeds are gone, replaced by weeds that choke the ground\nWhere silence used to sing, now only sirens sound\nThe glass I held so carefully slips from trembling hands\nAnd shatters on the pavement where the broken promise stands\nNo more the golden hour, no more the dream so bright\nJust concrete underfoot and shadows stretching out of sight\nThe child inside me weeps as innocence is torn apart\nBy the jagged edge of truth that cuts right through the heart", 6, "The dust motes dance in afternoon light\nA golden galaxy on the kitchen floor\nWe traced their paths with fingers of white\nAnd swore we could keep them forever more\n\nThe wind whispered secrets through the open window pane\nPromising a world where nothing ever breaks\nWhere time is soft and rain is just a gentle stain\nAnd every heartache simply fades away\n\nBut then the shadow stretched across the grass\nA sudden silence swallowed up the song\nThe glass began to crack, the quiet turned to brass\nAs winter came too early, rushing us along\n\nThe dream dissolved like sugar in cold tea\nRevealing cracks beneath the painted skin\nNo magic left to set the spirit free\nJust the heavy weight of where we begin again", 6, "The dust motes dance in afternoon light\nA golden stage for silent play\nWhere shadows stretch and time takes flight\nAnd every whisper holds the day\n\nWe built a castle from dry sand\nWith towers reaching for the sky\nBelieving we could hold the land\nAnd keep the stars from saying goodbye\n\nBut then the wind began to howl\nA cold command that breaks the spell\nThe painted walls begin to crumble now\nRevealing cracks where secrets dwell\n\nThe grass turns gray beneath our feet\nThe laughter fades into a sigh\nAs winter steals the summer's heat\nAnd pulls the dreamers down to die\n\nNo magic lingers in the air\nJust concrete hard against the bone\nA heavy silence, stripped and bare\nLeaving only what was known", 7], [96, "ultra_held_out", "Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman", "Walt Whitman", "A poem about a speaker embarking on an open road journey, freely choosing his own destiny and carrying life's burdens with him as they arise.", "Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,\nHealthy, free, the world before me,\nThe long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. \n\nHenceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,\nHenceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,\nDone with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,\nStrong and content I travel the open road.\n\nThe earth, that is sufficient,\nI do not want the constellations any nearer,\nI know they are very well where they are,\nI know they suffice for those who belong to them.\n\n(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,\nI carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,\nI swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,\nI am fill\u2019d with them, and I will fill them in return.)", "The asphalt stretches out a gray and endless tongue\nI step away from walls that held me too long\nNo map is folded in my pocket now\nJust the wind that whispers where to bow\n\nI do not know the name of any town I'll find\nOnly the rhythm beating in my mind\nTo choose the path, to turn when shadows grow\nAnd let the future bloom or fade or flow\n\nIf sorrow comes it rides beside me on the seat\nA heavy coat I wear when rain and sleet\nAre falling hard upon the dusty glass\nI carry every weight as hours pass\n\nFor burdens are the anchors of the soul\nThat keep the spirit whole when cracks appear\nI take them up with hands both open wide\nAnd walk until the turning point inside\n\nThe horizon calls a promise unconfined\nLeaving the old and broken things behind\nNot running from the pain that makes us real\nBut driving forward with the things we feel", "The engine hums a low and steady tune\nBeneath the vast and open, empty sky,\nI choose the road that leads away from noon\nAnd where the wild wind blows I will not die.\n\nNo map is in my pocket, nor a plan,\nJust this old car and all the things I own,\nI carry burdens as they come to hand,\nA sack of stones upon a bony bone.\n\nIf sorrow comes, I'll put it in the bag,\nIf joy arrives, I'll toss it on the seat;\nI do not ask the future if it's lag,\nI only drive the present down the street.\n\nThe road goes on forever, so says fate,\nAnd I go with it, taking what is mine;\nI leave the heavy questions to the gate,\nAnd walk right in without a single sign.", 6, "The asphalt stretches out a gray ribbon\nUnspooling toward the horizon's edge\nWhere the sky meets the dust in a hazy embrace\nI leave the map folded in my pocket\nAnd let the wind decide the turn of the wheel\n\nNo compass points to a predestined star\nOnly the pulse in my wrist and the hum of the engine\nI am the architect of this wandering line\nBuilding my future mile by loose gravel mile\nWith no blueprint but the hunger in my chest\n\nIf sorrow rises like a storm cloud on the left\nI will pull over and sit with it in the cab\nLet it rain on the windshield until it passes\nIf joy bursts forth like a sudden wildflower field\nI will stop to pick a handful for the dashboard\nThen carry both the heavy stones and the bright petals\nIn the trunk where they belong\nAs I drive on into the unknown", 5, "The engine hums a low and steady tune\nBeneath the vast and unclaimed afternoon\nI turn the wheel away from where I've been\nTo let the open road begin again\n\nNo map is held within my trembling hand\nJust dust and light across this shifting land\nI choose the path that winds through fields of gold\nA story waiting for its own to be told\n\nIf sorrow comes, it rides beside me now\nA shadow on the dashboard's silver brow\nAnd if joy breaks like dawn upon the hill\nI carry both with quiet, willing will\n\nFor destiny is not a distant star\nBut what we make as we go very far\nWith every mile, the heavy load takes flight\nYet I bear all into the fading light", 7, "The asphalt stretches out like a ribbon of gray\nUnspooling toward a horizon I name my own\nNo map in hand, no voice to say where I must go\nJust the hum of tires and the wind that sings alone\n\nI do not leave the weight behind as some might claim\nTo walk unburdened is a lie we tell the young\nSo I pack my grief like stones inside my coat\nAnd let them rattle softly while the song is sung\n\nEvery sorrow that arises finds a place to sit\nA heavy passenger beside the driver's seat\nI carry joy too, light as dust upon the sill\nAnd meet the rising sun with both hands open wide to greet\n\nThe road does not demand I drop what I have known\nIt only asks that I keep moving forward still\nWith every burden lifted, every moment grown\nI choose this path, this freedom, this unyielding will", 6, "The engine hums a quiet tune beneath the morning gray\nI leave the map behind me where the tangled cities lay\nNo compass points to destiny, no voice commands the way\nJust open asphalt stretching out to meet the light of day\n\nI pack my bag with heavy things I cannot set aside\nThe grief that walks beside me and the pride I cannot hide\nThey sit within the passenger seat as shadows start to climb\nNot obstacles to overcome but markers of my time\n\nLet storms roll in from western hills and dust rise from the plain\nI carry every weight I've known through sunshine and through rain\nFor freedom is not emptiness where nothing weighs you down\nBut choosing how to bear the load while wearing your own crown\n\nThe horizon pulls me forward with a promise undefined\nA path unwritten waiting for the footsteps I will find\nSo let the burdens ride along and let the road unfold\nMy story is the journey made, the future yet untold", 6, "The asphalt stretches out in ribbons gray\nWhere yesterday's shadows fade away\nI turn the wheel without a map to guide\nAnd let the open sky be my only tide\n\nNo heavy chains of expectation bind\nThe freedom that I leave behind\nYet in my chest, the weight remains\nOf joys and sorrows, old and new pains\n\nI do not cast them off to float on air\nBut carry every ghost with careless care\nFor burden is the price of moving through\nThe vast and wild horizon waiting for me too\n\nEach mile unfolds a story yet untold\nA destiny that I alone can hold\nWith hands that grip the wheel so tight\nI walk into the coming night", 6, "The engine hums a quiet song\nAgainst the weight of yesterday\nI turn the wheel and drift along\nTo chase the light of coming day\n\nNo map to guide where I must go\nJust gravel shifting under tires\nThe wind begins to softly blow\nAnd lifts me past the old desires\n\nSome days the road will climb too steep\nWith shadows stretching long and deep\nI carry all the promises I keep\nAnd let the heavy memories weep\n\nBut in this motion, something breaks\nA chain that held me to the shore\nFor every step my spirit takes\nIs one more choice than before\n\nThe horizon calls with open arms\nA canvas waiting for my hand\nThrough stormy skies and sudden charms\nI walk the path I planned\n\nSo let the burdens ride beside\nAs passengers upon the seat\nThere is no need to hide or hide\nFrom what the journey makes complete", 7], [114, "ultra_held_out", "Chorus of the Captains by Amanda Gorman", "Amanda Gorman", "\"A poem about three American heroes working to benefit their communities and bring the country together during the COVID-19 pandemic.\"", "Today we honor our three captains\nFor their actions and impact in\nA time of uncertainty and need.\nThey\u2019ve taken the lead,\nExceeding all expectations and limitations\nUplifting their communities and neighbors\nAs leaders, healers, and educators.\n\nJames has felt the wounds of warfare,\nBut this warrior still shares\nHis home with at-risk kids.\nDuring Covid, he\u2019s event lent a hand,\nLive-streaming football for family and fans.\n\nTrimaine is an educator who works nonstop,\nProviding his community with hotspots,\nLaptops, and tech workshops,\nSo his students have all the tools\nThey need to succeed in life and school.\n\nSuzie is the ICU nurse manager at a Tampa Hospital.\nHer chronicles prove that even in tragedy, hope is possible.\nShe lost her grandmothers to the pandemic,\nAnd fights to save other lives in the ICU battle zone,\nDefining the frontline heroes risking their lives for our own.\n\nLet us walk with these warriors,\nCharge on with these champions,\nAnd carry forth the call of our captains!\nWe celebrate them by acting\nWith courage and compassion,\nBy doing what is right and just.\nFor while we honor them today,\nIt is them who every day honor us", "In a quiet town where silence grew,\nA nurse named Elena worked to heal the few,\nShe held the hands of those afraid to speak,\nAnd found the strength within the weak.\n\nAcross the state, a farmer named Tom drove his truck,\nTo deliver food to families in luck or lack,\nHe left fresh produce at every door,\nSo no one went hungry on the floor.\n\nThen came a teacher, Marcus, with a laptop screen,\nWho taught the young from a living room scene,\nHe bridged the gap when schools closed tight,\nAnd kept the future burning bright.\n\nThree different paths but one common goal,\nTo mend the broken and make the spirit whole,\nThey showed that love is stronger than the fear,\nAnd brought the nation closer year by year.", "In a quiet kitchen in Ohio,\nA woman mixed flour and water and yeast,\nBaking bread for the hungry neighbors,\nWhile her children played on the floor.\n\nAcross the country in a city hospital,\nA doctor stood by a patient's bed,\nHolding their hand through the glass window,\nWhen no one else could be near.\n\nIn a small town in Texas,\nA man drove his truck to the church,\nDelivering masks and gloves and sanitizer,\nTo help the volunteers at the food bank.\n\nThey did not know each other's names,\nThey lived thousands of miles apart,\nBut they were all working for America,\nKeeping hope alive in their hearts.", 6, "In the quiet streets where silence grew,\nThree figures moved with purpose true.\nOne donned a mask of blue and white,\nTo heal the sick throughout the night,\nBringing hope to those who feared,\nAnd holding hands that life held dear.\n\nAnother stood with boxes full,\nOf food for every hungry soul,\nDriving through the rain and snow,\nTo make sure no one had to go\nWithout a meal or warm embrace,\nWhile kindness filled this weary place.\n\nThe third was there to speak and teach,\nWith facts within their gentle reach,\nExplaining how we must unite,\nTo keep the virus from our sight,\nBridging gaps of fear and hate,\nAnd teaching patience as we wait.\n\nTogether they became a thread,\nThat wove a safety net instead,\nOf chaos, panic, and despair,\nShowing love beyond compare,\nFor in their work, the nation saw,\nA brighter, kinder, stronger law.", 7, "In the quiet hum of a hospital ward,\nA nurse in blue stood guard with steady hands,\nDelivering hope where fear had once been stored,\nAnd healing wounds across our broken lands.\n\nFar away in a kitchen, flour flew,\nA baker rose to feed the hungry street,\nWith loaves of bread and kindness made anew,\nTo make the lonely taste of sorrow sweet.\n\nThen came a driver on a rainy night,\nWith masks and tests to deliver to the door,\nConnecting neighbors with a sudden light,\nSo none would face the storm or war alone anymore.\n\nThree different paths but one united heart,\nThey stitched the fabric torn by silent dread,\nProving that even when we fall apart,\nWe rise together from the pain we shed.", 7, "In the quiet hum of a hospital ward,\nA nurse in blue stood guard with weary eyes,\nHolding hands when touch was hard to give,\nTeaching us how to breathe and learn to live.\n\nAcross the street where silence filled the air,\nA teacher typed with hope beyond despair,\nConnecting screens to keep the learning bright,\nTurning darkened days into morning light.\n\nThen came the drive where strangers shared their bread,\nA volunteer who lifted up the dead,\nNot just in loss but in the food they gave,\nTo build a bridge across the fear and grave.\n\nThree hearts beat strong beneath one flag unfurled,\nBinding together what the world had stirred,\nFor in their service, distinct yet as one,\nThe healing of our nation had begun.", 7, "In the quiet hum of a hospital ward,\nWhere masks hid faces but not the care,\nA nurse stood firm as the world grew hard,\nHolding hope in her weary air.\nShe washed the hands of the sick and old,\nA guardian spirit in scrubs so blue,\nTurning fear into stories told,\nAnd reminding us all what we can do.\n\nAcross the street where the shelves were bare,\nA volunteer packed boxes with grace,\nDelivering food to those who weren't there,\nTo keep a smile on every face.\nHe drove through rain and the empty streets,\nConnecting neighbors he'd never known,\nFinding warmth in the cold retreats,\nAnd planting seeds that would soon be sown.\n\nThen came the voice from a porch or screen,\nCalling out to the divided land,\nSpeaking truth to the space between,\nWith a gentle and steady hand.\nThey taught us how to stand apart,\nYet hold each other close in mind,\nMending the fraying heart of the art,\nLeaving the bitterness far behind.\n\nThree paths converged in a single light,\nThrough the shadow of a global storm,\nOne gave strength, one brought the sight,\nOne kept the spirit warm and form.\nNot famous names in history's book,\nBut heroes born of love and need,\nWho wrote their promise in every look,\nAnd helped the broken country bleed.", 7, "In quiet halls where silence used to reign\nA nurse in blue stood firm against the pain\nShe held a hand when fear had taken hold\nAnd wove a thread of courage, brave and bold\nHer mask was stained with sweat and endless care\nYet in her eyes, a promise lingered there\nThat every life was precious, worth the fight\nTo guide us through the shadows of the night\n\nAcross the street a teacher turned the screen\nTo reach the lost and lonely, unseen\nWith digital lights that pierced the gray\nHe taught the young how hope could lead the way\nNo classroom walls could stop his steady voice\nOr make the children feel they had no choice\nHe built a bridge of knowledge, wide and deep\nSo no one felt alone while others slept\n\nThen came a man who drove his truck at dawn\nThrough empty towns where fear had fully drawn\nHis cargo held not gold or shining steel\nBut food and warmth for those who could not feel\nThe weight of hunger pressing on the soul\nHe gave his strength to make the broken whole\nFrom coast to coast he carried love's design\nTo show that kindness makes the future shine\n\nThree different paths but one united goal\nTo heal the body and the fractured soul\nThey worked in silence while the world held breath\nDefying fear and dancing close to death\nNot heroes sought by fame or loud acclaim\nBut neighbors answering a silent call to name\nThe truth that binds us all in times so hard\nIs found in service, offered without reward", 7, "In quiet streets where silence used to grow\nThree figures walked with purpose, soft and slow\nThe first a nurse in scrubs of faded blue\nWho held the hands of those she never knew\nHer voice was steady through the mask and fear\nA lighthouse shining when the path was unclear\n\nAnother stood within a kitchen warm and bright\nPreparing meals to fight the endless night\nWith flour on his apron and a gentle grace\nHe brought a smile to every empty space\nNo question asked of who or why they came\nJust food for bodies seeking to reclaim\n\nThe third spoke loud across the digital divide\nTo bridge the gaps that kept us far inside\nShe wove a tapestry of stories shared and true\nReminding all that we are bound as one crew\nThrough fear and loss her message rang so clear\nThat love remains the only thing we hold most dear\n\nTogether now they stand against the storm\nA triad strong in spirit, fierce and form\nNot heroes carved from marble, cold and still\nBut neighbors driven by a common will\nTo heal the wounds and mend the fractured land\nAnd guide their people back to solid ground", 7], [130, "ultra_held_out", "Table Talk by Wallace Stevens", "Wallace Stevens", "\"A poem about contemplating how life's events and preferences are random and ultimately inconsequential, with death being the only certainty.\"", "Granted, we die for good.\nLife, then, is largely a thing\nOf happens to like, not should.\n\nAnd that, too, granted, why\nDo I happen to like red bush,\nGrey grass and green-gray sky?\n\nWhat else remains? But red,\nGray, green, why those of all?\nThat is not what I said:\n\nNot those of all. But those.\nOne likes what one happens to like.\nOne likes the way red grows.\n\nIt cannot matter at all.\nHappens to like is one\nOf the ways things happen to fall.", "We choose our colors with a trembling hand\nAnd argue over shades of blue and red\nAs if the canvas matters to the sand\nOr how the quiet river fills the bed\n\nThe taste of coffee, bitter or too sweet\nThe path we walk that leads us nowhere near\nAre just the echoes of a random beat\nThat fades into the silence of the year\n\nNo grand design explains why this or that\nWhy one is loved and one is left behind\nA coin flips high within a cosmic hat\nAnd lands on nothing that the mind can find\n\nSo let us build our castles in the air\nAnd claim they stand against the coming tide\nFor death is waiting everywhere\nWith nowhere left for us to run or hide\n\nIt does not care for what we held so dear\nThe plans we made, the loves we thought were true\nIt simply comes to make the atmosphere\nOf all our certainty turn into dew\n\nIn the end the noise becomes a hum\nThe choices blur into a single gray\nThe light goes out before it even comes\nTo take the random dust of life away", "We choose our coffee dark or sweet\nand argue for a decade why,\nwe pick a color for the wall\nand fight to keep it, though we die.\n\nThe random toss of cosmic dice\ndecides if rain will fall today\nor if the sun will break through clouds;\nit matters not when we decay.\n\nWe love the wrong ones, hate the right,\nwe build our houses on the sand,\nwe spend our lives in minor ways\nthat vanish with us from the land.\n\nNo pattern rules the wind that blows,\nno reason for the rose's scent,\nand none at all for how we live\nor where our bodies are sent.\n\nOne thing is sure, and one alone:\nthe end must come to every soul,\nthe light goes out, the door shuts tight,\nand nothing makes us whole again.", 6, "We choose the shade of blue we paint our walls\nAnd argue over which path through the woods to take,\nConvinced that every preference is a soul-deep call,\nA map of who we are for heaven's sake.\n\nBut chance is just a coin tossed in the dark,\nThe spin determines if we land on red or black,\nNo grand design behind the spark,\nNo reason why we turn this way or back.\n\nThe love we feel, the hate we cannot hide,\nAre accidents of weather in the blood and bone,\nJust random drifts upon a tide\nThat leads inevitably to the stone.\n\nWe build our towers high and stack them deep,\nWe count our coins and measure out our days,\nUntil the final silence falls asleep\nAnd swallows all our noisy, frantic ways.\n\nFor nothing matters in the end but this:\nThe certain quiet that awaits us all,\nThe moment when the breath ceases to hiss,\nAnd dust returns to dust within the wall.", 6, "We choose our colors, pick our sides,\nAnd argue over trivial tides,\nBelieving every choice we make\nIs woven in a grand design to take.\nBut chance is just a blindfold thrown,\nThat scatters seeds on stones unknown.\nThe path we walk, the love we find,\nAre accidents of time and mind.\n\nNo pattern guides the falling leaf,\nNo meaning hides behind the grief.\nThe stars align by cosmic drift,\nWhile human hearts are softly shifted.\nWe build our castles in the air,\nWith no foundation anywhere,\nThen wonder why the wind blows through,\nAnd leaves us with a hollow view.\n\nFor all this noise, this frantic race,\nThis desperate search for distinct place,\nDissolves before the final breath,\nThe quiet end that waits for death.\nIt does not care what you preferred,\nOr if your voice was soft or heard.\nThe curtain falls on every stage,\nLeaving only silence in its wake.", 6, "The coin flips in the dark without a hand to catch it\nWe argue over which side fell, building castles on the spin\nA taste for salt or sugar, a path chosen by a stumble\nAll the fervent loves and hates are just a random drift of dust\n\nWe cling to what we like as if it carved a permanent line\nBut the wind does not care for our favorite flowers or songs\nThe lottery of birth and chance decides the shape of every day\nWhile meaning tries to stitch a pattern into chaotic gray\n\nYet silence waits at every door, the only guest who stays\nIt will not ask for your opinions or the reasons why you cried\nIt comes to level mountains and to smooth the jagged edges out\nUntil the noise of living fades into the quiet of the void\n\nSo let the random currents pull us where they please to go\nFor nothing that we cherish will remain when breath is gone\nThe certainty is simply this: the end is all that holds true\nAnd in that final stillness, nothing mattered but the fall", 6, "We choose our colors in a blind auction\nAnd argue fiercely over shades of blue\nWhile the wind shifts without asking why\nAnd the stars burn out before we see them through\n\nThe taste of coffee, the path we take\nAre accidents of chance and fleeting grace\nA coin flip landing on its edge\nIn this vast and indifferent space\n\nWe build our towers on shifting sand\nConvinced they matter to the sky\nBut time erases every line\nAs quietly as clouds go by\n\nThe noise of joy, the weight of grief\nDissolve into the silent air\nNo grand design, no final score\nJust empty rooms and vacant chairs\n\nUntil the breath finally stops its flight\nAnd pulls the curtain on the show\nThe only truth we ever knew\nIs that the ending is all we know", 6, "The coin flips in the dark of night\nAnd lands on heads or tails by chance\nWe build our castles out of light\nThen watch them crumble in a dance\n\nThe coffee cup we hold so dear\nThe song that makes us start to cry\nAre just a whisper, faint and clear\nBeneath an uncaring, empty sky\n\nWe argue over who is right\nWhile stars burn cold and distant far\nNo shadow lingers past the light\nNo echo reaches where we are\n\nThe choices made, the paths we tread\nAre scattered seeds upon the wind\nA story read, then quickly dead\nWith nothing left to keep within\n\nFor all the noise and frantic race\nThat fills the space between the birth\nThere waits a quiet, final place\nWhere silence claims the whole of earth\n\nThe only truth we hold so tight\nIs not the joy, nor pain, nor fear\nBut how the ending ends the light\nAnd leaves no trace of what was here", 7, "The coin spins high above the floor\nA choice of heads or tails no more\nWe argue over which side lands\nWhile time dissolves in shifting sands\n\nThe coffee cup we hold so dear\nWill vanish with the passing year\nThe song we love, the road we take\nAre echoes that the silence breaks\n\nNo grand design guides every step\nJust chaos where the quiet slept\nOur passions burn and fade to gray\nAs night reclaims the light of day\n\nIt matters not what we have won\nOr battles fought beneath the sun\nFor every name and face we know\nMust bow to winds that softly blow\n\nThe final breath is all we keep\nA promise buried deep and steep\nWhere random stars and fleeting fears\nMeet the end of all our years", 7], [135, "ultra_held_out", "The Field of Waterloo by Thomas Hardy", "Thomas Hardy", "\"A poem about little creatures such as rabbits, moles, swallows, and larks suffering and being affected by the horrid atmosphere of a battlefield as warhorses progress across the field, leaving nothing normal again in their wake.\"", "Yea, the coneys are scared by the thud of hoofs,\nAnd their white scuts flash at their vanishing heels,\nAnd swallows abandon the hamlet-roofs.The mole\u2019s tunnelled chambers are crushed by wheels,\nThe lark\u2019s eggs scattered, their owners fled;\nAnd the hedgehog\u2019s household the sapper unseals.The snail draws in at the terrible tread,\nBut in vain; he is crushed by the felloe-rim.\nThe worm asks what can be overhead,And wriggles deep from a scene so grim,\nAnd guesses him safe; for he does not know\nWhat a foul red flood will be soaking him!Beaten about by the heel and toe\nAre butterflies, sick of the day\u2019s long rheum,\nTo die of a worse than the weather-foe.Trodden and bruised to a miry tomb\nAre ears that have greened but will never be gold,\nAnd flowers in the bud that will never bloom.", "The burrow shakes beneath the hooves of iron\nAs rabbits freeze in tunnels deep and dark\nNo longer safe from fox or winter's chill\nBut trembling at the thunder of the charge\n\nThe mole forgets the rhythm of the earth\nWhen heavy boots crush roots and turn the soil\nTo mud that chokes the quiet, hidden life\nAnd leaves no path for tiny paws to roam\n\nAbove, the swallow dives through smoke and ash\nHer song replaced by screams of dying men\nShe seeks a branch that once was green and high\nNow shattered by the falling weight of war\n\nThe lark ascends but finds no morning light\nOnly a sky choked thick with gray despair\nHer flight is broken by the clatter close\nAs horses tear the grassy fields apart\n\nNothing remains as it was yesterday\nThe field is scarred, the air is sharp and cold\nAnd little creatures flee the endless noise\nWith nowhere left to hide, no home to hold", "The rabbits twitched their noses in the soft clover\nUntil the thunder of hooves shook the ground,\nAnd the moles, blind to the sun but wise to the earth,\nFelt the great shock-waves shatter their tunnels down.\n\nThe swallows dipped and skimmed above the grass\nTo catch a gnat or two before the rain,\nBut now they dive into the smoke and dust\nAs if the sky itself were falling down.\n\nThe larks that sang so high and clear at dawn\nAre silenced by the heavy iron tread;\nThey cannot sing while warhorses gallop past,\nLeaving the world behind them broken, dead.\n\nNothing is normal now, no burrow safe,\nNo nest uncrushed, no little life secure,\nFor where the great horses have passed across,\nThere is nothing left for any creature pure.", 6, "The rabbit freezes in the clover patch\nAs thunder shakes the earth beneath its paws,\nBefore the heavy hooves have reached the back\nTo crush the burrow and the hidden cause.\n\nThe mole, who knew the quiet of the deep,\nIs torn from tunnels dark and safe and cool,\nAnd tossed into a sky that will not sleep,\nBeneath the iron glare of war's new rule.\n\nThe swallow dives to catch a flying gnat,\nBut finds instead a cloud of choking dust,\nHer wings are clipped by shrapnel or by fate,\nAnd she falls silent in the settling rust.\n\nThe lark, who sang to greet the morning light,\nNow screams against the smoke that chokes the air,\nHis song is lost within the chaotic night,\nAs horses trample down the nestling there.\n\nThey run through fields where nothing grows again,\nWhere roots are severed and the soil is red,\nNo gentle breeze can calm the screaming pain,\nOr wash the horror from the living dead.\n\nThe normal world is gone, the grass is black,\nThe little creatures flee or lie quite still,\nThere is no turning for the horsemen back,\nOnly the march along the broken hill.", 6, "The burrow shakes as iron hooves draw near,\nAnd rabbits freeze with terror in their eyes,\nNo longer safe beneath the quiet ear\nOf grass that hides them from the morning skies.\nThe mole feels tremors through his darkened hall,\nAs thunder rolls not from the summer cloud,\nBut from the heavy tread of warhorses tall,\nWho crush the earth and leave it rough and loud.\n\nHigh overhead, the swallow's flight is torn\nBy smoke that chokes the air she used to sing,\nWhile larks, who sang before the dawn was born,\nNow fall silent on a broken wing.\nThe ground is churned to mud and blood and bone,\nWhere once the little creatures found their home,\nAnd now the horses march across the stone,\nLeaving no peace for any life to roam.\n\nThe normal world is gone, erased by steel,\nWith nothing left but ruin in the wake,\nA horrid atmosphere the small ones feel,\nAs nature breaks and cannot find a break.\nNo burrow deep, no nest within the tree,\nCan hide the horror of this marching tide,\nWhere warhorses bring only misery,\nAnd leave the little creatures nowhere to hide.", 7, "The rabbit trembles in the clover deep\nAs thunder shakes the earth where warhorses creep\nTheir hooves are iron, heavy, cold and vast\nShattering the quiet of the morning past\n\nThe mole retreats beneath the turning sod\nWhere plows of steel have torn the living god\nOf soil that held his tunnels safe and warm\nNow churned to mud beneath the storm's dark form\n\nA swallow dives too low to catch the fly\nAnd strikes the breastplate of a charging guy\nHer wings beat frantic against the smoke so gray\nBefore the shadow swallows up her day\n\nThe lark who sang of fields now sings no more\nBut falls silent as the cannon's roar\nThe air is thick with ash and bitter dust\nNo gentle breeze remains to cool the crust\n\nThe horses march in lines of endless dread\nLeaving the little lives for dead or fled\nThe green is gone, the song is broken now\nBeneath the weight of every bloody brow", 6, "The rabbit freezes in the clover deep\nAs thunder rolls where hooves begin to sweep\nNo burrow safe from shaking earth and dread\nWhere living grass is trampled into red\n\nThe mole retreats beneath the crumbling soil\nTo flee the scent of iron, smoke, and oil\nHis quiet tunnels filled with dust and fear\nAs heavy boots bring silence drawing near\n\nAbove the churn the swallow drops its flight\nConfused by clouds that blot out morning light\nIt dives too low amidst the clatter's roar\nAnd finds no branch to rest upon once more\n\nThe lark forgets its song of golden air\nFor screams now rise to meet the warhorse's glare\nThat gallops on with eyes of wild despair\nLeaving a world stripped bare and broken there\n\nNo normal sound remains within the wake\nOf beasts that march for every soul's own sake\nThe creatures huddle as the shadows grow\nBeneath the weight of all they used to know", 6, "The burrow shakes beneath the hooves of iron\nWhere little rabbits once dug safe and deep\nNow smoke hangs heavy, choking every leaf\nAnd silence is a promise they cannot keep\n\nThe mole retreats from soil turned to mud\nAs thunder rolls where gentle roots should grow\nThe swallow's nest, once high above the wood\nIs scattered now by winds that only know\n\nOf fire and the stomp of warhorses\nThat trample fields where larks used to ascend\nTheir songs are drowned in screams and distant horses\nWith no soft earth for tiny paws to mend\n\nNothing remains as it was yesterday\nNo quiet corner left for small hearts beat\nJust ash and shadow stretching far away\nWhere life was crushed beneath the marching feet", 6, "The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread\nAs hooves of iron crush the soft green bed\nWhere rabbits once hopped in the morning light\nNow hiding deep from the coming night\n\nA mole retreats through tunnels turned to dust\nWhile smoke chokes the roots of ancient trust\nThe swallows dive too low to find their song\nTheir feathers torn where silence used to belong\n\nLarks that sang of fields and open skies\nAre grounded now by ash and stormy lies\nWarhorses thunder with a rhythmic dread\nLeaving the living small and trembling dead\n\nNo flower blooms where boots have carved the ground\nOnly the echo of a final sound\nAs nature bows before the clash of steel\nAnd little hearts forget how they can feel", 6], [142, "ultra_held_out", "Postfeminism by Brenda Shaughnessy", "Brenda Shaughnessy", "A poem about exploring the contrasting roles and divisions between people, spinning off from opposing archetypes to examine the different ways of addressing life through complicated and multilayered images.", "There are two kinds of people, soldiers and women,\nas Virginia Woolf said. Both for decoration only.\n\nNow that is too kind. It\u2019s technical: virgins and wolves.\nWe have choices now. Two little girls walk into a bar,\n\none orders a shirley temple. Shirley Temple\u2019s pimp\ncomes over and says you won\u2019t be sorry. She\u2019s a fine\n\npiece of work but she don\u2019t come cheap. Myself, I\u2019m\nin less fear of predators than of walking around\n\nin my mother\u2019s body. That\u2019s sneaky, that\u2019s more\nthan naked. Let\u2019s even it up: you go on fuming in your\n\ngray room. I am voracious alone. Blank and loose,\nmetallic lingerie. And rare black-tipped cigarettes\n\nin a handmade basket case. Which of us weaves\nthe world together with a quicker blur of armed\n\nseduction: your war-on-thugs, my body stockings.\nAscetic or carnivore. Men will crack your glaze\n\neven if you leave them before morning. Pigs\nride the sirens in packs. Ah, flesh, technoflesh,\n\nthere are two kinds of people. Hot with mixed\nlight, drunk on insult. You and me.", "Some build their homes from iron and the weight of measured stone\nWhile others sleep beneath the willow's breath in moss and unknown rain\nOne walks a path of straight lines drawn with ink that never fades\nThe other drifts on shifting sands where every footprint is erased\n\nThe architect counts bricks to find the truth within the wall\nThe poet listens for the silence that the mortar cannot hold\nThey speak different languages of time, of speed, of deep delay\nOne sees the clock as master, one sees it as a game to play\n\nIn the kitchen of the world, the baker kneads the heavy dough\nTo feed the hungry mouth with bread that rises, firm and slow\nBut the gardener tends the wild vine that climbs the fence unseen\nAnd offers fruit that tastes of storm and shadows, green and lean\n\nThere are those who guard the gate with keys of brass and rust\nWho fear the open door more than the lock inside the dust\nWhile others leave the hinges loose, inviting wind and ghost\nTo sweep through empty rooms where nothing but the light is lost\n\nTwo rivers run beside each other, one clear and cold and deep\nThe other muddy, churning fast with secrets it must keep\nThey do not mix until the sea, where salt dissolves the line\nAnd the diver and the sailor both forget which hand was mine\n\nWe are the hammer and the anvil, the spark and the coal\nThe rigid spine of order, the fluid soul of control\nYet in the mirror's fractured glass, we see the other face\nA shadow cast by our own light, a stranger in the place", "Some are the hammers that strike the anvil\nwhile others are the sparks that fly off to light a candle\nin a room where the air is thick with dust and silence.\n\nSome are the roots drinking deep from the dark earth\nwhile others are the leaves trembling in the wind\ntrying to catch the last of the sun before it sets.\n\nOne is the architect drawing straight lines on parchment\nthe other is the gardener pruning wild vines that twist around the gateposts.\n\nOne builds the wall of stone, heavy and gray,\nthe other paints the window glass with blue and green and gold.\n\nOne counts the coins in the strongbox, one measures the grain in the barn.\nOne listens for the wolf at the door, one listens for the lark at dawn.\n\nOne is the captain steering by the stars through the stormy night,\none is the cook stirring the pot over the fire while the ship rolls.\n\nThey do not understand each other, they only know they need each other,\nlike the hand needs the eye to see what to grasp,\nlike the eye needs the hand to wipe away the tear.\n\nIf the hammer strikes too hard the anvil cracks,\nif the spark flies too high the candle goes out.\n\nIf the root drinks too much the vine withers,\nif the leaf trembles too much the fruit falls.\n\nThe wall must be high enough to keep the wolf out,\nbut if it is too high the lark cannot sing inside.\n\nThe captain must steer true or the ship sinks,\nbut if he does not let the cook eat his fill the cook will poison the stew.\n\nSo they stand back to back in the center of the world\nand look out in opposite directions,\none seeing the end, one seeing the beginning,\nboth seeing the middle,\nboth seeing the whole.", 6, "Some wear armor of polished silence,\nstanding like lighthouses in a fog that never lifts,\nwhile others are the storm itself,\ntossing their voices like broken glass into the wind.\nOne builds a wall of stacked stones to keep the tide out,\nmeasuring every inch with a ruler made of fear,\nthe other digs a tunnel through the mountain\nto see what grows on the other side of the dark.\n\nThe architect draws lines in the dust and calls them laws,\nfearing the chaos of a leaf falling without permission,\nbut the gardener lets the weeds choke the roses\njust to watch how life fights for the light anyway.\nOne counts the coins in the jar until they ring like bells,\nbelieving wealth is a fortress against the night,\nthe other spends the whole moonlight buying bread for strangers,\nknowing hunger is the only true currency of the soul.\n\nThere are those who hold the map and refuse to walk,\ntracing routes with a finger stained by ink and history,\nand there are those who burn the map to start a fire\nthat warms the hands of travelers who have lost their way.\nOne speaks in riddles wrapped in silk, hiding the truth inside,\nthe other screams the naked fact until it bleeds.\nWe are split down the middle of the spine,\nhalf stone, half water,\none foot planted in the bedrock of \"must,\"\nthe other slipping on the ice of \"what if,\"\ntrying to dance a waltz with two left feet\nwhile the orchestra plays a song of contradictions\nthat sounds like harmony only when you listen from far away.", 3, "The architect draws lines in dust to hold the wind,\nWhile the river eats the foundation stone and laughs,\nOne builds a cage of logic for the ghost,\nThe other is the ghost that slips through bars.\n\nWe are the sower who counts every seed by weight,\nAnd we are the storm that scatters them to rot,\nOne seeks the pattern hidden in the grain,\nThe other loves the chaos of the bloom.\n\nThere is the hand that stitches wounds with silver thread,\nAnd there is the knife that opens up the vein,\nBoth serve the body in their different tongues,\nOne heals the skin, the other feeds the blood.\n\nSome wear the mask of iron to keep fear away,\nWhile others wear the veil of softest silk to hide,\nThe fortress stands against the rising tide,\nThe boat drifts out to meet the crashing wave.\n\nWe are the clock that ticks the seconds down to zero,\nWe are the hourglass where time flows upward still,\nOne measures life in steps upon the stair,\nThe other sees the flight of birds above the wall.\n\nThe gardener prunes the branch to save the tree,\nThe wildfire burns the forest to make room,\nBoth claim they know what living truly means,\nOne in the silence of the green, one in the ash.\n\nSo walk the narrow bridge between the two,\nWhere the builder drops his hammer and the river pauses,\nTo see how both the cage and open sky\nAre made of air, and light, and nothing else.", 6, "One builds the wall with mortar made of silence\nwhile the other paints a door upon the stone\nand calls it home to those who walk in shadow\nseeking light that burns without a flame\n\nThe architect measures the distance between heartbeats\ncalculating load and stress on trembling beams\nbut the gardener knows the roots drink deep in chaos\nwhere order is a weed that chokes the bloom\n\nSome wear armor forged from cold indifference\nto shield the softness underneath the steel\nwhile others walk unarmored through the fire\nletting ash settle like a second skin\n\nThe clockwork man ticks forward in straight lines\ndividing time into neat and usable slices\nthe river child flows backward through the cracks\nmerging yesterday with what has not yet come\n\nWe are the fracture and the glue that holds it\nthe question asked and answered in the same breath\nstanding on the ridge where wind divides the valley\nwatching how the dust becomes the mountain peak", 6, "The architect draws lines in dust that hold the wind at bay\nWhile the wanderer kicks up the grit to see what storms might play\nOne builds a wall of measured stone to keep the chaos out\nThe other plants a garden where the wild roots scream and shout\n\nA captain charts the stars above with rigid, iron eyes\nTo navigate the frozen dark beneath the winter skies\nBut the sailor sings to shifting tides that mock the plotted course\nAnd trusts the moon's erratic pull to steer the drifting horse\n\nThe scribe records the weight of words in ink that never fades\nTo trap the fleeting moments in a cage of heavy shades\nYet the storyteller weaves a thread from shadows on the floor\nThat slips through fingers like the smoke of some forgotten door\n\nWe stand divided by the glass that separates the view\nBetween the one who counts the grains and one who counts the dew\nTwo hands reach for the same sun but cast a different shade\nOne seeks the solid ground below while one is unafraid\n\nTo fall into the void between the logic and the dream\nWhere neither law nor liberty can ever quite redeem\nThe fractured mirror shows us all as fragments of a whole\nSome broken pieces seeking rest while others seek control", 6, "The stone wall stands where the river bends\nOne side holds the silence of the deep\nThe other catches light that never ends\nA mirror split by a jagged seam\n\nSome wear armor forged in winter's breath\nTo shield the heart from storms they cannot name\nWhile others dance with shadows close to death\nAnd call the fire a gentle game\n\nThe architect draws lines in rigid sand\nBelieving order tames the chaotic tide\nThe wanderer leaves footprints on no land\nWith nothing left for them to hide or guide\n\nA clock ticks loud inside a hollow chest\nMeasuring the moments lost to fear\nWhile music swells within a quiet rest\nProving that the broken things are dear\n\nWe build our towers high to touch the sky\nThen dig our graves beneath the same old ground\nTwo different paths that ask the self to try\nTo find the voice where opposing sounds are found\n\nThe hand that pushes and the hand that pulls\nAre woven tight in threads of gold and gray\nBoth hold the weight of ancient, shifting rules\nThat turn the night into the breaking day", 6, "The architect builds walls of glass to hold the sky\nWhile the wanderer leaves footprints in the shifting sand\nOne seeks a map with edges sharp and defined\nThe other trusts the compass that spins wild and free\n\nA king sits high upon a throne of silent stone\nCommanding tides with words that never break or bend\nBelow, a jester laughs at gravity's heavy pull\nDancing on the edge where logic meets the dream\n\nFire warms the hearth but burns the forest down\nWater quenches thirst yet drowns the deepest roots\nWe are the storm that rages through the quiet night\nAnd the calm before the thunder cracks the open sky\n\nSome wear armor forged from doubt and ancient fear\nOthers walk barefoot through the thorns without a sound\nTwo mirrors facing each other show a fractured face\nReflecting all the ways we choose to love or leave\n\nThe river carves the canyon deep within the earth\nWhile the mountain stands unmoved by time's relentless hand\nBetween the rise and fall, a bridge of smoke appears\nConnecting those who build to those who let it go", 6], [146, "ultra_held_out", "The Witch\u2019s Life by Anne Sexton", "Anne Sexton", "A poem about a speaker aging into the very \"witch\" she once misunderstood as a child, coming to embrace a hermit's life of overwhelming memories while choosing to carry on despite life's dreamlike uncertainties.", "When I was a child\nthere was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.\nAll day she peered from her second story\nwindow\nfrom behind the wrinkled curtains\nand sometimes she would open the window\nand yell: Get out of my life!\nShe had hair like kelp\nand a voice like a boulder.\n\nI think of her sometimes now\nand wonder if I am becoming her.\nMy shoes turn up like a jester's.\nClumps of my hair, as I write this,\ncurl up individually like toes.\nI am shoveling the children out,\nscoop after scoop.\nOnly my books anoint me,\nand a few friends,\nthose who reach into my veins.\nMaybe I am becoming a hermit,\nopening the door for only\na few special animals?\nMaybe my skull is too crowded\nand it has no opening through which\nto feed it soup?\nMaybe I have plugged up my sockets\nto keep the gods in?\nMaybe, although my heart\nis a kitten of butter,\nI am blowing it up like a zeppelin.\nYes. It is the witch's life,\nclimbing the primordial climb,\na dream within a dream,\nthen sitting here\nholding a basket of fire.", "I used to fear the woman in the woods\nwith eyes like cracked obsidian and hands that smelled of rain,\nthinking her solitude was a cage she built for herself.\nNow the mirror shows those same deep lines\nand I understand the silence was not empty,\nbut heavy with every ghost I ever knew.\nThe house is full of whispers now,\na library of moments I cannot burn or bury,\nand the world outside has blurred into a watercolor haze.\nThey call it madness when the past walks through the door,\nbut I have learned to brew tea for them instead.\nThe path is foggy, the future a dream I wake from daily,\nyet I sweep the porch and tend the garden roots,\nchoosing to stay in this quiet magic\nwhere the only spell left is the courage to endure.", "I used to think the witch in the storybook\nwas a monster with a hooked nose and a wart,\nhiding in the woods to eat children who wandered off.\nNow I am that woman, living alone in the woods,\nand the only thing I eat is memory.\nIt is a heavy diet, this hermitage of mine,\nfor the past has no expiration date;\nit piles up like snow against the door,\nuntil I have to shovel it out just to breathe.\nBut I do not go back to the city where people are young\nand forgetful and buy new clothes every season.\nI stay here with my memories, which are my children,\nand I feed them and they grow large and strange.\nSome days I feel as if I am walking on water,\nas if the ground is not there at all,\njust a dream of solidity under my feet.\nBut then I wake up and the ground is there,\nand the memories are there, and I am old,\nand I must carry on.", 2, "I once ran from the woman in the crooked house\nwho whispered to the wind and kept a jar of eyes,\nbelieving her solitude was a curse I must avoid.\nNow the mirror holds that same sharp gaze,\nand my hands know the weight of dried herbs\nbetter than they knew the weight of a child's hand.\nThe world outside is a blur of rain and strangers,\nbut here inside, the memories crowd like ghosts at a feast,\noverwhelming and bright, demanding to be named.\nThey say the future is a fog, a dream we cannot trust,\nthat time is a river with no bank to hold it.\nBut I have learned to sit by the fire with this chaos,\nto let the shadows dance as long as they please.\nI am the witch now, not because of magic or fear,\nbut because I choose to stay when others would flee,\ncarrying the heavy, beautiful burden of what has been\ninto the uncertain dark, step by quiet step.", 3, "I once ran from the woman in the crooked house\nWho wore a hat of shadows and kept a cat of smoke,\nThinking her silence was a curse and her garden full of weeds,\nNot knowing she was simply keeping time alone.\nNow my own spine curves like the willow by the stream,\nAnd neighbors whisper about the strange light in my eyes,\nThe way I talk to ghosts who visit just before dawn,\nThe way I hoard jars of rain and dried-up summer days.\nI am becoming the witch I feared, the hermit of my own making,\nSurrounded by memories that crowd the floorboards thick as snow.\nThey press against me, heavy and sweet and terrifyingly clear,\nA library of moments I cannot burn or bury.\nBut the world outside is a fog that shifts with every breath,\nA dream where the path changes while you are walking it,\nWhere the sun might rise tomorrow or the moon might fall.\nSo I will sit here in my crooked chair, among my gathered past,\nLetting the dust settle on my shoulders like a crown,\nChoosing to hold the weight of all I have been\nAgainst the terrifying, beautiful uncertainty of what comes next.", 3, "I used to run from the crooked house on the hill\nWhere shadows stretched like claws against the glass,\nConvinced that silence was a heavy spell\nAnd that the woman inside had let the world pass.\nShe gathered roots and whispered to the rain,\nA monster in my mind with eyes of coal,\nWhile I sought only sun and open plain,\nUnaware of what it meant to lose control.\n\nNow winter settles deep within my bones,\nMy skin is parchment mapped with lines of time,\nThe same wild hair that once I thought unknown\nNow tangles with the ivy and the rime.\nI see her clearly now in every mirror's gleam,\nNot evil, but a vessel full of grief,\nHolding a thousand memories like a stream\nThat floods the valley of my quiet belief.\n\nThis hermit's life is not a curse I bear,\nBut a vast library of things unsaid,\nOf lovers lost to wind and empty air,\nAnd words I swallowed just to stay well-fed.\nThe uncertainty hangs thick as morning mist,\nA dream where logic fails and ghosts take flight,\nYet I will stand until the day is kissed\nBy stars that guide me through the endless night.\n\nSo let them call me witch if they must see\nThe power in the solitude I keep,\nI am the memory, I am the key,\nAwake within the vast and shifting sleep.\nI carry on because the weight is mine,\nThe story written in the trembling hand,\nAccepting every shadow and every sign,\nAnd walking forward into what I planned.", 6, "I used to fear the woman in the woods\nWith hair like storm clouds and eyes of green\nWho whispered secrets to the roots below\nAnd made the sunlight bend where she had been\nI ran from shadows cast by her long cloak\nConvinced that magic was a thing of harm\nBut time has turned my own reflection back\nTo show the stranger standing in the barn\n\nNow silver threads replace the golden strands\nThat once were braided tight against the fear\nThe cottage walls are lined with jars of rain\nAnd dried-up songs I kept through every year\nA hermit's life is heavy with the past\nWhere ghosts of laughter echo in the hall\nI see the faces of the ones I loved\nReflected clearly on the kitchen wall\n\nThey say the world outside is clear and bright\nBut here the fog rolls in with soft intent\nA dreamlike haze where certainty dissolves\nAnd nothing stays exactly as it meant\nYet in this quiet chaos I remain\nNot broken by the weight of all I know\nBut choosing still to stir the simmering pot\nAnd let the steam rise up and overflow\n\nSo let them call me witch or old and strange\nFor I have found the power in the deep\nTo hold the memories that threaten to drown\nWhile guarding promises I mean to keep\nThe uncertainty is just another spell\nThat weaves the future from the tattered now\nAnd though the path ahead is lost in mist\nI walk it with a calm and steady bow", 6, "I used to hide behind the heavy oak\nAnd whisper prayers against the crooked spine\nOf women who walked where shadows spoke\nWith tangled hair and eyes that knew the time\nI thought them monsters made of rust and bone\nWho stole the sun and left the fields to freeze\nBut now the frost has settled in my own\nAnd I am finally what I feared to be\n\nThe cottage holds a thousand silent ghosts\nEach memory a weight I cannot drop\nI trace the lines upon these weathered posts\nWhile seasons turn and never seem to stop\nNo longer running from the creaking floor\nOr fearing how the wind might learn my name\nI open up the heavy, locked door\nTo let the chaos in and play its game\n\nThey say the path is lost inside the mist\nThat dreams are fragile things we hold too tight\nBut here within this quiet, dusty tryst\nI find a strange and comforting light\nLet others seek the warmth of crowded halls\nI choose the hermit's robe of gray and deep\nTo answer when the ancient spirit calls\nAnd watch the world dissolve into its sleep\n\nSo let me be the witch you warned me of\nWith pockets full of stories left untold\nA keeper of the silence, rough and rough\nWho loves the winter more than summer gold\nFor though the future fades like morning dew\nAnd nothing stays exactly as it seemed\nI walk this road with steps both old and new\nAnd wake within the dream I always dreamed", 6, "I once ran from the cottage deep in pine\nWhere shadows danced and whispered ancient signs\nA child who feared the crooked, gnarled hand\nThat held the secrets of a forbidden land\n\nNow silver threads weave through my tangled hair\nAnd I see the magic hanging heavy in the air\nThe very eyes that watched me with such dread\nAre now my own, reflecting what was said\n\nNo longer do I seek the village square\nBut find my peace within this quiet lair\nWhere memories rise like mist against the stone\nA thousand lives lived out and all alone\n\nThe dreams blur soft at edges of the mind\nLeaving only echoes of the past behind\nYet here I stand with broom and broken cup\nTo catch the rain that falls and never stops\n\nLet them call me monster, let them fear the night\nFor I have learned to love the fading light\nA hermit queen of dust and shifting sand\nHolding the weight of worlds I cannot command\n\nSo let the uncertainty drift on the breeze\nAs I embrace the life that brought me ease\nWith every step toward the unknown door\nI am the witch I always feared before", 6], [151, "train", "Risk by Ana\u00efs Nin", "Ana\u00efs Nin", "A poem about striving toward change and growth when pushing against conflict and turmoil.", "And then the day came,\nwhen the risk\nto remain tight\nin a bud\nwas more painful\nthan the risk\nit took\nto blossom.", "The wind howls loud against the door\nAnd shakes the frame of what was sure\nYet in the chest a quiet spark\nRefuses to surrender dark\n\nWe plant our feet on shifting sand\nWith trembling hands and steady hand\nFor every storm that tears the ground\nIs where new roots are finally found\n\nThe clash of waves may break the stone\nBut shapes the cliff we call our own\nNo path is smooth, no sky is clear\nWhen fear demands that we should steer\n\nBut forward is the only way\nTo turn the night into the day\nThrough friction born of broken things\nA stronger self begins to sing", "The wind howls through the broken fence\nand tears the sapling's leaves away,\nbut deep beneath the storm-tossed ground\nthe roots are drinking in the day.\n\nThey stretch and seek the hidden water,\nthey grip the dark and clinging clay,\nwhile up above the branches struggle\nagainst the gale of yesterday.\n\nSo let the thunder crack the heavens,\nso let the lightning flash and play,\nthe quiet growth goes on unheeding\nbeneath the noise and disarray.\n\nFor change is not a sudden splendor,\nnor turmoil but a passing fray;\nthe seed must break to be a flower,\nthe heart must break to find its way.", 7, "The wind howls loud against the stubborn stone\nAnd tries to tear the roots from deep below,\nBut in the dark, beneath the shifting bone\nOf earth that shakes and trembles as it goes,\nA seed is waking up to stretch its spine\nAgainst the weight of winter's heavy hand.\n\nThe river crashes on the jagged line\nOf rocks that block its path across the land,\nYet wears them down with patience and with force\nTo carve a channel for a wider course.\n\nWe walk through fire while seeking cooler air,\nThrough chaos searching for a steady light,\nThough every step feels like a desperate prayer\nThat ends in stumbling in the middle of the night.\nBut growth is not a quiet, gentle thing,\nIt is the breaking of the shell to sing.", 6, "The wind howls through the broken gate\nAnd tears the heavy curtain back,\nBut in the center of the storm\nA single green and trembling stalk\nRefuses to bow to the gale.\n\nIt is not easy to unfold\nWhen every shadow seeks to crush,\nTo stretch a leaf toward a sun\nThat hides behind a wall of gray.\nThe roots must drink from muddy deeps\nWhere chaos swirls and stones collide,\nYet still they reach for something pure,\nSomething that waits beyond the fight.\n\nWe stumble on the jagged road\nWith dust upon our weary faces,\nWhile voices rise in sharp dispute\nTo drown the quiet voice inside.\nBut growth is made of friction's fire,\nOf breaking old and rigid shells,\nOf learning how to stand upright\nWhen all the world demands we fall.\n\nSo let the thunder shake the ground\nAnd let the lightning split the sky,\nFor in the midst of crashing waves\nA new horizon starts to rise.\nWe walk through conflict, step by step,\nNot fleeing from the noise and pain,\nBut turning every wound into\nA place where light can start again.", 6, "The wind howls sharp against the glass\nAnd tries to shake the roots we hold\nBut deep within the dark and mass\nWe find a story yet untold\n\nThe storm may tear the branches bare\nAnd scatter seeds upon the stone\nYet in that chaos, stripped and bare\nA stronger green begins to grow\n\nWe do not run from thunder's sound\nNor hide beneath the heavy sky\nInstead we plant our feet on ground\nAnd watch the broken clouds drift by\n\nFor every crack that lets the light\nReveal the path through pain and fear\nIs proof that something takes its flight\nTo make the old year disappear\n\nSo let the turmoil rise and fall\nLike waves that crash upon the shore\nWe answer with a steady call\nTo build a life worth fighting for", 7, "The wind howls loud against the open door\nAnd stones are thrown to break the fragile floor\nYet in the rubble, something starts to rise\nA quiet seed beneath the stormy skies\n\nWe walk through fire just to find the rain\nTo wash away the dust of old refrain\nThough shadows stretch and try to hold us tight\nWe reach for dawn within the deepest night\n\nIt hurts to shed the skin that once protected\nTo face the world with hands that are untested\nBut every crack allows the light to pour\nAs we become more than we were before\n\nSo let the chaos roar and shake the ground\nFor strength is found where broken things are bound\nWe push ahead despite the heavy cost\nTo build a future from what we have lost", 6, "The wind howls loud against the stone\nA chaotic roar that claims the throne\nYet in the cracks where shadows creep\nA quiet seed begins to sleep\n\nIt does not fight the storm with force\nBut bends its will to find a course\nThrough tangled roots and shifting sand\nIt reaches for a distant land\n\nEach broken branch becomes a scar\nThat guides the light from near or far\nFor growth is not a gentle tide\nBut something forged where things collide\n\nSo let the thunder shake the ground\nAnd silence all the weary sound\nWe rise again through dust and fire\nTo climb the wall, to touch the spire", 6, "The wind howls loud against the wall\nWhere shadows stretch and spirits fall\nYet in the cracks of broken stone\nA seed begins to claim its own\n\nIt does not ask for quiet skies\nOr gentle hands to dry the eyes\nBut digs its roots through storm and rain\nTo find a strength within the pain\n\nEach step is heavy, slow, and steep\nThrough valleys where the promises sleep\nThe path ahead is jagged, wide\nWith nowhere left for fear to hide\n\nWe push against the rising tide\nWith nothing but our hearts inside\nFor growth demands the tearing down\nOf every crown that wears a frown\n\nSo let the chaos roar its sound\nAs new foundations rise from ground\nNot built on sand or shifting dust\nBut forged in fire, tempered by trust", 7], [153, "train", "If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda", "Pablo Neruda", "A poem about a speaker reminding his lover of their intense romantic love while warning her that if she stops loving him he will cease to love her in return.", "I want you to know\none thing.\n\nYou know how this is:\nif I look\nat the crystal moon, at the red branch\nof the slow autumn at my window,\nif I touch\nnear the fire\nthe impalpable ash\nor the wrinkled body of the log,\neverything carries me to you,\nas if everything that exists,\naromas, light, metals,\nwere little boats\nthat sail\ntoward those isles of yours that wait for me.\n\nWell, now,\nif little by little you stop loving me\nI shall stop loving you little by little.\n\nIf suddenly\nyou forget me\ndo not look for me,\nfor I shall already have forgotten you.\n\nIf you think it long and mad,\nthe wind of banners\nthat passes through my life,\nand you decide\nto leave me at the shore\nof the heart where I have roots,\nremember\nthat on that day,\nat that hour,\nI shall lift my arms\nand my roots will set off\nto seek another land.\n\nBut\nif each day,\neach hour,\nyou feel that you are destined for me\nwith implacable sweetness,\nif each day a flower\nclimbs up to your lips to seek me,\nah my love, ah my own,\nin me all that fire is repeated,\nin me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,\nmy love feeds on your love, beloved,\nand as long as you live it will be in your arms\nwithout leaving mine.", "Remember how the fire burned between us,\nA blaze that turned the winter into spring,\nWhere every glance was a vow unspoken,\nAnd silence sang the loudest song we knew.\n\nBut know this truth as clearly as you breathe:\nThat flame is fed by two, not one alone.\nIf you should turn your face away from me,\nAnd let the embers cool within your chest,\n\nThen I will not beg for warmth again.\nThe love you gave so freely will be mine no more,\nFor what is shared can also be withdrawn.\nIf you stop loving me, I cease to love you.", "Remember how the fire burned\nBetween us when we first met,\nHow the world was nothing but a shadow\nAnd our hearts were the only suns that set.\n\nIf you stop loving me, I shall cease to love you;\nThe flame must die if the wood is gone.\nI cannot keep the light alive alone,\nNor can you make it burn if I withdraw.\n\nWe are two hands clapping to make a sound,\nTwo eyes to see with, or one blind pair;\nIf you take away your love, I am no more there,\nFor I cannot clap without my other hand.", 6, "Remember how the fire burned between us,\nHow every breath we took was shared and hot,\nA blinding light that left no shadowed corner\nUnseen by our devouring, desperate love.\nBut know this truth as well as you know passion:\nIf ever you should turn your eyes away,\nAnd let that flame of yours grow cold and gray,\nThe heat within me shall instantly expire.\nI cannot love a ghost who walks beside me,\nNor keep my heart beating for empty air;\nIf you withdraw the gift you once gave freely,\nMy love will die the moment yours is gone.", 6, "Remember how the air caught fire when you first looked at me,\nHow every heartbeat was a drum that only your name could beat,\nA burning tide that swept us both into a deep and endless sea.\nBut listen close to this truth before the winter sets its feet:\nIf ever you should turn away and let that flame grow dim,\nI will not beg for scraps of light or try to fix the sin,\nThe moment you withdraw your heart, my love will cease to swim,\nAnd I shall be as cold and still as stone beneath the skin.\nFor what we shared was not a chain but wings of sudden flight,\nAnd if you clip those feathers now, I simply stop the fight.\nSo keep the fire alive in you, or watch it die with mine,\nTwo mirrors facing empty space where once our souls did shine.", 6, "The fire that burns between us now\nIs fierce enough to melt the stone,\nA love so deep it makes me bow\nBefore the altar of your own.\n\nBut hear this truth before you stray,\nAnd let the warning take its hold:\nIf you should choose to turn away,\nMy heart will freeze and turn to cold.\n\nFor I am but a mirror bright,\nReflecting all you give to see;\nIf you withdraw your light tonight,\nThere will be nothing left of me.\n\nSo keep the flame alive and true,\nOr watch it die within an hour,\nFor what I feel for only you\nWill vanish with your final power.", 7, "The fire that burns between us now is bright\nA blazing sun that scorches through the night\nI hold your heart as if it were my own\nAnd in this heat, we are never alone\n\nBut know the rule that governs all we keep\nThis sacred vow we made before we sleep\nIf you should turn and let the embers fade\nOr walk away from every word we said\n\nThen I will stop, and silence will remain\nNo lingering ghost of pleasure or of pain\nFor love like ours demands a matching flame\nAnd without yours, I have no need to claim\n\nSo cherish what we have with all your might\nBefore the day we lose our shared light\nFor if your hand lets go of mine today\nMy heart will cease to beat for you anyway", 7, "The fire in my chest burns only for your name,\nA flame that turns the coldest night to gold.\nI give you all the pieces of my frame,\nA story of devotion yet untold.\n\nBut know this truth before the silence grows,\nThat love is not a river meant to flow alone.\nIf you withdraw the warmth that feeds my soul,\nThe garden of my heart will turn to stone.\n\nFor I am made of mirrors reflecting you,\nAnd if you break the glass, the image dies.\nWhen your affection fades into the blue,\nMy own will vanish with the evening skies.\n\nSo hold me close and let the passion start,\nOr watch the light within my eyes depart.\nTo cease your love is to unmake my art,\nAnd leave us both with nothing but the dark.", 7, "My heart beats only to the rhythm of your name\nA fire that burns with a fierce and holy flame\nWe are woven tight in threads of gold and red\nWhere every whispered promise keeps us from the dead\n\nBut know this truth before you turn away\nThat love is not a debt we owe each day\nIf silence falls where once our voices rose\nThe garden dies beneath the winter's snows\n\nI give you all I am, my soul laid bare\nYet if you pull back, there will be no repair\nFor when your gaze stops seeking out my own\nThe man who loved you turns to stone alone\n\nDo not mistake this warning for a threat\nIt is the simple price we both must set\nTo hold the light or let it fade to gray\nI love you now, but I will walk away", 6], [161, "ultra_held_out", "You Begin by Margaret Atwood", "Margaret Atwood", "\"A poem about a child beginning to learn and discover the world through their hand, their eye, and the words and colours that anchor them to life's beginnings and endings.\"", "You begin this way:\nthis is your hand,\nthis is your eye,\nthat is a fish, blue and flat\non the paper, almost\nthe shape of an eye.\nThis is your mouth, this is an O\nor a moon, whichever\nyou like. This is yellow.\n\nOutside the window\nis the rain, green\nbecause it is summer, and beyond that\nthe trees and then the world,\nwhich is round and has only\nthe colors of these nine crayons.\n\nThis is the world, which is fuller\nand more difficult to learn than I have said.\nYou are right to smudge it that way\nwith the red and then\nthe orange: the world burns.\n\nOnce you have learned these words\nyou will learn that there are more\nwords than you can ever learn.\nThe word hand floats above your hand\nlike a small cloud over a lake.\nThe word hand anchors\nyour hand to this table,\nyour hand is a warm stone\nI hold between two words.\n\nThis is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,\nwhich is round but not flat and has more colors\nthan we can see.\n\nIt begins, it has an end,\nthis is what you will\ncome back to, this is your hand.", "The small hand reaches out to grasp the air\nAnd finds the roughness of a wooden chair\nA texture mapped against the skin so new\nWhere touch becomes the first way to be true\n\nThen eyes awake to catch the morning light\nThat splits the gray and paints the world in white\nThey watch the dust that dances in the beam\nAnd learn that life is made of what we see\n\nBut words arrive like seeds upon the breeze\nTo name the rustling leaves and swaying trees\nThey anchor down the moments as they pass\nBetween the birth cry and the final gasp\n\nAnd colours bloom to mark the start and end\nThe red of blood, the green where roots descend\nA spectrum woven through the tiny frame\nThat holds the wonder of this fleeting game", "First the hand that grips the air\nand finds it solid as a wall,\nthe thumb that turns the world around\nto see what is behind it all.\n\nThen the eye that opens wide\nto catch the light and let it in,\nto watch the green of grass unfold\nand the blue where clouds begin.\n\nAnd words come next to name the things\nthe hand has held, the eye has seen,\nthe red of rose, the white of snow,\nthe black of night, the gold of sheen.\n\nThese anchor me to life's first breath\nand to the silence at its end,\na tiny boat on ocean waves\nwith hand and eye to steer and mend.", 6, "The small hand opens wide to catch the falling light\nAnd grasps the rough bark of a tree, the smooth cool stone\nIt learns the weight of water and the texture of the wind\nBefore it knows the names of things or where they are grown\n\nThen comes the eye that tracks the bird across the blue\nAnd sees the shadow lengthen as the sun begins to fade\nIt watches how the flower turns its face toward the dawn\nAnd notes the sudden silence when the evening is made\n\nBut words arrive like footsteps on a dusty path to walk\nTo name the red of sunset and the green of growing grass\nThey build a bridge from here to there, from now until the end\nAnd anchor all the wonder in a story we can pass\n\nFor life begins within this touch, this sight, this spoken word\nAnd ends when silence takes the hand and dims the seeing eye\nYet in between, the colours hold us fast against the dark\nWith every new discovery that helps the child not die", 6, "The small hand reaches out to touch the rough,\nTo feel the cool of stone and warmth of sun,\nA universe within a single grasp,\nWhere life begins before it has begun.\n\nThe eye opens wide to catch the shifting light,\nThe blue of sky, the green of growing grass,\nIt learns the shape of shadows in the night,\nAnd watches moments come and moments pass.\n\nThen words arrive like birds upon the wind,\nTo name the things that hand and eye have found,\nThey anchor us where all our days begin,\nAnd map the silence of the deepest ground.\n\nAnd colours bloom to mark the start and end,\nThe red of blood, the white of winter snow,\nA spectrum that the tiny heart can send\nFrom first breath drawn to final resting low.\n\nSo through these hands, these eyes, these words so true,\nWe hold the world from cradle to the grave,\nThe bright beginning and the dark adieu,\nThe only anchors that we ever save.", 7, "The small hand reaches out to grasp the air\nAnd finds a wall of rough and solid stone\nA texture warm against the morning glare\nThat teaches touch is something not alone\n\nThen up the eye ascends to catch the light\nWhere shadows dance and shift upon the floor\nIt learns the shape of day from fading night\nAnd opens wide to see what lies in store\n\nFrom mouth come words that bind the loose and wild\nTo name the bird, the tree, the running stream\nEach syllable a bridge for just a child\nBetween the waking dream and heavy dream\n\nThe colours bloom in red and deep green hue\nTo mark the start of spring and end of fall\nThey anchor life in shades both old and new\nAnd hold the world before it slips away at all\n\nSo hand and eye and voice and painted sign\nAre threads that weave the fabric of the soul\nBeginning with a whisper, then a line\nThat leads the broken heart back to the whole", 6, "A small hand reaches out to grasp the air\nAnd finds the roughness of a wooden chair\nThe fingers trace the grain and learn the shape\nOf things that hold, and things that gently break\n\nThen eyes unfold to catch the morning light\nThat paints the dust in gold against the white\nThey watch the shadow stretch across the floor\nAnd wonder what lies waiting at the door\n\nFrom silent shapes, the first soft words take flight\nTo name the sun, the rain, the depth of night\nEach syllable a bridge from here to there\nA quiet promise hanging in the air\n\nAnd colours bloom like seeds within the mind\nThe red of love, the blue of peace we find\nThey anchor us when chaos starts to spin\nBetween the start where life begins within\n\nAnd end where all the stories softly fade\nIn every touch, in every choice we made\nThe hand, the eye, the word, the hue remain\nTo map the joy and sorrow of the rain", 7, "The small hand reaches out to grasp the air\nA texture rough, a surface smooth and bare\nIt touches stone that holds the ancient weight\nAnd feels the pulse of life within its gate\n\nThen eyes unfold to catch the morning light\nThat paints the shadows soft against the night\nThey trace the curve of clouds above the tree\nAnd see the vast and quiet mystery\n\nWords arrive like birds with songs to share\nBuilding castles in the empty air\nEach syllable a brick, each phrase a door\nTo walk across the threshold of before\n\nThe colours bleed from red to deep blue skies\nReflecting tears and laughter in disguise\nFrom first breath drawn to silence at the end\nThese anchors hold where broken things begin again", 6, "A small hand reaches for the dust\nTo feel the grain of morning light\nWhere shadows stretch and softly rust\nBefore the day can take its flight\n\nThe eye opens wide to see\nThe blue that paints the endless sky\nA canvas where the mind is free\nTo watch the clouds go drifting by\n\nThen words arrive on quiet wings\nLike seeds that fall upon the ground\nThey sing of all the simple things\nThat make a broken heart unbound\n\nIn red and gold the colors bloom\nMarking the start of every tale\nFrom first breath taken in the room\nTo stories told within the veil\n\nLife begins with touch and sight\nAnd ends in whispers soft and deep\nA child holds the fading light\nWhile learning how to love and keep", 7], [163, "ultra_held_out", "The Beauty of Union by George the Poet", "George the Poet", "A poem about two people merging their lives into a strong and beautiful union, making decisions together and finding love without worry.", "There\u2019s an indescribable beauty in union\nIn two beings forming one new being\nEntering each other\u2019s world\nSurrendering each other\u2019s selves\nAccepting the invitation to be everything to someone else\nThere\u2019s an unparallelled bravery in union\nIn telling the one you love:\n\u201cThe only way that we can truly win\nIs if I think of you in everything I do\nAnd honour every decision you faithfully include me in.\u201d\nLove gives union true meaning\nIt illuminates the path\nIt wants us to compromise, communicate and laugh\nIt wants us to elevate, appreciate without pride\nLove is oblivious to the outside\nEven with an audience of millions\nEven when that love bears immortal significance\nAll of this is met with cordial indifference\nBy the two people at the heart of it\nTwo individuals when they started it\nBecoming two halves of one partnership\nSuch is the beauty of union\nSuch is the beauty of union", "Two separate streams begin to weave\nA single path where shadows leave\nNo longer standing side by side\nBut walking with a shared stride\n\nWe choose the road with one clear voice\nAnd find in union, purest choice\nTo build a home on solid ground\nWhere trust and quiet peace are found\n\nThe heavy weight of doubt is gone\nReplaced by light that greets the dawn\nWith every step we take as one\nOur love remains forever won\n\nNo fear can touch this gentle space\nWe move together through time and place\nA strong and beautiful design\nWhere your heart beats perfectly with mine", "Two rivers flowing from different hills\nMeet in the valley and become one stream,\nNo longer asking which way to turn or where to go,\nBut moving forward with a single will.\n\nThey stand at the crossroads of life and choose together,\nOne hand on the map, one hand on the wheel,\nAnd when the road is rough they hold each other tight,\nAnd when it is smooth they laugh aloud and feel\n\nThe wind blowing through their hair, the sun shining warm,\nWithout a worry that the day will end too soon,\nOr that they will have to part, or that love will fade,\nFor they have made their union strong as the moon.\n\nThey are two stars that have come close and merged their light,\nSo that now there is only one star burning bright.", 7, "Two streams that wander separate and deep\nNow join to form a single, rushing tide\nWhere promises are kept and secrets sleep\nAnd nothing in the world can hide or divide\n\nWe stand together at the crossroads wide\nTo choose the path that leads us both ahead\nWith no more fear of where we may abide\nOr if the road is rough or softly spread\n\nThe worry fades like mist before the sun\nWhen two become one heart within one chest\nOur shared decisions make the journey done\nBefore the final resting place is pressed\n\nNo shadow falls between our joined hands now\nAs love flows strong and clear without a care\nA beautiful and unbreakable vow\nThat lifts us gently on a golden air", 7, "Two rivers finding where the banks have worn away\nTo meet in currents deep and clear and bright\nWe lay our separate maps upon the floor\nAnd trace a single path toward the light\n\nNo heavy weight of doubt to slow our step\nNo whispering fear that pulls us from the side\nJust quiet hands that choose the road we take\nWith nothing left to hide or to divide\n\nThe morning coffee shared, the evening plan\nDecided with a glance, a nod, a smile\nWe build a home on trust so firm and true\nThat time itself seems slower, less awhile\n\nA union strong as stone yet soft as air\nWhere every worry loses all its sting\nWe walk together into open space\nAnd find the love that only freedom brings", 7, "Two rivers meet and lose their separate names\nTo carve a single path through stone and rain\nNo longer asking who will lead the way\nBut walking side by side into the day\n\nWe choose the future with a steady hand\nAnd build a home upon this shared command\nThe weight of doubt dissolves in morning light\nAs worry fades within our quiet night\n\nThere is no fear when hearts are fully known\nJust seeds of trust that we have carefully sown\nA union strong as roots beneath the earth\nThat finds its joy in simple, sacred worth\n\nTogether now we face the turning tide\nWith nothing left to hide and nowhere to hide\nFor love has found a place without a care\nAnd breathes a calm and beautiful air", 7, "Two separate streams begin to weave\nThrough valleys deep and fields of green\nNo longer walking distinct paths\nBut sharing every sight unseen\n\nWe stand as one against the wind\nWith hands held tight and hearts aligned\nDecisions made in quiet trust\nLeave all the fear of loss behind\n\nThe future holds no shadowed doubt\nAs morning breaks on shared design\nA single voice, a common ground\nWhere love and safety softly shine\n\nNo worry lives within this space\nThat two have become something whole\nA strong and beautiful embrace\nThat makes our broken pieces whole", 7, "Two rivers meet where valleys softly bend\nTo form a current that will never end\nNo longer separate or drifting wide\nBut walking side by side with nothing to hide\n\nWe choose the path with hands held tight and sure\nBuilding a home where peace is the only cure\nEvery decision made in shared design\nA woven tapestry of yours and mine\n\nThe fear that once would whisper in the night\nDissolves beneath the warmth of our united light\nNo shadow lingers on this sacred ground\nWhere two distinct hearts beat as one profound\n\nIn quiet moments and in storms we face\nWe find the strength within this gentle space\nA love so deep it needs no words to speak\nStronger than the mountains, tender like the creek", 7, "Two separate rivers find the same bed\nWhere currents slow and silence is shed\nNo longer walking paths apart alone\nBut building walls of stone from seed to bone\n\nYour hand in mine becomes a steady guide\nWith nothing left for fear or doubt to hide\nWe choose the dawn before the night takes hold\nA story written brave and bright and bold\n\nDecisions made with voices joined as one\nThe setting sun, the rising of the moon\nNo worry lingers in the quiet air\nJust love that breathes without a single care\n\nThrough storm and calm we stand unshaken true\nA tapestry woven in every hue\nMerged completely in this sacred space\nWhere two become a whole, a perfect grace", 7], [168, "train", "The Hawthorn Tree by Willa Cather", "Willa Cather", "A poem about a speaker reminiscing about mysterious, intimate moments shared with a male figure beneath a hawthorn tree in a beautiful natural setting, while keeping the words he spoke a secret.", "ACROSS the shimmering meadows--\nAh, when he came to me!\nIn the spring-time,\nIn the night-time,\nIn the starlight,\nBeneath the hawthorn tree.\n \nUp from the misty marsh-land--\nAh, when he climbed to me!\nTo my white bower,\nTo my sweet rest,\nTo my warm breast,\nBeneath the hawthorn tree.\n \nAsk of me what the birds sang,\nHigh in the hawthorn tree;\nWhat the breeze tells,\nWhat the rose smells,\nWhat the stars shine--\nNot what he said to me!", "The hawthorn held its breath above the grass\nWhere white petals fell like silent snow,\nAnd in that green and shadowed quiet space,\nThe world dissolved to just the two of us.\n\nHis voice was low, a ripple on the stream,\nThat wove a spell beneath the ancient bough,\nHe spoke of things too fragile for a dream,\nToo sacred for the light of morning now.\n\nI trace the bark where fingers once had pressed,\nRemembering the warmth against my hand,\nBut what he said remains within my chest,\nA secret kept by wind and shifting sand.\n\nNo bird could carry out those whispered words,\nNo river flow with such a heavy sound,\nThey hang suspended like the summer birds,\nLost forever in this hallowed ground.\n\nSo let the hawthorn bloom and fade again,\nAnd let the seasons turn their golden wheel,\nI hold the silence of his spoken pen,\nA mystery only I can feel.", "Beneath the white cloud of the hawthorn tree\nWhere the wind moved softly through the leaves,\nWe sat and watched the shadows play\nAcross the green and golden sheaves.\n\nHe spoke to me in low, soft tones\nOf things I dare not tell;\nThe words were like a hidden stream\nThat only we could smell.\n\nHis hand was warm upon my knee,\nThe sun was high and sweet,\nAnd though he whispered strange and sweet,\nI keep them at my feet.\n\nThe hawthorn blooms are falling now,\nThe summer is gone by,\nBut still I hold his secret words\nBeneath the hawthorn tree's eye.", 6, "Beneath the hawthorn's lace of white and green,\nWhere sunlight fractured through the leaves above,\nWe sat in silence, intimate and deep,\nWhile bees hummed low within the clover close.\nThe wind moved soft against your shoulder there,\nAnd you leaned near to speak a whispered word,\nOr perhaps a phrase that held a hidden weight,\nBut what it was I cannot tell to you.\nI only know the scent of bark and bloom,\nThe way the shadows danced upon your face,\nAnd how the secret stayed within my heart,\nA quiet treasure buried in the grass.\nNo other ear could catch the sound you made,\nFor nature kept its watch with open eyes,\nYet held its tongue as well, to guard the speech\nThat passed between us under hawthorn boughs.", 6, "The hawthorn stood like a white cloud against the green,\nIts branches heavy with the scent of spring,\nWhere you and I found shelter from the wind,\nBeneath the dappled light that danced and swung.\n\nYour voice was low, a secret in the air,\nAs soft as moss upon the forest floor,\nYou spoke of things the stars alone could hear,\nAnd touched my hand within the shadowed door.\n\nThe world dissolved to just that patch of shade,\nThe rustle of leaves, the thrush's distant call,\nI watched the words you whispered fade away,\nLike mist before the morning sun would fall.\n\nI keep them safe, these promises you made,\nLocked deep within the quiet of my heart,\nNo one shall know the magic that we shared,\nOr how the hawthorn kept our love apart.\n\nLet others ask what secrets passed between,\nUnder the bloom of May and summer rain,\nBut I will hold the silence of your speech,\nA treasure too profound for human tongue.", 6, "The hawthorn bowed its white and heavy head\nTo shield us from the afternoon's bright gaze,\nWhere sunlight filtered through the leaves like thread\nAnd wove a tapestry of golden haze.\n\nYou sat with me upon the mossy ground,\nYour shoulder warm against my trembling arm,\nWhile silence held a weight that could not drown\nThe quiet rhythm of your steady charm.\n\nI do not know what words you whispered then,\nFor they were lost within the rustling bough,\nOr perhaps I chose to keep them from men,\nA secret kept between the tree and now.\n\nThe scent of thorns and earth rose up around,\nAs time dissolved beneath that canopy,\nNo sound but birdsong on the summer ground,\nAnd mysteries meant only for you and me.\n\nLet others guess at what was said or done,\nBeneath the stars that watched our hiding place,\nI hold the echo of the setting sun,\nAnd lock those words in this secluded space.", 6, "The hawthorn bowed its thorny crown\nTo shelter us from afternoon,\nWhere sunlight fractured on the ground\nAnd scattered gold through leaves of green.\nYou leaned so close the scent of rain\nClung to your coat and mixed with pine,\nWhile distant birds forgot their refrain\nTo watch the quiet intertwine.\nYour voice was low, a secret stream\nThat flowed between the roots below,\nA whisper woven into dream\nWith words I never meant to know.\nThey hung suspended in the air,\nToo sacred for the wind to steal,\nA language only we could share\nBeneath the boughs where shadows reel.\nNow years have passed and branches sway,\nThe tree stands tall against the sky,\nBut what you said that summer day\nRemains a ghost I cannot pry.\nI keep the silence, deep and sweet,\nThe mystery of what was said,\nA hidden rhythm, soft and complete,\nWithin the heart where secrets tread.", 6, "The hawthorn bends to touch the grass\nWhere sunlight breaks in shards of gold\nAnd time itself seems slow to pass\nWithin the story it has told\n\nI see him standing in the shade\nWith eyes that held a storm and calm\nThe words he whispered, softly made\nAre now a silent, sacred psalm\n\nHe spoke of stars we cannot name\nOf tides that pull beneath the moon\nBut I will guard the flame they came\nTo light the path between us soon\n\nThe scent of white and thorny bloom\nFills up the air with ancient grace\nA secret kept within this room\nOf nature's quiet, wild embrace\n\nNo one shall hear the low refrain\nThat floated on the evening breeze\nJust shadows dancing in the rain\nAnd memories that bring me ease", 7, "The hawthorn bows its thorny head\nTo guard the grass where we once tread\nA canopy of white and green\nWhere time forgot what it had seen\n\nYou stood beneath the ancient bough\nWith silence heavy on your brow\nThe wind held breath to hear us speak\nOf things too fragile, soft, and weak\n\nYour voice was low, a velvet thread\nThat wove a path inside my head\nIt spoke of stars that fall away\nAnd promises we chose to keep today\n\nI watched the way the light would dance\nUpon the lines of every glance\nNo map could guide this hidden place\nOr trace the shadow on your face\n\nBut now the sun begins to fade\nAnd leaves the secrets in the shade\nI hold the words you never wrote\nA quiet fire within my throat\n\nLet others wonder at the sound\nOf whispers lost upon the ground\nFor some truths are meant to stay\nBeneath the tree at end of day", 6], [169, "train", "The Falling Leaves by Margaret Postgate Cole", "Margaret Postgate Cole", "\"A poem about leaves falling silently from a tree, representing the countless soldiers dropping one by one in war, their bodies blanketing the fields like snowflakes covering the earth in a vast, peaceful, and sorrowful silence.\"", "Today, as I rode by,\nI saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree\nIn a still afternoon,\nWhen no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,\nBut thickly, silently,\nThey fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;\nAnd wandered slowly thence\nFor thinking of a gallant multitude\nWhich now all withering lay,\nSlain by no wind of age or pestilence,\nBut in their beauty strewed\nLike snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.", "A single leaf detaches from the bough\nAnd drifts without a sound to touch the ground\nAnother follows, then another now\nAs autumn winds make no triumphant sound\n\nThey fall like men who stood in ranks so tight\nBefore the silence took them one by one\nThe green of youth gives way to fading light\nUntil the battle's roar is fully done\n\nNo drumbeat marks their final resting place\nJust soft descent upon the trampled soil\nA quiet hush covers the open space\nWhere life has paid its heavy, final toll\n\nThe field grows white with uniforms of gray\nLike snowflakes settling on a frozen plain\nThey lie as still as shadows at the day\nThat never breaks again to bring the rain\n\nA vast and peaceful sorrow fills the air\nAs nature wraps the fallen in her shroud\nThere is no glory left for us to share\nOnly the silence rising through the cloud", "The leaves let go without a sound,\nA silent drift from branch to ground,\nOne by one they fall away,\nLike soldiers in the light of day.\n\nNo trumpet sounds, no drumbeat rolls,\nJust quiet bodies dropping souls,\nUntil the field is white and deep,\nAs if with snowflakes covered sleep.\n\nA vast and peaceful silence lies,\nBeneath the weight of falling eyes,\nA sorrowful and soft repose,\nWhere countless fallen heroes doze.", 7, "A single leaf lets go and drifts away\nWithout a sound to mark its passing breath,\nThen another follows in the gray\nAnd quiet air, a silent, falling death.\n\nThe boughs grow bare as men drop one by one,\nNo trumpet calls them down from high command,\nJust soft descents beneath a lowering sun\nTo join the vast and waiting, sleeping land.\n\nThey cover all the fields with sudden white,\nLike snowflakes settling on a frozen plain,\nA blanket made of lives extinguished quite,\nWhere not a whisper breaks the heavy chain.\n\nIt is a peace that hurts the heart to see,\nThis silent snow of soldiers lying low,\nWhere war has ceased its violent decree\nAnd leaves their bodies where the cold winds blow.\n\nSo still it lies, this field of fallen men,\nAs if the earth had pulled a sheet above,\nTo hide the cost of battle once again\nBeneath a shroud of sorrowful, deep love.", 7, "The green turns gold then brown and breaks away\nWithout a sound to mark the sudden end\nOne by one they drift into the gray\nWhere wind and quiet sorrow gently bend\n\nNo trumpet calls them down from branch to ground\nJust silent figures settling on the soil\nA vast and heavy blanket all around\nThat covers up the scars of endless toil\n\nLike snowflakes falling soft upon the plain\nThey hide the mud and blood beneath their weight\nA peaceful shroud against the driving rain\nTo seal the earth in silence and in fate\n\nSo still the field where once the shouting rang\nNow covered deep with leaves that used to be\nThe countless soldiers who have softly hung\nAnd dropped to sleep beneath the autumn tree", 6, "The wind does not howl, the branches do not break,\nOnly a soft release as autumn turns to gray,\nOne by one they drift down, a quiet, heavy weight,\nNo trumpet sounds to mark the price of war today.\n\nThey fall like snowflakes settling on the frozen plain,\nA blanket woven from the red and gold of life,\nEach leaf a soldier lost beneath the rain,\nCut short before the dawn could end the strife.\n\nThe earth is covered now in layers deep and still,\nA vast and peaceful silence where the fighting ceased,\nNo cry escapes the grass, no voice can fill\nThe hollow space where every heart has been released.\n\nSo let them lie together in this gentle hush,\nWhere winter waits to wrap the world in white,\nAs leaves and men become the same soft rush,\nDissolving into night, dissolving into light.", 7, "A single leaf detaches from the bough\nAnd drifts without a whisper to the ground\nAnother follows, then another now\nWhere no triumphant fanfare can be found\n\nThey fall like men who stood in ranks so tight\nBefore the thunder broke the morning air\nNow scattered in the fading of the light\nWith heavy hearts and eyes that stare at nothing there\n\nThe field is deep with red and brown and gold\nA carpet woven from the fallen brave\nAs quiet as the stories never told\nBeneath the weight of every silent grave\n\nNo wind disturbs this blanket soft and deep\nWhere snowflakes of the living meet the dust\nIn sorrow's hush the weary armies sleep\nAnd turn the battlefield to winter's trust", 7, "The wind does not howl today\nonly a hush that holds its breath\nas green turns to rust and brown\nbefore the final surrender of death\n\nOne by one they let go\nno trumpet calls, no drumbeat rolls\njust the quiet descent of a leaf\ncarrying stories from distant souls\n\nThey drift across the open plain\na carpet woven from loss and pain\neach body soft against the soil\nwhere hope was once so bright and whole\n\nLike snowflakes settling on the ground\nthe fallen make a silent mound\na vast and peaceful, sorrowful sea\nof those who gave their lives for peace\n\nThe earth accepts them without sound\nin this vast and frozen profound\nwhere silence is the only song\nfor all who went where they belong", 7, "The wind does not howl tonight\nIt holds its breath to hear the fall\nA single rustle in the light\nBefore the shadows take it all\n\nNo trumpet sounds to mark the end\nNo drumbeat rolls across the plain\nJust autumn leaves that softly bend\nTo join the quiet, endless rain\n\nThey drift like ghosts of men who stood\nIn armor worn and hearts grown cold\nNow scattered through the muddy wood\nWhere stories of the brave are told\n\nEach one a name the earth will keep\nBeneath a sky of heavy gray\nWhile silence wraps the world in sleep\nAnd washes sorrow far away\n\nThe field is white with fallen grace\nNot snow but bodies laid to rest\nA vast and holy, hushed embrace\nThat covers every broken chest\n\nSo let them lie without a sound\nAs branches bare their final weight\nWhere peace and grief are deeply bound\nWithin the garden of our fate", 7], [178, "ultra_held_out", "I Loved You by Alexander Pushkin", "Alexander Pushkin", "\"A poem about a speaker expressing his enduring love and deep affection for a past beloved, describing the many ways he has loved her, and wishing her the same devoted love from another.\"", "I loved you: yet the love, maybe,\nHas not extinguished in my heart;\nBut hence may not it trouble thee;\nI do not want to make you sad.\nI loved you hopelessly and mutely,\nNow with shyness, now with jealousy being vexed;\nI loved you so sincerely, so fondly,\nLikewise may someone love you next.\nTranslation by Emil Sharafutdinov:\nI loved you; even now I must confess,\nSome embers of my love their fire retain;\nBut do not let it cause you more distress,\nI do not want to sadden you again.\nHopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly\nWith pangs the jealous and the timid know;\nSo tenderly I love you, so sincerely,\nI pray God grant another love you so.", "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light,\nWhen shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight.\nI loved you in the storms that raged against the glass,\nWatching how your spirit stood while all the others passed.\nI loved the way you laughed at jokes no one else could hear,\nThe gentle weight of sorrow when a single tear drew near.\nI loved the summer dust motes dancing in the air,\nAnd every unspoken promise that we never dared to share.\n\nMy love was not a fleeting spark that burned and turned to gray,\nBut roots that went deep beneath the soil to hold you through the day.\nIt was in the coffee cups I left beside your bed,\nIn words I swallowed back to keep the peace within our head.\nIt was in the patience waiting for you to find your way,\nThrough nights of doubt and wandering into the breaking day.\n\nNow though the road has parted and my hands can no longer hold,\nA story written in the heart that time cannot unfold,\nI wish for you a lover who will see what I have seen,\nWho cherishes the fragile beauty of your soul so clean.\nMay he love you as I did, with every breath he draws,\nWithout a single question or a hesitation's pause.\nMay he guard your weary spirit and lift you when you fall,\nAnd answer every whisper before you speak it at all.\nI give you to another now, with blessings on my tongue,\nThat you may know the devotion where my song is sung.", "I loved you with the quiet of the morning\nBefore the birds began to sing,\nWith the silence of the snow that fell at noon\nWhen all the world was white and still.\n\nI loved you in the heat of summer noons\nWhen the cicadas cried in the hot trees,\nAnd I loved you when the wind blew cold\nIn the dark nights of winter.\n\nI loved you with a love that held your hand\nAnd one that let it go,\nA love that watched you from afar\nAnd one that watched you close.\n\nI loved you with the light of the moon\nThat looked upon your face,\nAnd I loved you with the sun that warmed your skin\nAnd dried the tears upon your face.\n\nNow let another love you as I did,\nAs well as I could do,\nLet him know the ways I loved you\nAnd love you just as true.", 6, "I loved you in the silence of the morning light\nBefore the world had woken to its noise,\nI loved you in the shadow of the night\nWhen stars were lost and only dreams had voice.\nI loved you with a hunger that would fade\nIf fed too soon, so I kept it lean and deep,\nI loved you in the promises we made\nAnd in the quiet vows we did not keep.\nI loved you when your laughter was a bell\nThat rang through rooms where sorrow used to dwell,\nI loved you when your eyes grew dim and dull\nAnd time had set its heavy, rusted seal.\nNow let another hold you as I held\nThe fragile bird that once flew from my hand,\nLet him protect the heart he has beheld\nAs gently as I guarded what I planned.\nMay he be patient with your wandering thoughts,\nMay he be kind when you are weak and tired,\nMay he love you more than all the words I brought,\nWith every fire that in my soul expired.\nGo forth and find a love that is complete,\nA love that does not tremble or depart,\nFor I have given you my whole heart's beat,\nAnd now I give you back your own free heart.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light\nBefore the world had woken from its sleep,\nI loved you in the shadows of the night\nWhen all the stars were promises to keep.\nI loved you with a hunger for your name,\nWith every breath that filled my waiting chest,\nI loved you through the joy and through the shame,\nAnd laid my weary heart down at your rest.\nI loved you when the seasons turned to gray,\nI loved you when the rivers ran too deep,\nI loved you in the words I did not say,\nI loved you while the others fell asleep.\nNow let another hold the torch I held so long,\nLet him adore the grace that made you whole,\nLet his devotion be the steady song\nThat fills the silence of your wandering soul.\nMay he love you as I have loved you still,\nWith all the depth that time cannot erase,\nMay he fulfill the promise of my will,\nAnd find the home I could not quite embrace.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light\nBefore the world had made its noise and claim,\nI loved you in the shadow of the night\nWhen silence spoke your true and sacred name.\nI loved you with the patience of the stone\nThat waits for rain to soften all its face,\nI loved you when I stood entirely alone\nAnd found my only home within your grace.\n\nI loved you with the anger that I hid,\nThe fear I swallowed just to keep you near,\nI loved you as the river loves the kid\nWho throws a stone and watches ripples clear.\nI gave you every secret that I kept,\nEvery dream I folded in my hand,\nI watched you while the weary city slept\nAnd held you in a promise I had planned.\n\nNow let another take this heavy crown,\nLet someone else be worthy of your smile,\nLet them wear the weight I wore so down,\nAnd walk with you through valley and through mile.\nMay they love you with a fire bright and new,\nMore fierce than any flame I ever knew,\nFor though my heart is still a shrine to you,\nI wish you love that feels entirely true.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light\nWhen shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight\nI loved you in the storms that raged against the window pane\nAnd in the gentle rain that washed away our shared pain\nI loved your laughter echoing through empty halls\nAnd the way your name still softly calls within my walls\nI gave you every piece of me I had to spare\nA heart laid open, hanging heavy in the air\n\nBut now the seasons turn and I must let you go\nTo find a love that blooms where only winter snows once grow\nSo may another hold you with a fire just as bright\nWho knows the weight of silence and can stand beside you in the night\nMay they cherish every flaw and celebrate your grace\nAnd build a home where time moves slow within your warm embrace\nI wish them all the devotion that I could not keep\nA promise made to watch over you while I fall asleep\nGo forward with this blessing, know that I remain\nThe ghost of all the loving that has ever been your own again", 7, "I loved you in the quiet hours before the dawn,\nWhen silence held a promise that we had not yet spoken.\nI loved you in the storm that tore the sky apart,\nHolding steady while the thunder shook the ground beneath our feet.\nI loved the way your laughter broke the heavy air,\nAnd how your shadow stretched across my weary days to keep me warm.\nI loved the scars you carried, hidden deep within your skin,\nTreating every wound as sacred ground where healing could begin.\nI loved the dreams you whispered when the world was fast asleep,\nThe fragile hopes you nurtured while the rest of us would sleep.\nNow I stand upon the shore where once our tides collided,\nWatching waves roll in to wash the footprints from the sand.\nMy heart remains a vessel filled with all the love I gave,\nA constant tide that rises though you walk a different path today.\nSo may another find the light that lives behind your eyes,\nAnd offer you a devotion as fierce and true as mine.\nMay they hold your hand through winter's cold and summer's burning heat,\nAnd cherish every fragment of the soul you carry deep inside.\nLet them love you with a fire that never fades or turns to ash,\nJust as I did, just as I do, until the final breath is drawn.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet hours before the dawn\nWhen silence held us close and breath was all we knew\nI loved the way your laughter broke the heavy air\nAnd turned the grayest sky to gold for just a few\n\nI traced the lines of worry on your weary face\nAnd promised to be shelter when the storm would rise\nI memorized the rhythm of your heartbeat slow\nA steady drum beneath the chaos of our lives\n\nMy love was not a fire that burned and then consumed\nBut water deep and constant that carved the stone around\nIt lived in every sunrise and in every rain\nIn all the things I said and all I left unsaid\n\nNow time has moved us forward to different shores\nYet here within my chest, your name remains the same\nI wish upon the stars above your path tonight\nThat someone finds you gentle as the moon's soft flame\n\nMay they hold your hand with hands as warm as mine\nAnd offer you the devotion that I gave so free\nLet them know the beauty of the soul you carry\nAnd love you as I did, completely and endlessly", 7], [182, "train", "Whispers of Immortality by T.S. Eliot", "T.S. Eliot", "A poem about exploring the inescapable presence of death beneath the surfaces of life, love, and sexuality, ultimately consuming all else.", "Webster was much possessed by death\nAnd saw the skull beneath the skin;\nAnd breastless creatures under ground\nLeaned backward with a lipless grin.\nDaffodil bulbs instead of balls\nStared from the sockets of the eyes!\nHe knew that thought clings round dead limbs\nTightening its lusts and luxuries.\nDonne, I suppose, was such another\nWho found no substitute for sense,\nTo seize and clutch and penetrate;\nExpert beyond experience,\nHe knew the anguish of the marrow\nThe ague of the skeleton;\nNo contact possible to flesh\nAllayed the fever of the bone.\n. . . . .\nGrishkin is nice: her Russian eye\nIs underlined for emphasis;\nUncorseted, her friendly bust\nGives promise of pneumatic bliss.\nThe couched Brazilian jaguar\nCompels the scampering marmoset\nWith subtle effluence of cat;\nGrishkin has a maisonnette;\nThe sleek Brazilian jaguar\nDoes not in its arboreal gloom\nDistil so rank a feline smell\nAs Grishkin in a drawing-room.\nAnd even the Abstract Entities\nCircumambulate her charm;\nBut our lot crawls between dry ribs\nTo keep our metaphysics warm.", "The pulse that drums beneath the skin\nIs counting down the seconds in\nA rhythm borrowed from the grave,\nA debt we cannot choose to save.\n\nIn lovers' touch, a fever burns,\nYet every kiss quietly returns\nTo dust that waits within the bone,\nA silent king upon the throne.\n\nThe bed where passion spills its heat\nHolds shadows at the foot of feet,\nFor flesh is but a temporary tent\nBefore the final dark is spent.\n\nWe build our castles on the sand,\nIgnoring how the waves command\nTo wash away the hand that drew\nThe lines of what we thought was true.\n\nNo flower blooms without the root\nThat drinks the water from the suit\nOf earth that claims us all the same,\nErasing names and burning fame.\n\nThe mouth that speaks of endless years\nIs fed by silence and by fears,\nAs life, with all its vibrant art,\nIs just the prelude to the heart's\nFinal surrender to the night,\nWhere light dissolves into the white\nAnd nothing stands, no sound remains,\nOnly the quiet, deep domain.", "Beneath the velvet bloom of spring\nThe white worm waits, a silent king.\nBeneath the kiss that seals the vow,\nThe cold clay gathers round us now.\n\nIn every pulse of lover's blood,\nA tiny grave is dug for mud;\nIn every sigh of sweet desire,\nA spark that feeds the funeral pyre.\n\nWe dance upon the crater's rim,\nUnconscious of the chasm dim;\nWe build our castles on the sand,\nAnd call it love to hold the land.\n\nBut death is underneath the floor,\nHe knocks and will not leave the door;\nHe drinks the wine we pour for him,\nAnd turns the vintage into slime.\n\nNo wall can keep him from the bed,\nNo curtain hide the living dead;\nHe walks through fire and water too,\nFor all things serve his purpose true.\n\nLove is but a momentary lease\nOn what must soon be put at ease;\nSexuality a brief disguise\nTo cover up the rotting eyes.\n\nSo when you see the rose in flower,\nThink of the root beneath the bower;\nWhen you see the bridegroom gay,\nThink of the corpse he leads away.\n\nFor life is but a bubble blown\nFrom out the mouth of death alone;\nIt bursts, and nothing is there left\nSave death himself, and he bereft.", 6, "The rose opens its throat to the sun\nand in that red velvet silence\nwe hear the dry rustle of the grave.\nBeneath the fevered skin of lovers\nwhere hands seek to fuse and breaths tangle\nthere is a cold, quiet counting\nof the seconds ticking toward the end.\nSex is a frantic digging\nin the soft earth before the frost,\na desperate planting of seeds\nthat will rot in the dark before they bloom.\nWe build our castles on the sand\nbut the tide is not water, it is time,\nand it does not wash away; it swallows.\nEvery kiss tastes faintly of dust,\nevery embrace holds the shape of a shroud.\nThe heart beats loudly against the ribs\nonly to remind us how soon the drum will stop.\nLife is a thin veneer of paint\nover a wall of bone and decay.\nLove is the candle burning at both ends\nto light the way for the shadow that waits\nin the corner, patient and absolute.\nIt is already here, beneath the laughter,\nbeneath the wine, beneath the promise.\nIt is the only thing that stays,\nthe only thing that truly lives,\nwaiting for us to finish playing\nso it can finally take what is its own.", 3, "Beneath the flush of skin where pulse runs deep\nA silent tenant waits in shadowed keep\nWe weave our love with threads of bright desire\nWhile cold ash settles on the funeral pyre\n\nThe bed is warm, a sanctuary made of breath\nYet every touch whispers the shape of death\nThe scent of rose that blooms within the room\nIs but a ghost of flowers in the tomb\n\nWe dance to music that will soon be still\nAnd drink the wine that time will make us spill\nNo wall can hold the tide that turns to bone\nNo heart can beat against the quiet stone\n\nThe lover's kiss, the child's first laughing cry\nAre borrowed moments under empty sky\nFor all the fire that burns in human veins\nMust yield to silence and to rusting chains\n\nIt waits beneath the laughter and the song\nTo right the balance where we do not belong\nUntil the final curtain falls away\nAnd night consumes the remnants of the day", 7, "The pulse that drums against the wrist\nIs merely counting down the beat,\nA frantic rhythm in the mist\nThat hides the silence at our feet.\n\nWe weave our sheets in silk and sweat,\nAnd trace the maps of skin so warm,\nUnknowing that the final debt\nIs waiting for us in the storm.\n\nThe lover's breath, a heated gasp,\nExhales into the cooling air,\nWhile shadows stretch across the asp\nTo claim the beauty we declare.\n\nBeneath the bloom, the root decays,\nWithin the kiss, the cold begins to creep,\nA quiet thief who never pays,\nWho watches while the living sleep.\n\nNo flame can burn the dark away,\nNo touch can hold the tide at bay,\nThe sun will set on every day,\nAnd take the light, and take the play.\n\nFor life is but a borrowed spark\nBefore the endless night descends,\nA fleeting glow within the dark\nWhere every story finds its ends.", 7, "Beneath the skin where pulse beats loud\nA quiet rot begins to crowd\nThe lovers touch with fevered hands\nWhile time dissolves into the sands\n\nThe rose blooms red and sweetly deep\nBefore the roots begin to sleep\nFor every breath we draw so warm\nIs borrowed from a coming storm\n\nIn beds of silk and tangled sheets\nWhere passion burns and hunger meets\nThe shadow waits in every glance\nTo steal the rhythm, stop the dance\n\nNo kiss can seal the gaping mouth\nNo vow can turn the northern south\nThe fire that warms the winter night\nWill fade into the endless white\n\nWe build our castles on the shore\nOf tides that pull us ever more\nUntil the water claims the stone\nAnd leaves us utterly alone\n\nThe heart that beats, the hand that holds\nAre stories waiting to be told\nThen silenced by the final sound\nWhere life and death are finally bound", 6, "The skin glows warm against the touch\nA frantic rhythm in the chest\nWe weave our vows in silk and breath\nAnd build a castle for the rest\n\nBut underneath the beating heart\nWhere lovers trace their trembling lines\nA quiet shadow starts to chart\nThe path that time designates as mines\n\nThe pulse that drives the desire's flame\nIs borrowed from a colder source\nIt whispers through the lover's name\nOf silence waiting at the course\n\nEvery kiss is but a pause\nBefore the final, heavy fall\nThe beauty of the rising cause\nCannot outrun the empty wall\n\nNo sanctuary holds the light\nAgainst the tide that pulls it deep\nThe day dissolves into the night\nAs all the promises we keep\n\nAre swallowed by the endless gray\nThat waits beneath the soil and stone\nTo take the gold and steal the clay\nAnd leave us with the flesh alone\n\nIn the end the fire turns to ash\nThe love becomes a memory\nThe body breaks its fragile clash\nAnd yields to what was always free", 7, "Beneath the pulse that drums against the wrist\nA quiet tide begins to rise and creep\nIt waits within the kiss, the warmest mist\nThe secret promise that the shadows keep\n\nWe build our towers out of flesh and bone\nAnd swear in bed that nothing ends tonight\nBut roots dig deep where seeds are never sown\nTo claim the morning and devour the light\n\nLove is a lantern flickering in the wind\nIts flame a temporary, fragile thing\nWhile silence gathers, vast and undefined\nTo swallow up the song we tried to sing\n\nNo wall can hold the water from the sea\nNo vow can stop the slow and certain turn\nThe end was written in our history\nBefore the first breath ever started to burn\n\nSo let the heart beat loud against the grave\nAs beauty fades into the hollow dark\nFor everything we touch must soon behave\nAnd yield its form to time's unyielding mark", 7], [186, "ultra_held_out", "At Last We Killed The Roaches by Lucille Clifton", "Lucille Clifton", "A poem about a speaker reflecting on the killing of roaches in her childhood home, moving from relief to regret and considering the act as murder against creatures simply living the best they could.", "at last we killed the roaches.\nmama and me. she sprayed,\ni swept the ceiling and they fell\ndying onto our shoulders, in our hair\ncovering us with red. the tribe was broken,\nthe cooking pots were ours again\nand we were glad, such cleanliness was grace\nwhen i was twelve. only for a few nights,\nand then not much, my dreams were blood\nmy hands were blades and it was murder murder\nall over the place.", "The click of the shoe against the tile\nwas a satisfying punctuation to a long day,\na small victory in a war I didn't understand,\njust the instinctive relief that the dark thing was still.\n\nI remember the spray mist hanging in the kitchen air,\nsweet and chemical, a scent that meant safety,\nmeant clean floors and parents nodding approval\nthat we were protecting our little kingdom from the scuttling invaders.\n\nBut now, standing in a quiet room years later,\nthe memory shifts its weight, heavy and strange,\nand I see not a monster but a creature trying to survive,\nnavigating a world too large and too bright for its small eyes.\n\nThey were only looking for crumbs in the cracks,\nseeking warmth under the sink where the pipes hummed,\nliving their brief, frantic lives with a desperate purpose\nthat I never paused to honor or even notice.\n\nWhat did I know then of their right to be here?\nTo scurry and breed and fear the thunder of my foot?\nI called it pest control, a necessary cleaning,\nbut now it feels like murder against the innocent.\n\nWe are all just trying to live the best we can,\nhiding in the shadows, eating what we find,\nand I wonder if they felt the same sudden shock,\nthe same confusion when the light went out forever.", "I remember the sharp click of the shoe\nagainst the kitchen tile,\nthe satisfying crunch underfoot,\nand how I felt a surge of relief\nthat one less thing was breathing in my house.\n\nNow years later I think of those little lives\nscuttling in the dark,\nseeking a crumb or a drop of water,\ntrying to survive as best they could\nin a world that did not want them.\n\nI think of them as if they were people,\npeople who had done nothing wrong\nexcept be born and live where they were born,\nand I feel a dull regret\nthat I killed them so easily,\nso unthinkingly,\nas if they were just dirt.", 2, "I remember the sharp crack of the shoe\nagainst the linoleum, a sudden silence\nwhere there had been skittering feet.\nThere was relief then, a clean sweep of the floor,\na sense that order had been restored to the kitchen,\nthat the dark, damp corners were finally safe again.\n\nBut now I see those small, hard bodies\nnot as invaders but as tenants who paid rent\nin their own quiet way, living in the cracks\nof a house that was never truly theirs.\nThey were only trying to survive,\nto find a crumb, to avoid the light,\nto raise their young in the safety of the wall.\n\nWhat did we know of their lives?\nWe called them pests and killed them without thought,\nstriking down creatures who simply wanted to exist.\nIt feels like murder now, this casual violence,\nfor they were doing nothing more than living\nthe best they could in a world that hated them.", 2, "I remember the sharp crack of the shoe\nagainst the linoleum, a sudden silence\nafter the skittering stopped,\nand how I felt a clean, bright relief\nthat the house was safe again.\n\nWe were small gods in that kitchen then,\nwielding our heavy soles with righteous aim,\nbelieving we were defending the perimeter\nfrom an invading horde of filth and disease.\n\nNow the memory feels heavier,\na dark stain on the white tile of my mind.\nThey were not invaders but refugees,\nscavenging crumbs in the shadows,\ntrying to keep their eggs warm,\ntrying to survive the dry heat of summer\njust as we tried to survive our own lives.\n\nI see them now not as monsters to be crushed,\nbut as tiny, frantic hearts beating fast,\nliving the best they could with what they had,\nsimply wanting to exist without fear.\nAnd I wonder if every death I celebrated\nwas just a murder committed by a child\nwho did not know any better than to kill.", 2, "The spray hissed white against the dark tile,\nA sudden cloud of chemical rain,\nAnd I felt a surge of clean relief\nAs the scuttling stopped and the legs curled in.\nMy mother praised the spotless kitchen,\nThe safety of a world without teeth or claws,\nBut now the silence feels too heavy,\nToo much like a grave for things so small.\n\nThey were not monsters seeking to destroy,\nJust shadows hunting for crumbs and warmth,\nNavigating the vast canyons of our floorboards\nWith the same desperate will to live as I.\nI see them now not as invaders but as refugees,\nFleeing the heat of the sun, seeking the cool dark,\nDoing only what their tiny hearts demanded\nTo keep their fragile lives from ending.\n\nWhat right did I have to judge their presence?\nTo end a story that had no beginning with me?\nIt was murder, plain and simple,\nDone with a plastic trigger and a smile.\nThey were simply living the best they could\nIn a house that was never truly theirs,\nAnd I was the giant who decided\nThat their survival was a crime.", 2, "The spray hissed a silver fog against the kitchen tile\nAnd I remember the thrill of victory, the heavy boot\nThat crushed the hard shell into dust and silence\nA small triumph in a house that felt too big to hold\nI thought I was protecting my world from invasion\nClearing the dark corners where shadows dared to creep\n\nBut now the memory lingers with a different weight\nNot the sharp sting of poison but the dull ache of loss\nFor they were not monsters plotting war in the walls\nJust tiny travelers seeking warmth and crumbs and light\nDoing exactly what life demanded of them\nSurviving the cold, finding food, building nests in the cracks\n\nI see them now as neighbors who asked for nothing\nLiving their brief, frantic lives with desperate purpose\nWhile I stood armed with chemicals and judgment\nDeciding their existence was an error to be corrected\nWas it murder to end a creature simply trying to live?\nTo snuff out a heartbeat that beat so fast and faint\nIn the quiet space between my fear and their flight\nI wonder if the floor still remembers the sound of their falling\nAnd if the ghost of that small, brown body haunts me still", 3, "The kitchen tile was cold beneath my bare feet\nAnd the shadow skittered fast across the grout\nI raised the shoe with a triumphant breath\nA satisfying crack that silenced the house\nRelief washed over me like a sudden tide\nAnother monster banished from the dark\nWe were the giants, they were the pests\nAnd I felt safe within our sterile walls\n\nBut years have softened edges of that certainty\nNow I see the tiny legs trembling in the dust\nNot as an enemy to be erased\nBut as a life trying to survive the heat\nThey sought only crumbs and dampness and a corner\nDoing what their ancient instincts demanded\nWhile I stood armed with plastic and disdain\nDeciding who deserved to draw another breath\n\nWhat if every stomp was a small kind of murder\nA quiet ending to a story I never knew\nThey did not hate us, they did not know our names\nJust living out the best they could in this vast world\nAnd I am left with ghosts of six-legged friends\nWho paid the ultimate price for simply being here\nIn a home that claimed to protect us all\nFrom things we feared but never truly understood", 2, "The kitchen light hummed low and yellow\nAs I raised the heavy shoe above the tile\nA sudden crack that silenced the skittering\nAnd left a smear of brown upon the white\n\nFor years I felt the weight of victory\nA clean house earned through blood and force\nEach crushed shell a trophy in the dark\nProof that safety was a war we won\n\nBut now the silence feels too loud to bear\nAnd memory shifts the shape of what I saw\nNot monsters hiding in the pantry deep\nBut tiny lives clinging to the cracks they knew\n\nThey sought the warmth of my own hearth\nDrank the drops of water from the sink\nRunning their frantic paths with no intent to harm\nJust living out the brief and borrowed time they had\n\nI wonder if the soil remembers them\nIf every step I take is stained with guilt\nFor killing those who asked for nothing more\nThan space to breathe within a world so cold\n\nThe relief has faded into something gray\nA quiet grief for creatures I destroyed\nIn the name of order, in the name of home\nI became the monster hunting ghosts of flight", 3], [189, "ultra_held_out", "I, Being born a Woman and Distressed by Edna St. Vincent Millay", "Edna St. Vincent Millay", "A poem about a woman navigating the frenzy of desire and biology while asserting her power to walk away from any man without being possessed.", "vI, being born a woman and distressed\nBy all the needs and notions of my kind,\nAm urged by your propinquity to find\nYour person fair, and feel a certain zest\nTo bear your body\u2019s weight upon my breast:\nSo subtly is the fume of life designed,\nTo clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,\nAnd leave me once again undone, possessed.\nThink not for this, however, the poor treason\nOf my stout blood against my staggering brain,\nI shall remember you with love, or season\nMy scorn with pity,\u2014let me make it plain:\nI find this frenzy insufficient reason\nFor conversation when we meet again.", "The blood sings a loud and ancient song\nof hips that sway and lungs that burn,\na primal rhythm pulling strong\ntoward the heat of every turn.\nHer pulse beats fast against her skin,\na wild tide rising in the chest,\ninviting all the world within\nto put her fragile self to test.\n\nYet in this storm of want and need,\nwhere biology demands its due,\nshe stands as sovereign of her seed\nand knows exactly what to do.\nShe feels the hunger, sharp and deep,\nthe gravity that pulls so near,\nbut holds a promise she will keep:\nthat no one owns her when they're here.\n\nLet him reach out with hands that crave,\nlet him whisper words of binding love,\nshe is the wave that leaves the grave\nof any man who thinks he's above.\nShe walks away without a sound,\nunbroken by the pull or plea,\nher feet upon the solid ground\nfree from the chains of fantasy.\n\nNo man can hold the wind inside,\nno lover claim the open sky,\nshe carries nothing left to hide\nbeneath the vast and watching eye.\nDesire may roar and flesh may ache,\nbut power rests in her release,\nfor every step she chooses take\nis hers alone, and brings her peace.", "The blood sings a loud and urgent song\nin the throat of the body, a drumbeat\nthat says take him, take him now,\nbefore the light fades or he changes his mind.\n\nBut I am the captain of this vessel,\nthe one who holds the wheel while the engine\nroars like a trapped animal in the hull.\nI can feel the heat rising in my cheeks,\nthe tremor in my hands that wants to touch,\nbut I also know the shape of my own will.\n\nHe is not a master because I am wet,\nhe is not a god because I am weak with want.\nI am a woman who walks away when she chooses,\na woman who closes the door on the frenzy\nand stands alone in the quiet room,\npossessing myself, unpossessed by any man.", 2, "The blood hums low a heavy, ancient drum\nbeneath the skin where fire and instinct meet,\na tide that pulls to take, to hold, to sum\nthe self within another's heartbeat.\n\nBut I am not the vessel you may fill,\nnot soil to be dug up and claimed as yours;\nI stand upon this cliff against the will\nthat seeks to break my boundaries and doors.\n\nLet desire rage like wind through hollow trees,\nlet biology scream its loud demand;\nI own the quiet space inside my knees,\nthe sovereign silence of my hand.\n\nYou may approach with hunger in your eyes,\nwith promises of warmth and tangled breath,\nbut I possess the power to rise\nand walk away from life or from your death.\n\nNo chain can bind the woman who decides\nto turn her back on all she could have known;\nmy body is a fortress, not a bride's,\nand I am never truly overthrown.", 6, "The blood sings a wild and ancient song\nin the marrow of her bones,\na heat that rises like tide against the shore,\npulling at the hem of reason.\nShe feels the hunger in the air,\nthe heavy scent of want that clings to skin,\nand for a moment she is just flesh and pulse,\nready to be taken by the current.\n\nBut then she stands still within the storm,\nfeeling the weight of every gaze that seeks to own,\nevery hand that reaches out to claim what is not his.\nShe knows the biology of the chase,\nthe trap of the heartbeat quickening for another,\nyet she holds the key to the cage in her own palm.\n\nLet them come with their promises and their need,\nwith their stories of how they will keep her safe,\nshe sees through the velvet to the iron bars beneath.\nHer desire is a fire she tends herself,\nnot a torch to be handed over to strangers.\n\nShe turns her back on the altar of their longing,\nwalking away while the frenzy spins around her feet.\nNo man can hold her if she refuses to stay,\nno voice can command the path her feet choose.\nShe is the architect of her own leaving,\nfree in the space between the wanting and the taking,\nwhole and unpossessed,\nmoving forward into the quiet of her own power.", 5, "The blood sings a loud and ancient song\nA drumbeat in the veins that says stay,\nBut I am the hand that turns the key\nTo lock the door against the fray.\n\nMy pulse may race at the scent of him,\nAt the heat that rises from skin to skin,\nYet I hold the reins of this wild horse\nAnd decide where the journey ends or begins.\n\nThey think the hunger makes me weak,\nThat biology is a chain I cannot break,\nBut desire is just a passing tide\nWhile my will is the rock for its sake.\n\nI can feel the pull, the gravity strong,\nThe urge to be held, to belong, to be known,\nBut I walk away with my head held high\nLeaving the ghost of possession alone.\n\nNo man owns the fire in my chest,\nNo lover commands the beat of my heart,\nI am the architect of my own escape\nFrom the moment before we even start.\n\nSo let them want, let them chase, let them plead,\nLet them try to claim what they cannot keep,\nI am the woman who walks out the door\nWith secrets only her own soul can reap.", 6, "The pulse beats loud against the ribcage\na frantic drum demanding to be answered\nheat rising like a tide that threatens to drown\nthe quiet logic of her own name\nshe feels the ancient pull, the biological gravity\nthat whispers she must yield, must open, must belong\nbut in the center of the storm stands still\na woman who knows the shape of her own skin\nand refuses to let it be mapped by another's hand\n\nLet him bring his hunger, his heavy gaze\nhis story written in the language of taking\nshe hears the siren song of surrender\nbut her feet are rooted in the solid earth\nof her own will\nshe can feel the want, sharp and sweet\nyet she holds the door shut with a gentle grip\nknowing that desire is not a chain\nbut a current she chooses to swim or leave\n\nNo man owns the rhythm of her breath\nno lover commands the map of her night\nshe walks away from the altar of possession\nleaving the fire burning unattended\nfree as the wind that passes through an open window\nunbound, unclaimed, entirely her own\nwalking into the silence where she decides\nwho enters, and who remains outside.", 3, "The pulse beneath her skin is a wild drum\nBeating a rhythm older than the names they call her\nA heat that rises like tide against the shore\nDemanding, pulling, whispering of ancient laws\nThat say she must be caught, claimed, and kept\nBy hands that think they know the shape of her soul\n\nBut she feels the gravity of every glance\nAnd chooses to break the orbit before it closes tight\nShe lets the hunger burn without feeding the fire\nWatching the men who reach for what cannot be owned\nTheir voices rising in a chorus of need\nWhile she stands still, a mountain in the storm\n\nHer body is not a vessel waiting to be filled\nIt is a fortress with gates she alone controls\nEvery step away is a declaration written in air\nThat she belongs to no one but the wind and her own will\nNo chain can hold a spirit that refuses to kneel\nNo promise can bind a heart that knows its freedom\n\nSo she walks through the frenzy with quiet eyes\nLeaving behind the ghosts of those who thought they could take\nCarrying only the weight of her own choice\nUnbroken, unclaimed, entirely her own", 6, "The pulse beats loud against the rib\nA rhythm made of hunger and need\nShe feels the heat, the primal pull\nThat whispers promises it cannot keep\n\nHer skin remembers every touch\nThe ghost of hands that sought to claim\nBut in the fire, a spark remains\nA quiet voice that speaks her name\n\nNo chain can hold what she decides\nTo turn her back on empty pleas\nShe walks through fog without a guide\nUnbound by any man's decrees\n\nLet desire rise like summer rain\nIt washes over but does not drown\nFor she is ocean, vast and deep\nWith tides that shift and never slow down\n\nThe world may spin with frantic want\nBut she stands still within the storm\nA sovereign queen of her own heart\nWho chooses life, and keeps her form", 6], [190, "train", "I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger", "Alan Seeger", "\"A poem about a speaker coming to terms with his unavoidable death, describing his curiosity about dying and his dutiful acceptance of meeting death in the spring.\"", "I have a rendezvous with Death\nAt some disputed barricade,\nWhen Spring comes back with rustling shade\nAnd apple-blossoms fill the air\u2014\nI have a rendezvous with Death\nWhen Spring brings back blue days and fair.\n\nIt may be he shall take my hand\nAnd lead me into his dark land\nAnd close my eyes and quench my breath\u2014\nIt may be I shall pass him still.\nI have a rendezvous with Death\nOn some scarred slope of battered hill,\nWhen Spring comes round again this year\nAnd the first meadow-flowers appear.\n\nGod knows 'twere better to be deep\nPillowed in silk and scented down,\nWhere Love throbs out in blissful sleep,\nPulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,\nWhere hushed awakenings are dear ...\nBut I've a rendezvous with Death\nAt midnight in some flaming town,\nWhen Spring trips north again this year,\nAnd I to my pledged word am true,\nI shall not fail that rendezvous.", "The winter in my bones has settled deep\nAnd I have counted every fading leaf,\nYet now a strange and quiet hunger stirs\nTo see what lies beyond the final breath.\nIs it a door that opens to the light?\nOr just a silence soft as falling snow?\nI do not fear the dark that waits for me,\nBut wonder at the shape of what I'll know.\n\nThe sap begins to rise within the trees,\nA green command that pulls against the cold,\nAnd so I turn my face toward the spring\nTo meet the end with stories yet untold.\nIt is my duty now to lay down arms,\nTo walk the path where all men must eventually go,\nTo greet the reaper in the blooming grass\nAnd let the season take its gentle flow.\n\nNo struggle now, no bitter fight with time,\nJust open hands and eyes wide with desire,\nTo step into the mystery of death\nAmidst the fire of flowers and the spire.\nThe world will wake while I begin to sleep,\nA fair exchange beneath the warming sun,\nI go to join the cycle of the earth\nUntil the work of dying is undone.", "I have wondered what the cold would feel like\nAnd how the silence would settle in my ears,\nNot as a sudden shock but as a quiet tide\nThat I must let rise to meet me.\n\nThe snow is melting on the hillside now,\nAnd the green shoots are pushing through the gray,\nSo I shall not delay this appointment\nBut go dutifully to meet him in the spring.", 6, "I have watched the seasons turn and felt the cold\nDraw closer to my bones, a quiet guest,\nAnd now I wait within this winter hold,\nNot with a cry of fear or wild unrest.\nInstead, a strange and gentle curiosity\nAwakes in me to know the final door;\nWhat shape will silence take? What mystery\nLies waiting on the other side of shore?\nIt is not dark, I think, but full of light,\nLike dawn that breaks before the sun is seen,\nAnd though my breath grows short and dim my sight,\nI do not wish to linger past the green.\nSo let me go when spring returns to call,\nWhen buds unfold and life begins anew;\nI'll meet my end as duty bids me fall,\nAnd walk into the season fresh and true.", 7, "The winter has worn thin against my bones\nAnd left the door ajar for what must come.\nI do not fear the silence that awaits,\nBut wonder at the shape of final breath.\nIs it a river flowing to the sea,\nOr simply sleep beneath a heavy stone?\nMy curiosity is not a thief,\nBut just a child who watches from the porch\nTo see how shadows stretch and then dissolve.\nThere is no anger in my weary heart,\nNo plea to stay when spring has called my name.\nIt feels a duty owed to all I loved,\nTo meet the season as it blooms again,\nTo walk into the green and let it take me.\nSo here I stand, with open hands and eyes,\nReady to greet the end amidst the flowers.", 6, "The winter has loosened its grip on the bone\nAnd I feel a strange pull toward the end of my own,\nNot with a shudder or sudden despair\nBut with a quiet wonder suspended in air.\nWhat lies beyond the edge of this breath?\nIs it silence, or stars, or a vastness like death\nThat waits for the soul to finally shed\nIts heavy and weary and mortal dread?\n\nI have walked through the seasons of labor and loss,\nCounting the hours like grains in a glass,\nNow I watch as the green shoots break through the snow,\nA promise that life will continue to grow.\nMy time is not stolen but given to yield,\nLike fruit that must ripen before it can yield,\nTo fall from the branch where the sunlight is deep\nAnd sleep in the earth while the world wakes from sleep.\n\nSo I greet you, old friend, with a nod and a smile,\nYou who have waited so patiently all the while.\nThere is no fear left in the marrow of me,\nOnly a calm as the river runs free.\nCome spring when the cherry blossoms start to unfold,\nI will walk out to meet you, as dutifully told,\nWith open arms and a heart unafraid,\nReady to rest in the shade that you made.", 7, "The frost has lifted from the window pane\nAnd I have learned to love the coming end,\nNot with a shudder or a sharp complaint,\nBut with a quiet question in my friend.\nWhat lies beyond the final breath I take?\nIs it a silence vast and deep and still,\nOr just the turning of a different wake\nThat guides the river down a gentler hill?\nI do not fear the shadow's long embrace,\nFor winter taught me how the seeds must sleep,\nTo find the light within a hidden place\nWhere promises are kept and vows we keep.\nSo when the crocus breaks the frozen ground,\nAnd green returns to claim the barren field,\nI'll meet the visitor without a sound,\nWith all the curiosity that time can yield.\nIt is a duty written in the bone,\nTo return to earth as surely as the rain,\nTo lay this heavy heart of flesh and stone\nDown softly in the garden once again.\nThe spring arrives with flowers bright and new,\nA perfect time for endings to begin,\nAnd I am ready now to say adieu,\nTo let the old world fade and start within.", 7, "The winter cracks beneath my feet\nAnd I feel the cold retreat,\nNot with fear of what comes next,\nBut wonder at the final text.\n\nWhat lies beyond this fading breath?\nA quiet sleep or endless depth?\nI ask the air, I ask the sky,\nTo tell me how the spirits fly.\n\nNo trembling hand can hold it back,\nNo plea to turn the heavy track,\nSo I prepare my weary soul\nTo make the broken spirit whole.\n\nThe green shoots rise where snow once lay,\nA gentle promise for today,\nAnd in this bloom of spring's first light,\nI welcome death with calm delight.\n\nIt is not an end but a door,\nLeading to a silent shore,\nWhere duty calls and time unwinds,\nLeaving all my old designs.\n\nSo let the cherry blossoms fall,\nAnswering the season's call,\nI step into the morning dew,\nReady now to meet you.", 7, "The winter loosens its white grip on the ground\nAs green shoots pierce through the frozen soil\nI feel a quiet pull, a gentle sound\nThat calls me home to rest and to recoil\n\nNo fear remains within my weary chest\nOnly a strange and burning curiosity\nTo learn the secrets of this final test\nAnd see what lies beyond mortality\n\nIt is not a battle I must fight\nBut a river flowing toward the sea\nA promise kept in fading light\nWhere time dissolves into eternity\n\nThe buds above will burst with sudden life\nWhile I prepare to step into the gray\nA dutiful end, free from strife\nTo welcome spring as it reclaims the day\n\nSo let the frost give way to warmth and rain\nAs I surrender breath to rising air\nEmbracing silence, shedding all my pain\nWith open arms for what awaits me there", 7], [191, "ultra_held_out", "i am water by Rupi Kaur", "Rupi Kaur", "\"A poem about being both a life-giving and life-taking force, exploring how softness and toughness are coexisting within the same essential nature.\"", "i am water\n\nsoft enough\nto offer life\ntough enough\nto drown it away", "I am the rain that fills the thirsty root\nAnd breaks the stone with patient, heavy drops,\nA gentle touch that wakes the sleeping shoot\nWhile carving canyons where the river stops.\n\nMy hands can cradle life within a seed\nOr crush the forest down to ash and dust,\nI offer water for the smallest need\nThen swallow cities in my rising flood.\n\nThe same soft breath that cools a fevered brow\nCan freeze the ocean till the ships are dead,\nI build the mountain high and bring it low\nWith equal grace and unrelenting dread.\n\nThere is no war between the hand that holds\nAnd the one that strikes the final, quiet blow,\nFor in my nature, mercy and control\nAre woven from the very self I know.", "I am the rain that fills the riverbed\nuntil the green shoots break the clay,\nand I am the flood that swallows the valley floor\nand drowns the grazing sheep.\n\nI am the warm breath on the infant's cheek,\nthe soft hand that smooths the fevered brow,\nand I am the wind that snaps the bough\nand strips the orchard bare.\n\nIn my gentle touch, life blooms and thrives,\nin my fierce grip, life withers and dies;\nyet both are mine, for I am one,\nthe tender mother and the ruthless king.\n\nDo not fear the storm because it kills,\nnor love the sun because it feeds,\nfor in the heart of the same cloud\nboth lightning and dew are born.", 6, "I am the rain that fills the thirsty cup\nAnd the flood that sweeps the village down,\nThe gentle hand that lifts a child up\nAnd the storm that tears the roof right down.\n\nMy touch is velvet on the sleeping face,\nA whisper soft as moss upon the stone,\nYet in that same embrace I leave no trace\nBut bones and silence where a house has grown.\n\nI hold the seed within my dark, wet palm\nTo make it burst into a leafy green,\nThen turn to ice and crush the fragile form\nThat never knew the cold or what it means.\n\nThe river sings a lullaby at night\nBefore it breaks the dam and takes the land,\nThe fire warms the hearth with golden light\nThen burns the forest to the blackened sand.\n\nOne breath can start the heart, one stop it dead,\nOne wave can save a ship or sink it deep,\nI am the cradle and the funeral bed,\nThe promise kept, the promise broken, sleep.\n\nDo not fear my gentleness, nor trust\nToo much the hardness of my winter skin,\nFor life and death are made of me, the dust\nFrom which they rise and fall and end again.", 7, "I am the rain that fills the riverbed\nand wakes the seed beneath the stone,\na gentle touch on thirsty leaves\nthat makes the garden fully grown.\n\nI am the flood that sweeps the bank away,\nthe crushing weight of winter's ice,\nthe cold wind stripping branches bare\nto leave the forest raw and nice.\n\nMy hands can cradle newborn breath\nor strangle life within a vine,\nI hold the sun to warm the skin\nand draw the dark to end the line.\n\nThere is no war between these parts,\nno split in what I truly am;\nthe softest breeze and hardest storm\nare born from one unbroken dam.\n\nTo kill is just to make room for new,\nto heal is often to cut deep,\nI am the silence after sound,\nthe promise that the dead will keep.", 6, "I am the rain that wakes the sleeping seed\nAnd cracks the stone to let the river bleed\nMy touch is velvet on the newborn leaf\nYet sharp enough to strip the forest brief\n\nI hold the cradle in a gentle hand\nThen pull the ground from under shifting sand\nThe same warm breath that coaxes flowers bloom\nIs winter's frost that seals the silent tomb\n\nNo war between the mercy and the blade\nFor both are woven in the single shade\nTo give the life is also to take it back\nA soft embrace that leaves no path or track\n\nYou cannot have the dawn without the night\nOr find the healing without feeling fright\nI am the wave that builds the shore so high\nAnd washes all the footprints from the sky", 7, "I am the rain that breaks the drought\nAnd fills the hollow riverbed,\nA gentle touch upon the brow\nWhere seeds of future life are spread.\n\nYet in this same descending grace,\nThe flood will rise to claim the shore,\nTo wash away the fragile trace\nOf all that walked before the roar.\n\nMy hands can cradle newborn breath\nWith velvet warmth against the cold,\nWhile holding tightly unto death\nWhen stories must be retold.\n\nThe ice that preserves the winter fruit\nIs born from water sharp and deep,\nA paradox within the root\nThat wakes the sleeping world from sleep.\n\nNo war between the soft and hard\nDivides the current or the stone,\nFor I am both the healing cord\nAnd the unyielding, final throne.", 7, "I am the rain that fills the cup,\nThe quiet hand that lifts you up.\nA gentle mist to wake the seed,\nTo answer every silent need.\n\nYet in my veins runs iron cold,\nA story of the brave and bold.\nI am the storm that strips the bough,\nThe final silence after now.\n\nMy touch can heal a broken bone,\nOr turn a garden into stone.\nThe softest breath that cools the fever,\nThe sharpest edge that makes it sever.\n\nNo war between these parts is fought,\nFor both are born of what I brought.\nTo give the life, to take the end,\nIs how I love, and how I bend.", 6, "I am the rain that wakes the sleeping seed\nAnd washes clean the dust of ancient years\nA gentle hand that guides the fragile reed\nWhile holding back the flood with silent fears\n\nMy touch can heal the wound beneath the skin\nOr carve a canyon through the stubborn stone\nThe same warm breath that lets the world begin\nCan steal the light and leave you all alone\n\nSoft as morning mist upon the glass\nHard as winter ice that cracks the ground\nI watch the seasons come and let them pass\nWhere life is found and where it cannot be bound\n\nNo war exists between the two extremes\nFor in my core, the paradox takes hold\nA river flowing through the quiet dreams\nOf stories written, broken, and retold", 7], [192, "train", "A Silly Poem by Spike Milligan", "Spike Milligan", "A poem about Hamlet asking Ophelia which pencil he should be using to draw her.", "Said Hamlet to Ophelia,\nI'll draw a sketch of thee,\nWhat kind of pencil shall I use?\n2B or not 2B?", "Ophelia, hold your breath and do not move\nWhile I consult this wooden case of mine.\nThe graphite soft as shadow on the moon\nOr charcoal harsh as winter's bitter line?\n\nPerhaps a 2B, to capture eyes\nThat hold the madness of my father's ghost,\nOr HB, for hair that falls like rain\nUpon a crown I cannot bear to host.\n\nWhich lead shall trace the curve of sorrow there?\nWhich shade will make your silence speak aloud?\nI ask you now, before the ink dries black,\nTo choose the tool that paints our final shroud.", "Ophelia, tell me which pencil shall I use\nTo trace the curve of your pale cheek?\nShall it be the soft grey lead that smudges like a sigh,\nOr the sharp black one that cuts like a dagger's edge?\nThe white chalk is too ghostly for your living skin,\nAnd the red crayon is too bold for your quiet eye.\nI have a silver pencil that shines like a moonbeam,\nBut you are not made of light, though you are bright.\nTell me, sweet Ophelia, which instrument of mine\nShall best capture the shadow and substance of thee?", 3, "Ophelia, tell me true\nWhich graphite shade shall I employ?\nThe softest black to trace the curve\nOf sorrow in your eye?\n\nOr perhaps a lead of silver grey\nTo match the moonlight on your hair?\nA charcoal dark as midnight's grave\nFor shadows everywhere?\n\nI hold them all within my hand,\nThis one is hard, that one is soft;\nBut none can draw the ghost you are\nUnless you guide my loft.\n\nShall I use this broken stump\nThat smudges like a sigh?\nOr the new one sharpened to a point\nBeneath the Danish sky?\n\nChoose for me, sweet Ophelia,\nBefore the ink begins to dry,\nFor if I pick the wrong degree\nYour portrait will not lie.", 6, "Ophelia, tell me which lead to choose\nBetween the soft and the graphite gray?\nShall I trace your brow with a heavy hand\nOr let the faintest whisper play?\n\nThe 2B is too bold for your cheek,\nIt smudges like doubt in my mind,\nBut the H is so pale, it might fade away\nLike the love that I left behind.\n\nPerhaps the charcoal, dark as the night\nThat swallowed my father's breath?\nNo, that would make you look like a ghost\nAnd death is not fit for your teeth.\n\nGive me the 4H, fine and precise,\nTo capture the light in your eye,\nBut if I press too hard, I fear\nI'll break the pencil and die.\n\nSo choose for me, sweet Ophelia dear,\nFor my hand shakes with the weight of the choice,\nIs it the soft or the hard, the dark or the light\nThat best serves my voice?", 3, "Ophelia, hold this charcoal dark as night\nThat stains the fingers with a ghostly soot,\nOr choose the silver lead that catches light\nLike moon upon the water's quiet root?\n\nThe graphite soft might blur your gentle cheek\nAs if a shadow passes through the hall,\nWhile harder lines make every feature weak\nAnd freeze the life that moves within it all.\n\nWhich instrument shall trace the shape of you?\nThe heavy black that speaks of death and dread,\nOr pale gray strokes to show the sky is blue\nBefore the storm has broken overhead?\n\nSpeak, love, for in this choice I find my doubt,\nFor if I draw too true, you will not stay,\nAnd if I draw too faint, you fade right out\nInto the mist of yesterday's decay.", 6, "My lady, hold your breath and let the silence fall\nBetween the shadows of this crumbling hall\nFor in my hand I grip a choice of lead\nTo trace the lines that make you, or unmake them dead.\n\nShall I take the softest charcoal, dark as night?\nTo shade the sorrow in your eyes so bright?\nOr perhaps a graphite sharp enough to cut the air\nAnd carve the beauty of your golden hair?\n\nThe 2B is too gentle for the storm you bear\nWhile HB might be rigid, cold, and bare\nTell me, Ophelia, which tool shall serve my art\nTo capture half the chaos breaking in my heart?\n\nIs it the pencil that will bleed when pressed upon the page?\nOr one that stays forever clean, untouched by rage?\nSpeak now before the ink begins to dry and fade\nAnd choose the instrument with which our fate is made.", 6, "My dearest Ophelia, the charcoal is too dark\nIt swallows light and turns your eyes to ash\nBut this silver point is cold as winter air\nAnd fears to touch the warmth of living flesh\n\nShall I choose the graphite soft as morning mist?\nOr perhaps the ink that bleeds like sudden tears?\nFor every stroke I make upon this page\nIs but a shadow of the ghost you bear\n\nWhich lead shall capture half my fractured mind?\nWhich tip can draw the madness from my soul?\nSpeak now, sweet maid, before the sun descends\nAnd tell me which tool makes your spirit whole", 3, "My love, the charcoal lies too dark\nTo hold the light within your face\nWhile graphite fades before the spark\nOf grace that time cannot erase\n\nThis silver point is sharp and cold\nIt sketches shadows on the page\nBut can it tell a story told\nBy hands that tremble with their age?\n\nOr shall I choose the softer lead\nThat blends like mist across the stream?\nA portrait born of doubt and dread\nWhere waking life dissolves in dream\n\nOphelia, speak and guide my hand\nFor which instrument shall carve your name\nBefore the silence of this land\nErases all we tried to claim", 6], [198, "ultra_held_out", "First Day At School by Roger McGough", "Roger McGough", "A poem about a young child navigating their first day of school, struggling to understand their new environment and longing to belong.", "A millionbillionwillion miles from home\nWaiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)\nWhy are they all so big, other children?\nSo noisy? So much at home they\nMust have been born in uniform\nLived all their lives in playgrounds\nSpent the years inventing games\nThat don't let me in. Games\nThat are rough, that swallow you up.\n\nAnd the railings.\nAll around, the railings.\nAre they to keep out wolves and monsters?\nThings that carry off and eat children?\nThings you don't take sweets from?\nPerhaps they're to stop us getting out\nRunning away from the lessins. Lessin.\nWhat does a lessin look like?\nSounds small and slimy.\nThey keep them in the glassrooms.\nWhole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.\n\nI wish I could remember my name\nMummy said it would come in useful.\nLike wellies. When there's puddles.\nYellowwellies. I wish she was here.\nI think my name is sewn on somewhere\nPerhaps the teacher will read it for me.\nTea-cher. The one who makes the tea.", "The hallway stretches long and loud\nWith shoes that squeak and voices proud\nI clutch my coat with fingers tight\nAnd hide away from all the light\n\nThe room is full of shapes I know\nYet none of them will let me go\nThey build a tower, block by block\nWhile I stand silent at the clock\n\nMy stomach feels like heavy stone\nInside this place I must call home\nI watch them laugh and share their toys\nWithout a single word of noise\n\nI want to join the circle round\nBut fear keeps my feet on the ground\nIs there a spot for someone small\nWho does not know the rules at all?\n\nA hand reaches out across the floor\nTo open up a tiny door\nI take a breath and step inside\nWhere maybe now I can abide", "The hallway stretches long and loud\nWith shoes that squeak and voices proud,\nI clutch my bag and stand so still,\nA small stone on a busy hill.\n\nThe teacher's voice is like a bell\nThat rings inside a magic well,\nBut when she speaks I cannot hear,\nFor everyone is talking near.\n\nMy name is called but not quite right,\nIt sounds too far away tonight,\nLike someone calling from a tree\nOr from the bottom of the sea.\n\nI want to sit where others sit,\nI want to join their little bit,\nBut how can I if no one knows\nWhere I belong or where I go?\n\nI see them playing in a ring,\nI want to be a part of thing,\nBut I don't know the game they play,\nAnd it is time to go away.\n\nSo I will watch them through the glass,\nUntil the moment comes to pass,\nAnd then perhaps I'll understand\nJust how to hold another's hand.", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and loud\nWith shoes that squeak and voices proud\nI clutch my bag with fingers tight\nAnd hide behind the morning light.\n\nThe room is full of shapes and sounds\nWhere tiny feet spin round and round\nI do not know which chair is mine\nOr where the painted stars align.\n\nA girl with ribbons asks my name\nBut I just stare and feel the shame\nOf being lost inside this place\nWithout a smile upon my face.\n\nI want to sit beside them all\nTo answer when the teacher calls\nTo find a friend who knows the game\nAnd does not think I am to blame.\n\nThe clock moves slow, the sun goes down\nUpon this strange and crowded town\nI hold my breath and wait to see\nIf someone will say come play with me.", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and loud\nWith shoes that squeak and voices proud\nI hold my mother's hand so tight\nAnd hide behind her coat of white\n\nThe room is full of shapes and sounds\nOf spinning tops and bouncing rounds\nI do not know the rules to play\nOr where to sit or what to say\n\nMy name feels strange upon my tongue\nLike songs I have not yet been sung\nThe teacher smiles but I am small\nA tiny stone against the wall\n\nI watch them laugh in pairs and groups\nWhile I stand silent, lost in loops\nOf wondering if they see me too\nOr if I'm made of different blue\n\nThe clock moves slow, the shadows creep\nI want to go back home to sleep\nBut deep inside a wish takes hold\nTo find a friend who will be bold\n\nTo call my name and pull me near\nAnd make this scary place feel dear\nTo learn the map of this new land\nAnd finally understand", 6, "The hallway stretches long and loud\nWith shoes that squeak on polished floors\nI clutch my bag with trembling hands\nAnd stare at unfamiliar doors\n\nThe room is bright with colors strange\nWhere strangers laugh in circles tight\nI sit alone upon the rug\nAnd hide from all the morning light\n\nThey speak a language I don't know\nOf games I've never learned to play\nMy heart beats fast against my chest\nAs silence starts to drift away\n\nI watch them run and share their toys\nA secret club I cannot join\nI wish the bell would ring again\nTo take me back to where I'm fine\n\nBut then a girl sits down beside\nAnd offers half her crinkled snack\nHer smile is small but warm and real\nAnd suddenly the walls turn back\n\nI do not have to be alone\nIn this new place of noise and fear\nOne gentle voice can make it so\nThat I am finally, truly here", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and tall\nA maze of lockers, bright and cold\nI clutch my bag against my chest\nWith stories that I cannot hold\n\nThe voices rise like sudden rain\nA language made of sounds I know\nBut not the way they speak to each\nOr how their laughter comes and goes\n\nI trace the lines upon the floor\nAnd wonder where my place might be\nAmong the strangers in a row\nWho seem to have a history\n\nMy shoes feel heavy on the ground\nAs eyes drift past without a glance\nI wish for just one friendly face\nTo help me make this quiet dance\n\nThe bell rings out a sharp command\nTo sit and learn and follow rules\nI try to fit inside the shape\nOf all these new and foreign tools\n\nBut deep inside a small heart beats\nFor home and warmth and familiar air\nWhile waiting for a sign or word\nThat tells me someone truly cares", 6, "The hallway stretches long and loud\nWith shoes that squeak against the floor\nI clutch my bag like something sacred\nAnd hide behind the heavy door\n\nA sea of faces, strange and bright\nThey laugh in codes I cannot speak\nMy voice is small, a quiet bird\nThat fears to take its first weak leap\n\nThe teacher calls a name I know\nBut not the one that fits me here\nI trace the pattern on the rug\nAnd wonder if they see my fear\n\nIs there a spot for someone new?\nA chair that waits just for my weight?\nOr will I sit alone all day\nWhile others find their perfect gate\n\nI watch them share a toy or book\nA language built on shared delight\nAnd wish I had a word to say\nTo turn this stranger into light\n\nThe bell rings out, a sudden sound\nThat echoes deep inside my chest\nI take a breath and step ahead\nTo find the place where I belong", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and loud\nA sea of strangers in a crowd\nMy small hands clutch the backpack strap\nWhile silence wraps around my lap\n\nThe chairs are tall, the desks too deep\nWith promises I cannot keep\nI watch them laugh and share their toys\nAnd wonder where a quiet voice belongs\n\nA teacher calls a name unknown\nThat feels like ice inside my bone\nI search for something that I know\nBut only shadows come to show\n\nThe bell rings out, a sharp command\nTo find a place within this land\nI take a breath and step ahead\nHoping that tomorrow leaves me less afraid", 6], [203, "train", "All that is gold does not glitter by J.R.R. Tolkien", "J.R.R. Tolkien", "A poem about a hidden king's true worth and destiny being revealed through the nature of strength, goodness of heart, and the reforging of a broken sword.", "All that is gold does not glitter,\nNot all those who wander are lost;\nThe old that is strong does not wither,\nDeep roots are not reached by the frost.\nFrom the ashes a fire shall be woken,\nA light from the shadows shall spring;\nRenewed shall be blade that was broken,\nThe crownless again shall be king.", "Beneath the veil of common dust he stood,\nNo crown of gold upon his humble head,\nYet in his eyes a quiet fire brewed,\nWhere lesser men would fear to tread.\nThe broken blade lay rusted in the mud,\nA symbol of a kingdom lost to time,\nBut strength is not in blood or royal blood,\nIt blooms within the heart that seeks no crime.\n\nHe lifted up the shards with gentle hands,\nNot for the power that a throne can give,\nBut for the promise that the land demands,\nTo keep the living and the dead alive.\nThe hammer fell with rhythm soft and deep,\nAs goodness guided every strike and blow,\nAwaking spirits from their ancient sleep,\nAnd teaching steel how mercy's waters flow.\n\nThe metal sang a note of pure design,\nAs cracks were sealed by grace and not by force,\nA weapon forged in love, a sacred sign,\nThat turned the jagged edge into its course.\nNow light returns to where the shadows grew,\nThe hidden king reveals his true decree,\nFor worth is found in what we choose to do,\nWhen broken things are made whole again, free.", "He sat beneath the willow where the moss\nHad claimed the stone of old forgotten kings,\nAnd held a blade that was a jagged cross,\nA broken thing that rusted in his hands.\n\nThe world had passed him by for lack of gold,\nOr crown, or lineage, or a shining name,\nYet in his palm the broken sword grew cold\nAs if it sensed the worth within the frame.\n\nFor strength is not the muscle of the arm,\nNor goodness not the wealth to give away,\nBut when the heart keeps safe a quiet charm\nAgainst the ruin of a common day.\n\nThen came the smith who saw the hidden king,\nWho saw the sword that needed to be whole,\nAnd with a hammer and a fire did bring\nThe metal back to its original soul.\n\nAnd so the blade shone sharp as winter stars,\nThe heart beat true as any royal drum,\nAnd though he wore no crown nor golden bars,\nThe people knew the king and followed him.", 7, "Beneath the rust and overgrown with weeds\nThe broken blade lay buried in the mud,\nA jagged thing that no one thought to heed,\nForgotten by the blood of kings and gods.\n\nYet when the storm arose to tear the land,\nAnd shadows sought to swallow up the light,\nHe stepped alone into the trembling sand,\nWith nothing but a heart that burned so bright.\n\nFor strength is not the iron in the arm,\nNor gold that crowns the brow of tyrants proud,\nBut quiet courage facing deep alarm,\nTo stand unmoved within the tempest's cloud.\n\nHis goodness was the fire that melted down\nThe ancient steel, the fragments sharp and cold,\nUntil they rose from out the dark and frown,\nReforged in love to shine more fierce and bold.\n\nThen all the people saw the hidden king,\nNot by his birthright or his royal name,\nBut by the sword that made the darkness sing,\nAnd proved his worth beyond all human fame.\n\nThe broken metal mended in his hand,\nWas destiny fulfilled in truth and grace,\nThe mightiest ruler of the weary land,\nWho wore the light upon his humble face.", 7, "The crown was lost beneath the mossy stone\nWhere silence kept a secret for so long\nNo golden scepter marked the hidden throne\nBut only strength that bore the heavy wrong\n\nA broken blade lay rusted in the mud\nIts edge once sharp, its spirit now asleep\nYet when he lifted it with calloused blood\nThe metal woke from out its ancient sleep\n\nIt was not gold that made the king arise\nNor lineage written deep in royal script\nBut goodness shining clear within his eyes\nThat turned the iron from a broken grip\n\nThe fire did not forge the steel alone\nBut tempered by the heart that would not yield\nTo darkness or to fear of being known\nThe sword became a shield against the field\n\nNow destiny unfolds as light breaks through\nThe shards are joined, the purpose made complete\nThe true worth found in what the man can do\nWhen broken things are mended at his feet", 7, "Beneath the rags of exile and the dust of forgotten roads,\nA quiet fire burned where no crown had ever been placed.\nFor strength is not the weight of iron in a heavy hand,\nBut the will to lift the fallen when the world has turned away.\n\nThe broken sword lay rusted in the mud, a jagged memory of war,\nYet his heart, unbroken by the years of silence, saw its potential.\nHe did not seek the gold that clings to tyrants' brows,\nBut gathered kindling for the forge with gentle, steady hands.\n\nIn the heat of the flame, the metal screamed its old despair,\nUntil the hammer fell with rhythm born of mercy, not of rage.\nThe cracks were filled with light, the shards fused into one,\nNot as it was before, but sharper, brighter, and more true.\n\nNow the blade gleams with a purpose that no king could buy,\nReflecting the goodness that made the hidden man a ruler.\nHis destiny was never written in the stars above the throne,\nBut forged in the quiet moments where he chose to be kind.", 6, "The crown was lost beneath the moss and stone\nWhere silent roots held secrets of the throne\nNo golden light could guide the wandering eye\nTo see the king who lived so humbly by\n\nFor strength is not the iron in the hand\nBut how a broken spirit learns to stand\nWhen storms have stripped the shelter from the tree\nAnd only love remains for all to see\n\nHis heart beat loud against the quiet night\nA beacon burning with a gentle light\nHe lifted up the fallen and the weak\nWith words that made the strongest giants speak\n\nThen came the day the shattered blade was found\nIts edge in dust, its hilt upon the ground\nNot forged by fire or hammer's heavy blow\nBut by the grace that makes the weak grow strong\n\nAs hands of kindness touched the fractured steel\nThe metal sang a truth it used to feel\nThe cracks became a map of where he'd been\nReforged by mercy to let light back in\n\nNow destiny unfolds in silver gleam\nNo longer hidden in a shepherd's dream\nThe sword is whole, the king is truly known\nBy every seed of goodness he has sown", 7, "The crown was lost beneath the moss and stone\nWhere silent roots had held a secret throne\nNo golden gleam could mark the hidden king\nWho walked in shadows, stripped of every thing\n\nYet strength is not the iron in the hand\nBut how one lifts the fallen from the sand\nWhen winter bites and hope begins to fade\nIt is the gentle heart that will not break or bend but stay\n\nA sword lay shattered in the river's cold\nIts edge once sharp, its story now untold\nThe smith who watched the broken metal weep\nSaw worth within the cracks too deep for sleep\n\nHe did not forge with fire meant to burn\nBut used the ash of lessons learned in turn\nEach hammer blow was mercy, each strike was grace\nReforging purpose in a humbler space\n\nThe blade arose not perfect, but made new\nWith scars that told a tale of what was true\nAnd when the hidden monarch drew it forth\nThe realm itself knew destiny and birth\n\nFor kings are made by kindness, not by blood\nBy rising up when all the world feels mud\nThe broken sword now shines with inner light\nTo guide the dawn through endless, darkened night", 7, "The crown was lost beneath the dust of years\nWhere silence grew and shadows held their breath\nNo golden throne could calm the rising fears\nOf kingdoms crumbling in the wake of death\n\nYet in the quiet where the weak retreat\nA spark ignites within a humble chest\nNot forged by steel or blood that runs so sweet\nBut built on grace that puts the self to rest\n\nThe broken blade lies shattered on the stone\nIts edge once dull, its spirit torn apart\nIt waits for hands that know they stand alone\nTo mend the fracture with a beating heart\n\nFire consumes the rust and fear alike\nAs hammer strikes the metal with a song\nThe king does not command the world to strike\nBut lifts the weight where he has long belonged\n\nTrue strength is found in mercy's gentle hand\nIn lifting up the fallen from the ground\nWhen destiny demands a final stand\nThe hidden ruler wears no mask profound\n\nNow light returns to guide the path ahead\nThe sword is whole, reforged by love and time\nThe broken pieces make a better thread\nAnd weave a future where the stars align", 7], [206, "ultra_held_out", "The Right Word by Imtiaz Dharker", "Imtiaz Dharker", "\"A poem about searching for the right word to challenge the labels society puts on people.\"", "Outside the door,\nlurking in the shadows,\nis a terrorist.\n\nIs that the wrong description?\nOutside that door,\ntaking shelter in the shadows,\nis a freedom-fighter.\n\nI haven't got this right.\nOutside, waiting in the shadows\nis a hostile militant.\n\n\nAre words no more\nthan waving, wavering flags?\nOutside your door,\nwatchful in the shadows,\nis a guerrilla warrior.\n\nGod help me.\nOutside, defying every shadow,\nstands a martyr.\nI saw his face.\n\nNo words can help me now.\nJust outside the door,\nlost in shadows,\nis a child who looks like mine.\n\nOne word for you.\nOutside my door,\nhis hand too steady,\nhis eyes too hard,\nis a boy who looks like your son, too.\n\nI open the door.\nCome in, I say.\nCome in and eat with us.\nThe child steps in\nand carefully, at my door,\ntakes off his shoes.", "The dictionary feels too small\nfor the weight of what we are\nwhen boxes are drawn in chalk\nand names are handed out like coins.\n\nThey say you are this or that\na sum of errors, a statistic's edge\nbut I am hunting for a syllable\nthat breaks the glass before it shatters.\n\nIs there a verb to unbind the knot?\nA noun that holds the shape of breath\nwithout the cage of expectation?\nI turn the pages, worn and thin.\n\nSociety speaks in heavy stamps\nof good and bad, of right and wrong\nbut language is a river, not a wall\nwaiting to be crossed by something new.\n\nPerhaps the word has not been born yet\nor maybe it is simply silence\nwhere the label fails to stick\nand leaves the skin untouched by ink.", "I hunt through thesauruses like a prospector\npanning for gold in a river of mud,\nlooking for a single bright nugget\nto pry open the heavy iron box\nwhere society locks its definitions.\n\nThey call him lazy because he sleeps late,\nthey call her crazy because she laughs loud,\nthey call it wrong because it is different,\nbut I want a word that will shake the floorboards,\na word that will make the walls sweat and tremble,\na word that will burst the hinges off the door.\n\nIs there a verb strong enough to knock down\nthe brick wall they built around his name?\nIs there an adjective sharp enough to cut\nthe rope they tied around her throat?\nI search for a noun with teeth in it\nthat can bite through the label on this jar,\nso we can see what is really inside.", 2, "I sift through the heavy clay of their definitions\ndigging for a syllable light enough to lift the stone\nthey have placed upon my chest.\nThey call me broken, they call me wrong,\nthey call me everything that does not fit their narrow mold,\nbut I am hunting for a verb that means to bloom in the cracks,\na noun that holds the weight of unspoken fire.\nThe dictionary is full of chains,\nof sharp edges designed to cut and categorize,\nso I walk out into the wild grass where language grows untamed,\nlooking for a word that refuses to be pinned down,\na sound that shatters the glass case they built around my name.\nIt must be soft as breath but hard as diamond,\ncapable of holding the whole messy truth without breaking.\nUntil I find it, I will keep searching,\nkeeping my mouth open like a net against the tide of their lies,\nwaiting for the right word to rise up and say:\nI am here, and I am not what you think I am.", 2, "I dig through the dictionary's dust\nlooking for a verb that breaks the mold,\na noun sharp enough to cut the tape\nthat seals us into boxes made of old\nexpectations and tired eyes.\n\nThey call me broken, they call me slow,\nthey stick these tags like price on glass,\nbut I am searching for a word that flows\nlike water through a shattered vase,\nsomething that refuses to be still,\nsomething that defies the static hill\nof what they think I should become.\n\nIs there a syllable strong enough\nto knock the labels off my skin?\nA sound that says I am not rough,\nnot finished, not where you begin\nyour narrow map of who is who?\n\nI want a word that burns away the gray,\nthat turns the \"should\" into a \"can,\"\nthat strips the judgment bare today\nand shows the human, not the plan.\nBut the pages turn and silence stays,\nso maybe I must write it in my own way.", 3, "The dictionary feels too small today\nfor all the shapes we refuse to hold\nas they hand us tags with ink still wet\nstamping boxes on our open hands\n\nI search for a verb that breaks the mold\na noun that cannot be pinned down\nsomething sharp enough to cut the thread\nthat binds us to a single story told\n\nThey call us broken or defined by lack\nor sort us into neat and quiet rows\nbut language bends if you just press hard\nuntil the rigid letters start to glow\n\nIs there a word that holds the space between?\nA sound that swells beyond the narrow line?\nI turn the page until the paper tears\nand find the silence where the truth begins", 3, "I sift through dictionaries like dust in an attic\nlooking for a key that fits a lock I never chose\nsociety hands me tags with sharp edges\nstamped in ink that refuses to fade\ndefining the shape of my shadow before I move\ncalling me broken when I am merely bending\nnaming me quiet when I am simply listening\nbut language is a living thing, not a cage\nand I search for a verb that breaks the mold\na noun that expands until it holds the sky\nsomething fluid enough to wash away the paint\nthat says who I must be before I speak\nuntil I find the syllable that tastes like freedom\nthe one word that turns the label into a whisper\nand lets the truth stand naked and unafraid", 3, "I dig through the dust of definitions\nlooking for a key that fits no lock\nsociety has built walls with names like heavy stone\ncasting shadows on who we are supposed to be\nthey call us broken or finished or too much\nbut I need a verb that means to rise without asking\na noun that holds the shape of something wild and new\nnot a cage but an open door swinging wide\nsearching in the silence between their shouts\nfor the syllable that shatters the mold\nto speak a truth that cannot be boxed or sold\nuntil the label falls away like dry skin\nand we remember the name we chose for ourselves", 3, "The dictionary feels too small\nfor the shape of who we are\nwhen they carve us into boxes\nwith names that do not fit\n\nI search for a syllable sharp enough\nto cut through the static hum\nof voices claiming to know my skin\nbefore I've spoken my truth\n\nNot a noun to define the limit\nbut a verb that breaks the mold\na sound that refuses to settle\ninto the quiet of their design\n\nLet the old labels crumble\nunder the weight of something new\nwhere every breath becomes a question\nand every silence holds its own reply", 5], [209, "ultra_held_out", "Sonnet 105 by William Shakespeare", "William Shakespeare", "\"A poem about a speaker expressing unwavering devotion to a singular beloved, exploring the three harmonious themes of beauty, kindness, and faithfulness living together in one person.\"", "Let not my love be called idolatry,\nNor my beloved as an idol show,\nSince all alike my songs and praises be\nTo one, of one, still such, and ever so.\nKind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,\nStill constant in a wondrous excellence;\nTherefore my verse to constancy confined,\nOne thing expressing, leaves out difference.\nFair, kind, and true, is all my argument,\nFair, kind, and true, varying to other words;\nAnd in this change is my invention spent,\nThree themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.\nFair, kind, and true, have often lived alone,\nWhich three till now, never kept seat in one.", "In you the morning light finds its true home,\nWhere beauty blooms not just in form or face,\nBut in the quiet grace that makes a room\nFeel like a holy and a sacred place.\n\nYet more than eyes that hold the summer sky,\nYour kindness flows like water to the dry,\nA gentle hand that lifts the fallen low,\nAnd teaches all who watch how love can grow.\n\nThis kindness stands upon a foundation deep,\nOf faithfulness that never turns away,\nThrough storms of doubt and promises we keep,\nYou walk with me through night into the day.\n\nSo beauty, kindness, and a loyal heart,\nAre woven tight within your single soul,\nNo other could ever claim this perfect part,\nOr make the broken pieces feel made whole.", "In you the three great virtues dwell as one,\nAs beauty, kindness, and a faithfulness\nThat never wavers from the path begun.\nYour face is like the morning's loveliness,\nBut kindlier than the sun that warms the air;\nAnd though your heart is fairer far than these,\nIt holds a truth that nothing can impair,\nA steadfast love that never will cease.\nSo in your eyes I see all beauties meet,\nIn your hand all kindnesses are found,\nAnd in your heart the faithful beatings sweet\nOf love that cannot be unbound.\nThus three harmonious things in you reside,\nBeauty, kind heart, and faithfulness beside.", 7, "In you the three great virtues find their home,\nWhere beauty walks with kindness hand in hand,\nAnd faithfulness makes all the world seem small,\nA single light that guides across the land.\n\nYour face is dawn that breaks the heavy night,\nBut kindness is the warmth within your eyes,\nThat softens every shadow and every strife,\nBeneath the quiet mercy of your sighs.\n\nYet through the turning years and changing seasons,\nWhen beauty fades to dust and kindness sleeps,\nYour faithfulness remains a constant star,\nA promise that the weary heart keeps.\n\nSo let the world search for these gifts apart,\nOr scatter them among a thousand souls,\nI hold them all together in one love,\nWhere beauty, kindness, and true faithfulness roll.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true face,\nA beauty that does not fade with passing years,\nBut grows more bright within this quiet place,\nWhere every glance dissolves my hidden fears.\n\nYet beauty is but half the song you sing,\nFor kindness walks beside your gentle hand,\nA softness that makes all the world feel like spring,\nAnd heals the wounds I tried so hard to stand.\n\nBut most of all, your faithfulness remains,\nThe anchor in the storm, the steady ground,\nThrough joy and grief, through sunshine and through rains,\nYour loyal heart has never made a sound\nOf doubt or turning back from where we start,\nWith beauty, kindness, and a faithful heart.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home,\nWhere beauty blooms not just to be seen,\nBut to soften the harsh edges of the world.\nYour kindness flows like a quiet river,\nWashing away the dust of weary days,\nA gentle hand that never seeks to hold,\nOnly to heal and make the spirit whole.\nYet through the shifting tides of time and chance,\nYour faithfulness stands firm as ancient stone,\nUnmoved by storms or whispers of the wind.\nThese three are woven in your very breath,\nBeauty that sings, a kindness that endures,\nAnd loyalty that anchors all my hope.\nI give my heart to this singular grace,\nWhere light and love and constancy reside,\nForever bound to you alone.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home\nWhere beauty blooms not just in form but grace\nA landscape where the wildest wildflowers roam\nYet softness holds the space within your face\n\nYour kindness is the river that runs deep\nWashing away the shadows of my fear\nIt wakes the promises I meant to keep\nAnd makes the distant path feel clear and near\n\nBut most of all, your faithfulness remains\nA steady anchor through the shifting tide\nThrough stormy seas and calmest summer plains\nYou stand beside me with nothing left to hide\n\nThese three are woven in a single thread\nBeauty to lift, and kindness to sustain\nFaithfulness to guide the words unsaid\nOne soul to hold, one heart to love again", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home\nWhere beauty blooms without a need to speak\nA grace that makes the wildest garden tame\nAnd turns the quiet air into a peak\n\nBut more than form or face that draws the eye\nYour kindness flows like water, deep and clear\nIt lifts the heavy stone from hearts gone dry\nAnd whispers hope when all the world is fear\n\nYet through the shifting seasons of our days\nWhen storms arise to test the roots we hold\nYour faithfulness remains the steady gaze\nA story written in a script of gold\n\nThree threads woven tight within one soul\nThe radiant shine, the gentle, giving hand\nThe promise kept that makes the spirit whole\nAre bound together by your single stand\n\nSo let the ages turn and stars align\nTo watch this rare and perfect union grow\nFor in your heart, my love, I clearly find\nThe place where beauty, kindness, faithfulness flow", 7, "Your face is dawn that breaks the night\nA canvas painted soft and bright\nWhere every line of grace unfolds\nA story only love has told\n\nBut beauty fades when winter comes\nYet you remain with gentle drums\nOf kindness beating in your chest\nThat puts my wandering soul to rest\n\nYou offer warmth without a price\nA quiet, steady, sacred slice\nOf mercy given freely here\nTo calm the storm and banish fear\n\nThrough shifting years and changing tides\nMy heart remains where it abides\nFor faithfulness is what you keep\nA promise made while others sleep\n\nNo other star can match your glow\nNo river flows as deep or slow\nAs this devotion, pure and true\nBound to the one who walks with you", 7], [213, "train", "Apples of Hesperides by Amy Lowell", "Amy Lowell", "\"A poem about nymphs guarding a sacred tree bearing golden apples alongside a dragon in Greek mythology.\"", "Glinting golden through the trees,\nApples of Hesperides!\nThrough the moon-pierced warp of night\nShoot pale shafts of yellow light,\nSwaying to the kissing breeze\nSwings the treasure, golden-gleaming,\nApples of Hesperides!\nFar and lofty yet they glimmer,\nApples of Hesperides!\nBlinded by their radiant shimmer,\nPushing forward just for these;\nDew-besprinkled, bramble-marred,\nPoor duped mortal, travel-scarred,\nAlways thinking soon to seize\nAnd possess the golden-glistening\nApples of Hesperides!\nOrbed, and glittering, and pendent,\nApples of Hesperides!\nNot one missing, still transcendent,\nClustering like a swarm of bees.\nYielding to no man's desire,\nGlowing with a saffron fire,\nSplendid, unassailed, the golden\nApples of Hesperides!", "Beneath the boughs of heavy gold,\nWhere silver leaves and sunlight fold,\nThe Hesperides in silence stand,\nWith woven crowns and gentle hand.\n\nThey watch the fruit that gleams like fire,\nA sacred weight, a deep desire,\nWhile shadows stretch across the grass,\nTo mark the hours as they pass.\n\nAnd coiled around the ancient root,\nWith scales of emerald and brute,\nLadon wakes with eyes aglow,\nTo keep the garden's secret low.\n\nNo thief shall steal the golden prize,\nBeneath these vast and starry skies,\nFor nymph and beast in pact agree,\nTo guard the tree eternally.", "Beneath the shadow of the Hesperides,\nThe golden apples hang in heavy clusters,\nWhile three fair nymphs with hair like woven sunlight\nWatch from their mossy thrones with gentle eyes.\nBut near them coils a dragon, vast and terrible,\nWith scales that shine like emeralds in the sun,\nWho never sleeps but guards the tree forever,\nHis head erect upon his scaly neck,\nAnd all around him is a circle of fire.\nYet do not fear the dragon's fiery breath,\nFor he is kin to the nymphs, and loves them well,\nAnd when they sing their songs of sweetest music,\nHe listens with a smile upon his lips,\nAnd falls asleep upon his burning tail.", 6, "Beneath the boughs where twilight never fades,\nThe golden apples hang like captured suns,\nWhile silver-footed nymphs in green brocades\nWatch over fruits that time has never won.\n\nThey weave a dance of silence round the root,\nTheir voices soft as wind through olive leaves,\nTo keep the sacred branch from human boot,\nAnd guard the harvest that the Hesperides weaves.\n\nYet coiled beneath the shadow of the trunk,\nA dragon vast with scales of emerald fire,\nHis hundred heads awake when daylight shrunk,\nAnd eyes like burning coals never tire.\n\nHe breathes a mist that chills the evening air,\nAs if to say no thief shall pass this way,\nFor he and they are bound by ancient care,\nTo keep the gold until the end of day.\n\nSo tree and beast and maidens stand as one,\nA trinity of watchfulness and grace,\nUntil the setting of the final sun,\nWithin this hallowed and forgotten place.", 7, "Beneath the boughs where silver leaves entwine,\nThe Hesperides in woven garlands shine,\nTheir voices soft as breezes through the grass,\nWatching the golden fruit of time and pass.\nA dragon coils with scales of emerald green,\nThe fiercest guardian ever mortal seen,\nHis eyes like burning coals in shadow deep,\nWhile nymphs in silent vigil softly weep.\nThey tend the roots that drink from ocean springs,\nAnd brush the bark where ancient magic clings.\nNo thief shall steal the light these apples hold,\nFor fire and flower make a shield of old,\nOne breathes the storm, the others sing the rain,\nTo keep the sacred orchard free from stain.", 7, "Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves\nThe golden fruit hangs heavy on the leaves\nThree sisters dance in robes of woven green\nTo guard the orchard and the sacred scene\n\nTheir voices hum a lullaby so deep\nThat mortal eyes would fall into a sleep\nBut watchful is the beast with scales of fire\nWho coils around the trunk with cold desire\n\nHis emerald gaze pierces through the night\nA living wall of shadow and of light\nHe does not seek to steal the shining prize\nBut stands as sentinel beneath the skies\n\nTogether they defend the ancient tree\nFrom gods who envy and from men who flee\nThe dragon's breath warms roots that hold the ground\nWhile nymphs in silver whispers make no sound\n\nNo thief shall pass this circle made of grace\nWith dragon fury and the nymphs' soft face\nFor here the golden apples glow and burn\nAnd none but fate may ever hope to turn", 7, "Beneath the boughs where silver leaves unfold\nThe golden fruit hangs heavy in the air\nThree sisters weave a song of ancient gold\nTo guard the tree with breath and silent prayer\n\nTheir eyes reflect the stars that watch the night\nAs shadows stretch across the mossy floor\nThey hold the line against the coming light\nAnd whisper secrets to the sacred door\n\nYet deep within the roots, a serpent sleeps\nWith scales of emerald and fire bright\nA dragon who the heavy vigil keeps\nBeneath the pale and distant moon's soft light\n\nNo thief may pass the barrier they make\nFor nymph and beast are bound by fate's decree\nTogether for the apple's sake they wake\nTo keep the garden wild and pure and free\n\nThe dragon coils around the trunk so old\nWhile maidens dance upon the grassy ground\nTheir voices tell a story never told\nOf how the world was lost and then was found\n\nSo let the wind blow through the branches high\nAnd carry forth the scent of ripened sweet\nWhere earth and sky and time itself go by\nAnd guardian hearts in quiet rhythm beat", 7, "Beneath the boughs of silver bark,\nWhere twilight clings to shadowed dark,\nThe nymphs awake with voices soft and low,\nTo watch the fruit that only gods may know.\n\nTheir skin is woven from the leafy green,\nA silent pact the ancient earth has seen,\nAs golden apples hang like captured sun,\nReflecting light on battles never won.\n\nAbove them coils a beast of emerald scale,\nWith eyes that hold the weight of every tale,\nNo hunger drives him through the endless night,\nBut duty burns as fiercely as his light.\n\nHe guards the root while they protect the crown,\nA dragon's breath that keeps the wild at bay,\nNo mortal hand shall steal this sacred prize,\nWhile stars above in solemn silence rise.\n\nTogether bound by fate and forest law,\nThey stand as one against the world's raw claw,\nThe tree, the girl, the monster made of fire,\nKeepers of the garden's deep desire.", 7, "Beneath the boughs where shadows softly creep\nThe golden fruit hangs heavy in its sleep\nThree maidens stand with eyes of emerald green\nTo guard the treasure that the gods have seen\n\nTheir voices hum a tune the winds once knew\nAs ancient roots drink deep from morning dew\nNo mortal hand shall pluck the shining sphere\nWithout the price of blood and silent fear\n\nA coil of scales rests against the bark\nWhere fire sleeps within the midnight dark\nThe dragon wakes to watch the silver light\nAnd shares the vigil through the endless night\n\nOne breath of smoke, one whisper on the air\nA pact of steel and magic woven there\nFor neither beast nor spirit stands alone\nIn this forgotten grove of stone and bone\n\nThe apples gleam with power old and vast\nA promise kept against the coming blast\nWhile nymphs and drake in quiet harmony\nDefend the heart of sacred mystery", 7], [214, "train", "Dreamwood by Adrienne Rich", "Adrienne Rich", "\"A poem about finding the dream-like qualities of poetry and thought woven into the mundane materials of everyday life.\"", "In the old, scratched, cheap wood of the typing stand\nthere is a landscape, veined, which only a child can see\nor the child\u2019s older self, a poet,\na woman dreaming when she should be typing\nthe last report of the day. If this were a map,\nshe thinks, a map laid down to memorize\nbecause she might be walking it, it shows\nridge upon ridge fading into hazed desert\nhere and there a sign of aquifers\nand one possible watering-hole. If this were a map\nit would be the map of the last age of her life,\nnot a map of choices but a map of variations\non the one great choice. It would be the map by which\nshe could see the end of touristic choices,\nof distances blued and purpled by romance,\nby which she would recognize that poetry\nisn\u2019t revolution but a way of knowing\nwhy it must come. If this cheap, mass-produced\nwooden stand from the Brooklyn Union Gas Co.,\nmass-produced yet durable, being here now,\nis what it is yet a dream-map\nso obdurate, so plain,\nshe thinks, the material and the dream can join\nand that is the poem and that is the late report.", "The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light\nare not just dirt but galaxies of pause,\na silent verse suspended in the air\nbefore the kettle screams its sharp refrain.\n\nI trace the crack within the ceramic cup\nand find a river map of ancient thought,\nwhere water once ran wild and deep and cold\nnow trapped in clay, a dream made solid form.\n\nThe grocery list becomes a haiku's spine,\nmilk, eggs, the weight of bread upon the scale,\neach item holding space for what is missing,\nthe ghost of hunger or the scent of rain.\n\nIn traffic jams where engines idly hum,\na rhythm builds like iambic feet gone wrong,\na staccato beat of brake lights turning red,\na stanza written on the asphalt gray.\n\nWe walk through rooms that hold our quiet fears,\nbut look again and see the magic there:\nthe way the shadow stretches long and thin,\nthe poem hiding in the laundry pile.\n\nNo temple needs to house this sacred text,\nit lives inside the mundane and the worn,\nwoven from thread and time and simple breath,\na dream we wake to find we've always known.", "The steam from the coffee cup rises\nin a thin, white column that looks like\na thought you had this morning but forgot.\n\nThe dust motes dancing in the sunbeam\nare the dream-fragments of the room,\nshaking themselves out of the rug's weave.\n\nEven the cracked tile on the kitchen floor\nholds a geometry of brokenness\nthat mirrors the way your mind breaks up\nwhen you are tired.\n\nAnd the rain tapping against the window\nis the sound of the world trying to tell you\nsomething you cannot quite understand\nbecause it is spoken in a language\nyou have only heard in dreams.\n\nYou pick up a piece of paper\nand the words you write on it\nare just the mundane materials of life\nwoven into a pattern that makes sense.", 5, "The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light\nare not just dust but tiny galaxies\nspinning in a slow, silent waltz\nwhile the kettle screams its mundane song.\n\nI watch the steam rise from my morning cup\nand see it twist into a dragon's shape\nbefore dissolving back to simple air,\na fleeting myth within the porcelain bowl.\n\nThe cracks upon the sidewalk hold whole maps\nof cities never built, of roads untrod,\nwhere shadows walk alone and speak in riddles\nto pigeons pecking at a crust of bread.\n\nEven the rust upon the garden gate\nis poetry written in the language of time,\na red-brown script that tells of rain and wind\nand seasons turning like the pages of a book.\n\nWe do not need to search the stars for wonder\nor dive into the ocean for a dream,\nfor here, in coffee stains and laundry lines,\nthe magic weaves itself through ordinary things.", 5, "The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light\nAre not just dirt but tiny galaxies\nThat spin within the breath of morning bread,\nA silent verse the toaster writes in steam.\n\nWe walk through rooms where ordinary things\nHold secret doors to landscapes made of thought,\nThe way a coat hangs heavy with the rain\nBecomes a storm that never quite arrives.\n\nThere is no magic separate from the floor,\nNo dream that lives outside the worn-out shoe,\nFor every crack in pavement holds a sky\nWhere clouds are woven from the quiet mind.\n\nTo look at laundry on the line is seen\nAs flags of peace or sails for distant ships,\nAnd in the hum of refrigerator ice\nWe hear the ocean singing in the dark.\n\nSo poetry is not a thing we find\nBut something that reveals itself as soon\nAs we allow the mundane to dissolve\nInto the wonder of the common day.", 3, "The coffee stain on the morning paper\nspreads like a map of a country I never visited,\nbrown rivers cutting through newsprint mountains,\nwhere headlines dissolve into soft, gray fog.\n\nA bus ticket crumpled in my pocket\nholds the weight of a thousand unspoken goodbyes,\nits edges frayed by fingers that once held hope,\nnow just paper and ink waiting to be read again.\n\nIn the hum of the refrigerator at midnight,\nthere is a rhythm older than the stars,\na steady pulse that keeps the dark from swallowing us whole,\nturning cold metal into a lullaby for the awake.\n\nEven the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam\nare tiny galaxies spinning in slow motion,\ncarrying stories of forgotten rooms and closed doors,\nwoven tight with the light that falls across the floor.\n\nWe walk through these ordinary things\nwithout seeing the silk threads that bind them,\nthe way a cracked sidewalk can mirror the sky,\nor how a quiet thought can bloom like a sudden flower.\n\nPoetry is not hiding in some distant book,\nbut here, in the rustle of plastic bags and rain,\nin the mundane materials of our days,\nwaiting for us to look closely enough to see.", 3, "The coffee stain on the kitchen table\nspreads like a map of a forgotten country\nwhere the steam rises in soft, gray verses\nand the morning light cuts through the dust\nto gild the crumbs into something holy.\n\nA bus ticket crumpled in the pocket\nholds the weight of a thousand unsaid goodbyes\nits ink fading just enough to let the imagination\nfill the gaps with colors not yet named.\n\nWe walk past the brick walls and the puddles\nwithout seeing the galaxies swirling in the reflection\nor the rhythm of footsteps that echo an ancient meter\nhidden beneath the soles of worn-out shoes.\n\nIt is there in the hum of the refrigerator\na low drone that sings of constellations\nand in the way rain taps against the windowpane\nwriting stories we have always known but never read.\n\nThe ordinary is not a cage but a loom\nwhere the threads of thought and dream are spun\ninto the fabric of a Tuesday afternoon\nwaiting for us to simply look closer\nand find the magic woven into the plain.", 2, "The coffee stain on yesterday's paper\nblooms like a map of forgotten coastlines,\nwhere the steam rises in a silent verse\nand the spoon clinks a rhythm against the cup.\n\nWe walk through rooms built of ordinary dust,\nyet the light catches the motes and turns them\ninto galaxies spinning in a quiet corner,\na sonnet written in the scratch of a key.\n\nThere is no magic wand, only the pause,\nthe breath held between the ticking clock and the door,\nwhere the weight of a heavy coat becomes a metaphor,\nand the silence hums with words we almost said.\n\nLook closer at the cracked pavement,\nsee the river running beneath the gray,\nfor the dream is not a place we travel to,\nbut the texture of the ground beneath our feet.", 3, "The coffee cup holds steam that rises like a ghost\nA silent verse waiting for the morning light to cross\nThe cracks within the pavement map a river deep and wide\nWhere forgotten memories of yesterday quietly hide\n\nA rusted hinge upon the gate begins to sing a tune\nOf seasons changing slowly under heavy, golden noon\nThe dust motes dance in shafts of sun with rhythm and with grace\nTurning ordinary seconds into time we cannot trace\n\nNo grand stage needed here to hold the words we speak\nJust the quiet hum of life that makes the broken feel unique\nFor poetry is woven tight in threads of worn-out cloth\nIn every breath we take and in the silence after loss\n\nWe find the dream inside the mundane, rough and unpolished stone\nWhere thought takes root in soil that feels entirely our own\nAnd though the world moves fast and loud with noise and frantic pace\nThe magic waits within the stillness of this common place", 6], [217, "ultra_held_out", "Poems On The Slave Trade \u2013 Sonnet V by Robert Southey", "Robert Southey", "\"A poem about a enslaved man dreaming of his past freedom, growing filled with rage, and imagining the day slaves will rise up and take revenge upon their oppressors.\"", "Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword\n Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade\nIn the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?\n Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade\nStill o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought\n Of every past delight; his native grove,\n Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love,\nAll lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought\nHis soul to madness; round his restless bed\n Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile\n Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while\nShe shook her chains and hung her sullen head:\nNo more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,\nBut sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.", "The moon hangs low above the cotton rows\nWhere shadows stretch like chains across my skin\nI close my eyes and see the open fields\nBefore the iron bit was forced within\nI hear the river singing free and loud\nThe wind that carried seeds of wild desire\nNo master's whip to silence or to bind\nJust fire in the blood and hope as high as spire\n\nBut dawn breaks cold with voices sharp and cruel\nAnd memory turns to ash inside my chest\nThe rage begins to coil beneath the breast\nA serpent waking from its heavy sleep\nIt feeds on every lash, on every tear\nOn broken backs that bent beneath the yoke\nUntil the quiet heart can bear no more\nAnd turns the sorrow into smoke and oak\n\nI dream of nights when silence is a drum\nWhen hands once bound will grasp the rusted blade\nWe rise together from the muddy ground\nTo make the oppressors know the price they paid\nNo mercy for the ones who stole our years\nWho sold our children for a bag of gold\nThe tables turn, the wheel begins to spin\nAnd justice finally breaks the story told\n\nThe fire spreads through every field and house\nThe gates are torn apart by strength of will\nWe take back what was never theirs to own\nAnd stand upon the ruins of their hill\nLet them remember now the fear we felt\nAs we walk forward with the sun behind\nThe chains are gone, the past is washed away\nLeaving only vengeance and the light of mind", "In the deep dark of the hovel I lie\nAnd dream of the time when my feet were free,\nWhen the wind blew soft through the tall corn high\nAnd I was a man and not property.\n\nI dream of the woods where the wild birds sing,\nOf the clear cold water that ran in the rill,\nAnd I wake with a curse on my trembling tongue,\nAnd the taste of the whip and the gallows still.\n\nMy heart is a lump of burning coal,\nMy blood is a river of fire and red;\nI could bite and tear at this human soul\nThat keeps me here like a beast of bread.\n\nBut wait! For the day will come some time\nWhen the slaves shall rise like a flood of wrath,\nAnd break every chain and kill the swine\nWho have been fattening on our flesh and breath.\n\nWe'll burn their houses and stab their wives,\nWe'll cut their children's throats one by one;\nWe'll drink their blood and eat their lives,\nThe black sun rising for everyone.", 2, "The moon hangs low above the cotton rows\nA silver coin I cannot spend tonight,\nBut in my sleep the shackles fall away\nAnd I am running through the fields of light.\n\nI feel the wind unbound against my face,\nNo master's whip to crack across my back,\nJust open sky and silence in the air,\nAnd freedom stretching out a wide black track.\n\nI taste the water from a cool clear spring,\nI hear the birds that do not sing for him,\nMy heart beats free within a chest unchained,\nAnd I am whole, and I am not a sin.\n\nThen morning breaks with iron on my wrist,\nThe dream turns sour like a rotting fruit,\nThe memory burns like fire in my blood,\nAnd rage begins to grow inside my root.\n\nIt swells until it cracks the silent dark,\nA storm that waits beneath the heavy ground,\nTo shake the pillars of this house of hate\nUntil the cruel foundations crumble down.\n\nI see the day when chains will snap like twigs,\nWhen we shall rise as one great roaring sea,\nAnd drag our masters from their beds of silk\nTo pay the debt they owe to you and me.\n\nTheir houses burn, their fields are turned to dust,\nThe scales are tipped, the justice comes at last,\nWe take the knife we used to cut the cane\nAnd cut the throats that held us in the past.", 6, "The moonlight spills on straw and dust\nA ghost of fields I used to know\nWhere freedom was a simple trust\nAnd wind blew soft, not cold and slow\n\nI ran with bare feet through the grain\nBefore the iron bit my skin\nNow chains bind tight the heavy chain\nAnd silence locks the world within\n\nBut in this sleep the fire wakes\nA burning coal inside my chest\nIt feeds on all the silent breaks\nAnd turns my sorrow into rest\n\nNo more the whip, no more the fear\nNo master's boot upon my neck\nThe dream shifts sharp, the vision clear\nOf breaking every single check\n\nI see the dawn when we arise\nWith torches made of broken bars\nTo meet the hate with sudden eyes\nAnd tear apart their gilded stars\n\nLet them feel the weight they gave\nLet them taste the bitter pain\nWe are the wave that will not save\nBut drown them in the rising rain\n\nThe day is coming, close and near\nWhen justice walks with angry hands\nAnd those who ruled in blood and fear\nWill fall beneath our reclaimed lands", 6, "The moon hangs low above the cotton rows\nWhere chains once clinked with every step I took\nI close my eyes and feel the wind that blows\nThrough forests where no master's whip could look\nI run across a field of golden wheat\nMy lungs are full of air, my feet are free\nNo iron bit to silence or defeat\nJust me and sky and vast unbounded sea\n\nBut dawn approaches with its heavy gray\nAnd drags me back to soil soaked deep in pain\nThe memory fades like mist before the day\nAs whips crack loud to start the work again\nA fire begins to burn within my chest\nIt starts as embers then becomes a roar\nI swallow down the grief and put it to rest\nTo feed the beast that waits behind the door\n\nOne day the silence breaks beneath our feet\nThe rising tide will wash the masters clean\nWe'll turn the tables on this cruel defeat\nAnd make them taste the blood they've always seen\nNo more the bowing head, no more the plea\nThe hammer falls upon the oppressor's crown\nWe'll claim the ground and set the captives free\nAnd watch the tyrant kingdoms crumble down", 6, "The iron bites into my wrist tonight\nBut in the dark, I run through fields of gold\nWhere the wind was mine to hold and keep\nAnd no whip cracked across my back\nI remember the sun on open skin\nBefore the chains and before the name they stole\n\nNow the memory turns to ash and fire\nA slow burn rising in my chest\nThe rage is not a whisper but a storm\nIt gathers strength with every beating heart\nThey think we sleep while they count their coins\nThey do not see the thunder in our silence\n\nOne day the dawn will break with different light\nWe will stand together, tall and unbroken\nThe tables turn, the scales finally tip\nAnd those who ruled by fear will know its weight\nOur hands, once bound, will lift the hammer high\nTo shatter every lock and burn the master's house\nUntil the world remembers who we are\nAnd justice falls like rain upon the guilty", 3, "The moon hangs low above the cotton rows\nWhere I once ran with wind beneath my feet\nBefore the chain was forged, before the blows\nThat turned a man to dust beneath his seat\nI see the river where I learned to swim\nAnd hear the laughter that the masters stole\nA memory so sharp it cuts like rim\nOf iron biting deep into my soul\n\nNow silence fills the space between my breath\nAs anger cools and hardens in my chest\nIt is not sorrow that awaits my death\nBut fire rising from within my breast\nThey think we sleep because we bow our heads\nThey do not know the storm inside the dark\nWe count the days until the chains are shed\nUntil we leave this graveyard of their mark\n\nImagine then the morning when we stand\nWith eyes no longer cast upon the ground\nWe take the hoes and turn them in our hand\nAnd let the thunder of our fury sound\nThe fields will shake beneath the weight of rage\nThe master's house will crumble to the stone\nNo more the quiet of the gilded cage\nWe rise to claim the world we once called home", 5, "The chains are cold against my skin\nBut in the dark, a fire begins\nI see the fields I used to run\nBefore the whip and setting sun\nThe laughter of a child at play\nA memory fading fast away\n\nMy heart beats loud with heavy sound\nOf iron dragging on the ground\nNo longer silence, no more fear\nThe rage that makes the spirit clear\nIt burns inside this broken chest\nTo tear apart the cruel vest\n\nI dream of dawn when shadows break\nWhen every chain will finally shake\nThe masters tremble in their halls\nAs justice rises from the walls\nWe march as one, a thundering tide\nWith nothing left for them to hide\n\nThe night will end in blood and gold\nA story of the brave and bold\nRevenge is sweet upon the tongue\nFor songs of freedom long unsung\nThe day we stand and claim our right\nWill turn the darkest hours to light", 6], [224, "ultra_held_out", "Solitude by Ella Wheeler Wilcox", "Ella Wheeler Wilcox", "A poem about laughing and weeping, exploring how one's outlook on life attracts or repels community, ultimately revealing that while happiness draws others close, sadness and suffering are always faced in solitude.", "Laugh, and the world laughs with you;\nWeep, and you weep alone;\nFor the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,\nBut has trouble enough of its own.\nSing, and the hills will answer;\nSigh, it is lost on the air;\nThe echoes bound to a joyful sound,\nBut shrink from voicing care.\nRejoice, and men will seek you;\nGrieve, and they turn and go;\nThey want full measure of all your pleasure,\nBut they do not need your woe.\nBe glad, and your friends are many;\nBe sad, and you lose them all,\u2014\nThere are none to decline your nectared wine,\nBut alone you must drink life\u2019s gall.\nFeast, and your halls are crowded;\nFast, and the world goes by.\nSucceed and give, and it helps you live,\nBut no man can help you die.\nThere is room in the halls of pleasure\nFor a large and lordly train,\nBut one by one we must all file on\nThrough the narrow aisles of pain.", "A sudden laugh rings out like silver bells,\nAnd strangers turn their heads to share the sound.\nThe circle widens as the joy swells,\nUntil the ground beneath us feels unbound.\nWe lean in close to catch the gleaming light,\nFor happiness is a magnet strong and bright.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall unseen,\nThe crowd retreats as if from something cold.\nThey cannot bear the weight of what has been,\nOr stories that are heavy to unfold.\nSo silence grows around the weeping face,\nAs solitude claims its solitary space.\n\nThe smile invites a thousand hands to hold,\nWhile grief demands a room with locked doors shut.\nOne story told makes all the world feel bold,\nThe other breaks the heart into a rut.\nWe gather round the fire of another's cheer,\nBut walk alone when shadows draw too near.", "When laughter rings out clear and bright\nIt gathers friends around the light,\nThey cluster close to share the sound,\nAnd feel the warmth of joy abound.\n\nBut when the tear falls from the eye,\nNo one comes near to hear it sigh;\nThe crowd draws back, the circle breaks,\nFor sorrow makes a stranger's ache.\n\nWe laugh together in the sun,\nBut weep alone when day is done;\nThe happy find a common ground,\nThe sad are silent and unbound.\n\nFor happiness is like a fire\nThat draws us in with its desire,\nWhile suffering is like the cold\nThat keeps us far and makes us old.\n\nSo smile at all you meet and see,\nTo keep your friends and company,\nBut if you weep, you weep apart,\nAnd hide the breaking of your heart.", 7, "The sound of laughter is a bright and open door\nThat pulls the crowd within to share the floor,\nA magnet made of joy that draws them near,\nTo clap and cheer and make the moment clear.\nWe gather round the fire when the light is high,\nAnd pass the cup beneath the smiling sky,\nFor happiness is social, loud, and free,\nA banquet where the world comes out to see.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall like rain,\nThe crowd disperses from the heavy pain.\nThey cannot bear the weight of private grief,\nNor find a place for sorrow in their brief\nAnd cheerful gathering; they turn away,\nLeaving the weeping one to face the day.\nFor suffering is a room with locked-up walls,\nWhere silence grows and no one else calls.\nSo laughter builds a bridge for all to cross,\nWhile tears are paid for by a solitary loss.", 7, "A laugh is a bright bell that rings out clear\nAnd pulls the wandering neighbor near,\nFor joy is a feast where the table is set\nAnd every hand is welcome yet.\nWe gather round the fire of mirth\nTo share the warmth of a common earth,\nAnd in the chorus of shared delight\nThe lonely soul finds sudden light.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall\nThey make a silent, heavy wall.\nThe sorrowful face turns inward deep\nWhile others turn their eyes to sleep.\nFor grief is a weight no one can bear\nThat hangs like smoke in the stagnant air,\nAnd though we offer a gentle word\nIt often sounds too sharp or blurred.\n\nSo happiness builds a bridge of gold\nWhere many stories can be told,\nBut suffering locks the door within\nWhere only the heart's own voice can win.\nWe walk together through the sun\nBut when the shadow has begun,\nThe crowd disperses, leaving free\nThe solitary agony.", 7, "The sound of laughter rings like silver bells\nThat pull the wandering neighbors from their doors,\nA magnet for the joyous and the well,\nWho gather round to feast on happy hours.\nWe share the light until the circle grows,\nAnd every face reflects the smiling sun,\nFor in our mirth a common warmth it glows,\nBinding the many with a golden one.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall unseen,\nThe crowd dissolves into a distant haze,\nAs if a wall rises between the scene\nOf private grief and public, bright amaze.\nThey cannot walk the path where shadows lie,\nNor hold the weight that breaks a single heart,\nSo silence wraps the soul beneath the sky,\nAnd sorrow keeps its own apart.\n\nFor joy invites the world to come inside,\nWhile pain demands a room of empty space,\nWith nowhere left for others to abide\nWithin the quiet of a tear-stained face.\nWe laugh together in a crowded hall,\nBut weep alone within the hollow night,\nUntil the final echo starts to fall,\nLeaving the suffering without a sight.", 7, "The sound of joy is a magnet in the air,\nA golden hook that pulls the crowd near,\nFor laughter builds a bridge for all to share,\nAnd every smile invites a friend to hear.\nWe gather round the fire of delight,\nWhere lightness lifts the heavy, weary soul,\nAnd strangers turn to kin within the night,\nDrawn by the warmth that makes the spirit whole.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall and flow,\nThe circle breaks, the hands withdraw away,\nFor sorrow has a weight too deep to know,\nThat turns the bright and bustling day to gray.\nNo one can hold another's private pain,\nNo chorus sings to ease the silent ache,\nWe stand alone amidst the pouring rain,\nWith only shadows for the heart's own sake.\n\nSo happiness attracts a multitude,\nWhile grief repels the touch of human care,\nOne truth remains as life is understood:\nWe laugh together, but we weep alone in there.", 7, "The sound of joy is a bright and open door\nThat pulls the neighbors from their quiet floors\nWe gather round the fire, the song, the light\nTo share the warmth that chases off the night\nOur laughter builds a bridge across the divide\nWhere hands reach out to walk right by our side\nFor happiness is currency we spend\nIn crowded rooms where friends are quick to lend\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall like rain\nThe world grows still, the crowd begins to drain\nNo one wants to hold the heavy stone\nOr sit alone with grief they call their own\nWe turn away from shadows on the wall\nAfraid the silence might become too tall\nSo sorrow finds no echo in the street\nJust hollow space beneath our weary feet\n\nThe crowd disperses when the smile turns gray\nLeaving only dust where once we used to play\nIt seems the heart that breaks must break alone\nA secret kept within a silent throne\nWhile joy invites the many to draw near\nThe pain of loss makes every stranger disappear\nWe learn at last the cruel and quiet truth\nThat life is shared in youth but suffered in our youth\nFor laughter calls the tribe to stand around\nBut weeping leaves us strictly, starkly bound.", 7, "The light you carry calls the crowd to dance\nA magnet pulling strangers into place\nThey mirror joy in every fleeting glance\nAnd find a home within your smiling face\n\nBut when the laughter fades and tears begin\nThe air grows heavy with a silent chill\nThe hands that held you now retreat from sin\nAs if your grief is something they cannot fill\n\nFor happiness is easy to embrace\nA currency exchanged by all who meet\nWhile sorrow asks for space and quiet space\nWhere only shadows walk the empty street\n\nYou learn too soon that pain is not shared\nThat broken hearts beat loud in isolation\nNo chorus rises when the soul has scarred\nLeaving the weeping to a lonely station\n\nSo let the world applaud your bright display\nAnd leave the dark to be a private art\nFor while the sun invites the night away\nThe storm inside must weather on its own apart", 7], [228, "ultra_held_out", "i thank You God for most this amazing by E.E. Cummings", "E.E. Cummings", "A poem about a speaker thanking God and expressing a spiritual awakening through a renewed appreciation of the natural world, while acknowledging those whose eyes and ears remain unawakened to such beauty.", "i thank You God for most this amazing\nday:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees\nand a blue true dream of sky; and for everything\nwhich is natural which is infinite which is yes\n\n(i who have died am alive again today,\nand this is the sun\u2019s birthday; this is the birth\nday of life and of love and wings: and of the gay\ngreat happening illimitably earth)\n\nhow should tasting touching hearing seeing\nbreathing any\u2013lifted from the no\nof all nothing\u2013human merely being\ndoubt unimaginable You?\n\n(now the ears of my ears awake and\nnow the eyes of my eyes are opened)", "Lord, I bow my head to thank You for the light\nThat breaks the morning mist and warms the stone,\nFor how the river sings a song so bright,\nAnd every leaf reveals a truth unknown.\n\nMy spirit wakes within this green embrace,\nTo see Your hand in wind and falling rain,\nA sudden joy that fills this holy space,\nAnd washes clean the dust of old disdain.\n\nYet round about, I walk among the blind,\nWho pass the blooming rose with hollow gaze,\nWho hear the thunder but do not find\nThe voice that speaks through all these silent days.\n\nThey walk the path where gold is hidden deep,\nWith eyes shut tight against the dawn's appeal,\nWhile I have promises You bid me keep,\nAnd hearts too full of wonder now to feel\nThe weight of silence or the lack of sight,\nBut only gratitude for endless light.", "I thank You for the morning light that breaks\nThe heavy curtain of the night,\nAnd for the dew upon the grass,\nAnd for the singing of the birds.\n\nMy spirit wakes within my breast,\nAs if a door were opened wide,\nAnd I perceive the beauty of the world\nWith senses newly tried.\n\nBut some pass by and see it not,\nSome hear it not at all;\nTheir eyes are closed, their ears are shut,\nThey do not heed the call.\n\nThey walk among the trees and flowers\nAs through a painted room,\nOr as one walks through empty air\nWithin a house of gloom.\n\nO God, I thank Thee for my sight,\nFor seeing and for hearing;\nI thank Thee that my soul is awake,\nThough others be not near ing.", 6, "I lift my hands to thank the Maker now\nFor waking eyes that slept through winter's gray,\nTo see the green shoot break the frozen bough\nAnd hear the robin sing the dawn of day.\nThe river is no longer just a stream\nBut liquid light reflecting heaven's face;\nThe forest is a living, breathing dream\nWhere every leaf reveals a sacred place.\n\nYet round about me, crowds go hurrying by\nWith heavy lids and hearts of stone and dust,\nThey do not see the glory in the sky,\nNor hear the music in the wind they trust.\nTheir ears are stopped against the morning song,\nTheir eyes are blind to colors bright and new;\nThey walk among the wonders all along\nAnd never know the world was made for you.\n\nSo let me be the one who sees and hears,\nWho walks in wonder at the open door,\nWhile others pass the threshold of their years\nWithout a glimpse of what lies on the floor\nOf this rich earth, so gifted and so free;\nI thank You, Lord, for letting me awake,\nAnd for the gift of seeing clearly, me,\nWhile others sleep within the dark you make.", 7, "I lift my hands to thank the Source of Light\nFor waking me within this morning air,\nWhere every leaf holds up a mirror bright\nAnd shows the glory that was always there.\n\nThe river sings a hymn I used to miss,\nThe wind now speaks a language deep and true,\nNo longer just a sound or passing kiss,\nBut proof that You are present in all view.\n\nYet round about, the many walk along\nWith heavy lids that shut out dawn's embrace,\nThey hear no music in the bird's sweet song,\nNor see the wonder written on each face.\n\nTheir eyes are blind to gold within the grass,\nTheir ears are closed to whispers from the tree,\nThey let the sacred moments come and pass\nUnseen by them, though visible to me.\n\nO Lord, forgive their slumber and their sleep,\nOr grant them grace to wake as I have done,\nTo find the promises they could not keep\nUntil the sun had risen on the noon.", 7, "Thank You for the morning light that breaks the gray,\nFor turning simple stone to sacred clay,\nFor teaching me to see the hidden grace\nWithin the quiet rhythm of this place.\nThe wind now speaks a language I can hear,\nThe rustling leaves dissolve my ancient fear,\nAnd in the river's song, Your voice takes form,\nA gentle storm that calms the inner storm.\n\nYet round about, the crowds still pass on by,\nWith heavy lids and hearts that cannot sigh,\nThey walk through gardens blooming with their gold,\nBut feel no story in the air they hold.\nTheir ears are closed to music in the rain,\nTheir eyes blind to the beauty of the plain,\nThey seek the noise while silence calls them near,\nUnwaking sleepers walking without fear.\n\nI thank You for the sight I finally found,\nFor lifting up my gaze from dusty ground,\nWhile others miss the miracle so deep,\nI stand awake within Your vast keep.\nLet gratitude be all my offering now,\nTo every leaf and every cloudless bough,\nFor though they do not see what I have seen,\nYour glory lives where they have never been.", 7, "Lord, I bow before the morning light\nThat spills across the dew-kissed grass,\nA silent hymn of gold and white\nWhere once I only saw the mass.\n\nMy eyes are opened wide at last\nTo see the forest breathe and sing,\nTo hear the river's ancient cast\nAnd feel the wind on every wing.\n\nYet round about, the crowds move blind,\nWith heavy hearts and hurried feet,\nThey pass the wonders you designed\nWithout a pause, without a treat.\n\nTheir ears are closed to nature's song,\nTheir vision blurred by stone and steel,\nThey walk where I have known so long\nThe sacred truth that time reveals.\n\nI thank you for this sudden grace,\nThis awakening within my soul,\nTo find your face in every place,\nTo make the broken spirit whole.\n\nWhile others sleep beneath the sky,\nUnmoved by bloom or shifting tide,\nI watch the clouds go floating by,\nWith nowhere left for me to hide.", 7, "I lift my hands to thank the Source of light\nThat wakes the dawn and paints the morning sky,\nNo longer blind to shadows in the night,\nBut seeing how the sacred breaths draw nigh.\n\nThe rustling leaves now speak a holy tongue,\nThe river hums a hymn I finally hear,\nWhere once was silence, now a song is sung,\nAnd every stone reveals a presence near.\n\nYet round about, I see the crowds who pass\nWith eyes that scan but do not truly see,\nWho walk through gardens lost in hollow glass,\nUnmoved by grace as wild and vast and free.\n\nThey hear the wind but think it only air,\nThey miss the miracle in falling rain,\nWhile I stand grateful, stripped of all despair,\nAwake within this vast and quiet domain.\n\nSo let me hold this wonder in my soul,\nFor those who sleep beneath the same bright sun,\nMay God reveal what makes the broken whole,\nUntil the waking has for everyone begun.", 7, "The morning breaks in shades of gold\nAnd whispers through the pines so old\nI lift my hands to thank the source\nFor life that flows, a gentle force\n\nThe river sings a ancient tune\nBeneath the pale and rising moon\nMy spirit wakes from heavy sleep\nTo watch the world it cannot keep\n\nYet somewhere in the crowd I stand\nWith eyes that miss the shifting sand\nThey walk the path but do not see\nThe sacred thread that binds us free\n\nTheir silence holds a quiet weight\nWhile I embrace this sudden fate\nA gratitude that fills the chest\nFor every breath, for every rest\n\nSo let the wind carry my prayer\nTo those who wander unaware\nMay one day dawn within their sight\nTo find the light, to claim the night", 7], [234, "ultra_held_out", "Snowflake by William Baer", "William Baer", "\"A poem about a snowflake journeying from insignificance to meaning, landing by chance on a lover's lips at just the right moment.\"", "Timing\u2019s everything. The vapor rises\nhigh in the sky, tossing to and fro,\nthen freezes, suddenly, and crystalizes\ninto a perfect flake of miraculous snow.\nFor countless miles, drifting east above\nthe world, whirling about in a swirling free-\nfor-all, appearing aimless, just like love,\nbut sensing, seeking out, its destiny.\nFalling to where the two young skaters stand,\nhand in hand, then flips and dips and whips\nitself about to ever-so-gently land,\na miracle, across her unkissed lips:\nas he blocks the wind raging from the south,\nleaning forward to kiss her lovely mouth.", "Born of a cloud in a vast and empty gray\nA single crystal with no name to say\nDrifting through winds that do not know my weight\nJust dust of ice upon the edge of fate\nToo small to mark the winter's heavy sigh\nA fleeting ghost beneath the endless sky\n\nThen down I fall, a silent, spinning thread\nThrough air so cold it numbs the thoughts we've said\nI pass the roof, the branch, the frozen street\nWhere thousands more will meet their quiet feet\nNo one would notice if I chose to land\nOr vanish like a whisper from a hand\n\nBut chance is strange and holds a hidden key\nTo turn the trivial into destiny\nI brush against the collar of your coat\nAnd find a warmth I never thought I'd float\nThe world below is blurred in white and deep\nWhile you stand still within your gentle sleep\n\nMy journey ends where all great stories start\nNot on the ground or in a frozen heart\nBut on the curve of lips that wait for spring\nAs if the winter knew exactly what to bring\nYou taste the cold, then smile as if you see\nThe universe condensed inside of me\nIn this brief touch, a moment made complete\nThe insignificant has found its meaning sweet", "Born of a breath in the upper air,\nA speck of nothing, a crystal tear,\nDrifting through silence, a ghost unseen,\nJust one more flake in the swirling scene.\n\nNo one would miss if I vanished now,\nLost in the drifts on the frozen bough;\nBut chance is a god who plays with dice,\nAnd sent me to fall on your sweet lips.\n\nI felt you sigh as my coldness came,\nA sudden kiss from a nameless flame;\nYou smiled and thought it was just the snow,\nNot knowing it was my heart's first glow.\n\nSo I am not lost in the drifts of white,\nNor insignificant in the winter night;\nI found a meaning in falling down,\nTo die on your lips in this little town.", 7, "Born of a cloud's indifferent sigh,\nA speck of ice in the vast gray sky,\nNo larger than a breath or tear,\nDrifting through the empty air.\n\nIt meant nothing to the wind that blew,\nNothing to the world so cold and blue,\nJust one of millions, lost and small,\nWithout a purpose, without a call.\n\nBut chance is a strange and quiet guide,\nWith nowhere for the soul to hide,\nUntil it found a waiting face,\nAnd landed softly in its place.\n\nUpon the lips where warmth resides,\nWhere secret words are kept inside,\nThe moment paused, the world stood still,\nTo hold this tiny miracle.\n\nFor in that touch, the snowflake knew,\nIt was not made for skies so blue,\nBut for this kiss, this fleeting grace,\nTo find its meaning in her face.", 7, "Born of a whisper in the freezing dark\nA single crystal, lost among the swarm\nNo weight to mark it on the falling air\nJust one more ghost within the winter storm\n\nIt drifted past the pine and roof and street\nUnseen by all the world below the gray\nA tiny thing without a name or beat\nThat would have vanished with the passing day\n\nBut then a chance of wind, a sudden turn\nThat guided it away from cold decay\nTo where two figures stood for whom to burn\nWas not yet done, though night was drawing near\n\nIt fell with perfect slowness through the space\nBetween their hearts that beat a little fast\nAnd found its home upon her waiting face\nRight where his lips were moving to be cast\n\nHe leaned in close to catch the breath she gave\nAnd felt the chill dissolve against his skin\nThe moment froze before the snowflake grave\nAnd in that touch, the journey did begin\n\nFor now it is no longer just a flake\nOf random ice that falls from clouds above\nBut part of how their silent promises break\nInto a language made of shared and deep love", 7, "Born of a whisper in the freezing dark,\nA single crystal drifting through the void,\nNo name, no purpose, just a speck of white\nThat joins the endless, faceless storm above.\n\nIt falls alone, a ghost among the ghosts,\nUnseen by eyes that scan the heavy sky,\nJust random dust within the vast expanse,\nA thing of nothing meant to melt and fade.\n\nBut chance, that quiet weaver of the strange,\nGuides its slow spiral past the swaying trees,\nPast rooftops cold and streets of hurried feet,\nTo find a pause within the winter air.\n\nThe world holds still as if to catch its breath,\nAnd there you stand with eyes half-closed in thought,\nYour lips apart, a soft and waiting curve,\nThe perfect place for such a tiny thing.\n\nIt lands so light it barely breaks the silence,\nA fleeting touch upon your skin of warmth,\nYet in that instant, all the falling snow\nBecomes a story written just for us.\n\nFrom nothingness to meaning in a breath,\nIt finds its home before it turns to tear,\nA moment held between the cold and love,\nWhere insignificance becomes a kiss.", 6, "Born of a cloud in a vast and silent gray\nA single crystal drifting far away\nToo small to mark the wind or break the air\nJust dust of winter with no weight to bear\nIt spun through darkness, lost among the millions deep\nA fleeting thought the storm forgot to keep\nUntil the gusts that carried it so high\nBent downward toward a quiet human sky\n\nThe world below was still and wrapped in white\nAs twilight faded into softest night\nAnd there he stood beneath the falling grace\nWith eyes that held the memory of her face\nShe turned her head to catch the freezing rain\nAnd felt a touch that stopped the cold like pain\nNot heavy stone or hail that strikes the ground\nBut something light as breath without a sound\n\nIt found its path by chance across the space\nBetween the earth and time and empty space\nTo land exactly where her lips were part\nA momentary spark within the heart\nNo grand design had guided it this far\nJust random drift beneath a distant star\nYet in that split second when ice met skin\nThe universe began again from within\n\nFor now it is not just a drop of snow\nBut proof that even small things have a glow\nThat nothing falls without a reason true\nWhen two souls meet beneath the winter blue\nThe journey ends not in the mud or grass\nBut in the warmth that makes the frozen pass\nA tiny thing that chose the perfect place\nTo seal a kiss and time itself embrace", 7, "Born of a whisper in the freezing dark\nA speck of nothing, drifting through the void\nNo name to carry, no story told\nJust random ice in winds that never paused\n\nIt tumbled past the towering pines\nUnseen by eyes that scanned the horizon line\nA billion others fell in silent rain\nAnd none would know this tiny crystal's pain\n\nBut fate has ways that logic cannot trace\nTo guide the lost upon an unseen course\nThe wind held breath and let the current slow\nUntil a path led straight to something warm\n\nA face turned up against the gray descent\nWhere two hearts beat within a quiet space\nThe flake descended, soft and unforeseen\nTo rest upon the curve of waiting grace\n\nIt touched the lips before a word was spoken\nA fleeting kiss from winter's cold embrace\nIn that brief second, all the world stood still\nAs insignificance found its proper place\n\nNo longer just a fragment of the storm\nBut part of love that time could not erase\nA single point where chaos met design\nAnd meaning bloomed within a frozen space", 6, "Born of vapor in the endless gray\nA speck of nothing drifting far away\nNo name to hold, no story yet to tell\nJust falling silence in a frozen spell\n\nIt tumbles through the wind's cold breath\nPast mountains tall and valleys deep with death\nUnseen by eyes that scan the winter sky\nA fleeting ghost that passes quickly by\n\nYet gravity pulls it toward the earth below\nWhere warmth once lived and secrets softly grow\nIt finds a face beneath the heavy air\nTwo lips that wait for something rare to share\n\nThe moment stretches, time begins to pause\nAs chance aligns with nature's quiet laws\nOne crystal lands upon the waiting skin\nAnd in that touch, the world starts to begin\n\nNo longer small, no longer lost or lone\nIt holds the weight of love within its bone\nFor in this kiss, the snowflake finds its place\nA silent promise written on a human face", 7], [238, "train", "This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams", "William Carlos Williams", "A poem about a speaker apologizing for eating plums from the fridge that belonged to someone else, knowing they were being saved for breakfast but being unable to resist their temptation.", "I have eaten\nthe plums\nthat were in\nthe icebox\n\nand which\nyou were probably\nsaving\nfor breakfast\n\nForgive me\nthey were delicious\nso sweet\nand so cold", "I know they were meant for your morning light\nthose cool, purple spheres waiting in the dark\nto be sliced with butter and a quiet bite\nbefore the world began to make its mark.\n\nBut I could not help the hunger in my hand\nthat reached past reason through the humming cold\nand took the fruit you carefully had planned\nwith stories of their sweetness yet untold.\n\nThe skin was thin, the juice ran sweet and deep\na guilty rush that left me standing there\nwhile you slept on, unaware of how I'd keep\nthe evidence of my own careless care.\n\nForgive the empty space where plums should be\nforgive the sticky stain upon my chin\nI ate them all, though now I long to see\nthe breakfast that I ruined from within.", "Forgive me,\nI know those plums were saved for your breakfast,\nI saw them in the icebox and knew they were meant for you,\nbut I ate them.\nThey were sweet as honey and cool from the fridge,\nand I could not resist them.\nI have eaten three of them already this morning,\nand now I am sorry.\nThey looked so tempting,\nwith their red skins and green stems,\nand I just could not help myself.\nPlease forgive me.", 6, "Forgive me for the empty bowl\nwhere three sweet plums once rested deep,\nI knew they were your breakfast prize,\nreserved while you were fast asleep.\n\nThe fridge door opened with a sigh,\na sudden cold and violet light,\nand though I knew the morning wait,\nmy hand reached out against my will that night.\n\nThey tasted like forbidden rain,\nso cool and bursting on the tongue,\nI could not help but eat them all,\nbefore the breaking of the day was young.\n\nNow only stems remain to prove\nthe crime my hungry fingers did,\nI am so sorry, truly sorry,\nfor what I could not keep inside.", 6, "I know they were waiting in the crisper drawer\nFor your morning coffee and your toast,\nThose plums with their dusty purple skin\nThat you had set aside with such care.\n\nBut the fridge light hummed a siren song\nAnd I could not look away,\nMy hand reached out before my mind could say no,\nDrunk on the promise of their sweet juice.\n\nThey are gone now, eaten one by one,\nLeaving only the faint scent of summer\nAnd the hollow space where your breakfast should be.\nI am sorry for stealing your dawn,\nSorry that my hunger was louder than my love,\nAnd sorry that I could not wait until the sun rose.", 2, "I know you saved them for the morning light,\nThe cold sweet promise waiting in the dark,\nBut I could not resist the heavy weight\nOf purple skin that held a sugary spark.\n\nThey sat within the glass and steel retreat,\nA silent warning I was meant to heed,\nYet hunger whispered soft against my feet,\nAnd pulled me toward the fruit I did not need.\n\nOne turned to juice upon my hungry tongue,\nThen two, then three, until the bowl was bare,\nNow silence hangs where breakfast songs were sung,\nAnd only sticky seeds remain right there.\n\nForgive the theft of what was yours to keep,\nBefore the sun had climbed above the hill,\nI ate your dawn while you were fast asleep,\nAnd left this empty guilt for you to fill.", 7, "I know they were yours for the morning light\nSet aside in the cold to ripen just right\nBut the scent of their skin called out from the shelf\nAnd I could not save myself for anyone else\n\nThe crisper door whispered a promise so sweet\nOf juice on my tongue and a cool, dark treat\nSo I took one, then two, with a trembling hand\nLeaving only the bruise where the fruit once had stood in your plan\n\nForgive me the hunger that overcame reason\nFor stealing your breakfast in the quiet season\nThey are gone now, consumed by a greed I can't name\nAnd I wait for your anger to speak my own shame", 6, "I know they were waiting for the morning light\nSitting cool and dark against the steel\nA promise made to your hungry mouth at dawn\nBut I could not let the silence keep them safe\n\nThe smell was sweet enough to break my will\nA crimson gravity that pulled me close\nMy fingers found the cold before my mind could say no\nAnd now the empty space remains a crime\n\nForgive the greed that stole your breakfast fruit\nForgive the juice that stained my guilty hands\nI left nothing but the memory of their taste\nAnd this heavy heart that begs for your forgiveness", 5, "I found the jar where morning light would fall\nAnd saw the fruit you saved for later dawn\nTheir skin was cool, a deep and velvet call\nThat whispered promises I could not withdraw\n\nMy hands moved faster than my mind could reason\nTo steal the sweetness meant to start your day\nI told myself it was a small treason\nBut hunger made a different kind of way\n\nNow silence fills the space between us tight\nAs empty stems reveal what I have done\nI know I crossed a line in fading light\nAnd left your breakfast waiting for the sun\n\nForgive the greed that overtook my will\nFor plums that were not mine to take or hold\nI offer up this quiet, heavy still\nAnd ask that you might let me make amends", 6], [255, "ultra_held_out", "Fear by Gabriela Mistral", "Gabriela Mistral", "A poem about a mother fearing the loss of her daughter to a life that would transform her into someone unrecognizable and distant.", "I don\u2019t want them to turn\nmy little girl into a swallow.\nShe would fly far away into the sky\nand never fly again to my straw bed,\nor she would nest in the eaves\nwhere I could not comb her hair.\nI don\u2019t want them to turn\nmy little girl into a swallow.\nI don\u2019t want them to make\nmy little girl a princess. In tiny golden slippers\nhow could she play on the meadow?\nAnd when night came, no longer\nwould she sleep at my side.\nI don\u2019t want them to make\nmy little girl a princess.\nAnd even less do I want them\none day to make her queen.\nThey would put her on a throne\nwhere I could not go to see her.\nAnd when night time came\nI could never rock her \u2026\nI don\u2019t want them to make\nmy little girl a queen!", "I watch you pack the boxes of your childhood\nAnd trade the soft wool of my kitchen for a coat of steel\nYou speak in codes I cannot crack, a language built on glass\nWhere every word is sharp and meant to cut the ties we feel\n\nI fear the day you look at me with eyes that hold no warmth\nAs if I am a stranger standing in a room you've outgrown\nA ghost who haunts the hallway while you walk toward the light\nOf cities made of shadows where the seeds of love are sown\n\nYou say you need to fly away, to break the heavy chains\nBut what if flying means forgetting how to land or rest?\nWhat if the wind that lifts you up also erases names\nUntil the girl I held so tight is just a memory's guest\n\nI pray the mirror doesn't show a face I do not know\nThat underneath the armor, something tender still remains\nBut silence grows between us like a river deep and slow\nAnd I am left upon the shore, watching you drift through rains\n\nThe daughter I once knew is fading into smoke and gray\nTransformed by roads she chose alone, by choices made in haste\nAnd I am terrified to see the woman you will become\nWho looks at me and sees a past she feels no need to taste", "I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know\nAnd leave the room where we have shared our quiet bread,\nAnd fear the stranger who will come to call me \"Mother\"\nWith eyes that look through me as if I were dead.\n\nYou say the world is wide and I am old and narrow,\nThat I must let you go or lose you by and by;\nBut if you go, the world will take you from my keeping,\nAnd make you strange, and I shall see you die.\n\nNot in the flesh, for you are young and strong and lovely,\nBut in the spirit, which was once so like to mine;\nFor you will learn new ways of thinking and of feeling,\nAnd I shall not be able to read your mind.\n\nYou will forget the lullabies I used to sing you,\nThe simple games we played when you were small and sweet;\nYou will become a person I have never known,\nAnd I shall stand outside your life upon the street.\n\nYou will laugh at jokes I cannot understand,\nYou will talk of things I cannot comprehend;\nAnd I shall be a shadow in your busy house,\nA ghost that haunts the corners till the end.\n\nSo stay with me, my daughter, do not go away,\nThough I am old and you are very young and fair;\nIf you go, you will be lost to me forever,\nAnd I shall be alone, and you will not be there.", 6, "I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know\nAnd wonder if the girl who loved my cooking voice\nWill still be there when you return, or just a ghost\nWho wears your face but speaks in foreign tones.\n\nThe world outside is loud and sharp and bright\nIt promises to carve you into something new\nA statue made of glass that cannot bend or break\nBut also cannot feel the warmth of me.\n\nI fear the day you look at me and see a stranger\nSomeone small and soft from days long gone and dead\nWhile you stand tall in armor made of steel\nAnd call this place where we were happy \"home.\"\n\nDo not let them take the light out of your eyes\nOr teach you that my love is old and slow\nKeep some part of you that remembers how to cry\nWhen I am sick, or tired, or afraid to go.\n\nIf you become a person I can never reach\nThen I have lost you even while you stand right here\nSo hold on tight to what we used to be\nBefore the distance grows too wide to bridge.", 6, "I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know\nAnd wonder if the girl who loved my hands will ever return\nYou speak of cities where the lights are loud and cold\nOf paths that wind away from this quiet house and me\nI fear the version of you that waits at the end of that road\nOne who looks through me as if I were a windowpane\nWho speaks in words I cannot quite understand\nAnd forgets the lullabies we whispered in the dark\nWill you still remember how to hold a cup of tea\nOr will your hands be full of maps and strangers' names?\nI pray you find the joy you seek so desperately\nBut part of me is screaming for you to stay\nBefore the woman you become erases who you are\nBefore the distance grows too wide to bridge with love\nBefore I lose you twice, once to the world, and once to time", 6, "I watch you pack your bags with quiet hands\nAnd wonder if the girl who fits inside them\nIs the one I taught to tie her shoes\nOr just a ghost of who she used to be.\n\nThe world you seek is bright and sharp and loud\nIt promises to carve new lines upon your face\nUntil the softness that I know so well\nIs worn away by winds I cannot fight.\n\nYou speak of futures made of glass and steel\nWhere names are traded for a different kind of light\nAnd I am left here holding empty air\nAfraid that when you turn to say goodbye\nYour eyes will not remember how to find me there.\n\nWhat if the distance grows so deep and wide\nThat even love cannot bridge the space between?\nWhat if you return as someone else entirely\nWith all my memories dissolved in foreign seas?\n\nI pray you keep the little things we shared\nThe way you laugh, the stories in your hair\nBefore the city takes its heavy toll\nAnd leaves a stranger standing in your place.", 6, "I watch you pack the boxes of your youth\nAnd trace the edges of a map I cannot read\nYou speak in languages I never learned\nOf cities built on glass and steel and speed\n\nThe girl who loved the rain is fading now\nReplaced by someone sharp and cold and bright\nWho checks her phone instead of looking up\nAt stars that used to guide us through the night\n\nI fear the moment when you turn away\nNot with a wave but with a stranger's glance\nAs if the years we shared were just a dream\nThat vanishes within a single dance\n\nYou are becoming something vast and far\nA distant planet orbiting alone\nWhile here I hold the silence of the past\nAnd wait for seeds that may no longer grow", 6, "I watch you pack your bags with hands I used to hold\nAnd trace the map of roads that lead away from home\nThe girl who loved the rain now seeks a sun so bright\nIt burns the softness out of every gentle bone\n\nYou speak in words I do not know, in rhythms strange and new\nYour laughter holds a hollow note that echoes through the room\nI fear the day you look at me with eyes of polished glass\nWhere once there lived a mirror reflecting all we were\n\nThe world will carve its patterns deep into your skin\nAnd smooth the edges off the heart I knew so well\nYou'll become a stranger walking down a distant street\nWhile I remain here waiting for the child I cannot keep\n\nOh let the wind blow gently now before the storm arrives\nBefore the version of you rises up to take her place\nI pray you find your way back when the noise becomes too loud\nBut mostly I am terrified of losing you to grace", 6, "I watch you pack your bags with quiet hands\nAnd trace the map of roads I cannot know\nThe girl who slept against my chest now stands\nWith eyes that look through me and let her go\n\nYou speak of stars I never learned to name\nOf cities built on dust and shifting sand\nA fire burns within your soul, a flame\nThat turns the gentle child into command\n\nI fear the day you turn and walk away\nNot in anger but in cold indifference\nWhere every word we shared begins to fray\nAnd love becomes a ghost without defense\n\nWill you remember how the rain would fall\nOr how I held you when the world was loud?\nOr will you build a wall so high and tall\nThat silence is the only sound allowed\n\nMy heart is breaking softly in the dark\nAs shadows stretch across the empty floor\nWaiting for the echo of your spark\nTo fade behind a locked and heavy door", 6], [259, "train", "On The Ning Nang Nong by Spike Milligan", "Spike Milligan", "A poem about exploring a make-believe, noisy world called \"The Ning Nang Nong,\" where trees, teapots, and mice are making strange and surprising onomatopoeic sounds.", "On the Ning Nang Nong\nWhere the Cows go Bong!\nand the monkeys all say BOO!\nThere's a Nong Nang Ning \nWhere the trees go Ping!\nAnd the tea pots jibber jabber joo.\nOn the Nong Ning Nang \nAll the mice go Clang \nAnd you just can't catch 'em when they do!\nSo its Ning Nang Nong\nCows go Bong!\nNong Nang Ning\nTrees go ping\nNong Ning Nang\nThe mice go Clang\nWhat a noisy place to belong\nis the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!", "Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the sky is a jingle,\nThe trees go clack-clack and the wind goes ding-ding.\nA teapot with whiskers begins to hum-buzz,\nWhile mice in the branches go zip-zip and fizz.\n\nThe grass makes a sizzle, the rocks make a thump-thump,\nAnd clouds overhead go plop-plop and bump-bump.\nA spoon made of silver starts singing a clang,\nAs puddles of laughter go splish-splash and plang.\n\nNo silence can hide here, no quiet can stay,\nJust a chorus of noises that dance all the day.\nFrom the boom-boom of boots to the chirp-chirp of stone,\nIn the noisy Ning Nang Nong, we are never alone.", "In the middle of the Ning Nang Nong\nWhere the trees go Coo-Coo and the teapots go Bong,\nAnd the mice go Ping! and the cows go Jongo,\nThere is a very great noise in the Ning Nang Nong.\n\nWhen the cows go Jongo they knock down the trees,\nWhich make a terrible Coo-Cooing noise like these:\nCoo-Coo! Coo-Coo! Coo-Coo!\nAnd then the teapots say \"Oh dear!\" and go Bong! Bong! Bong!\n\nThe mice get frightened at all this noise\nAnd they squeak out Ping! Ping! Ping!\nBut the cows don't care for the Ping! Ping! Ping!\nSo they say Jongo! Jongo! Jongo! again.\n\nThen the trees say Coo-Coo! Coo-Coo! Coo-Coo!\nAnd the teapots say Bong! Bong! Bong!\nAnd the mice say Ping! Ping! Ping!\nAnd it's very noisy in the Ning Nang Nong.", 1, "In the Ning Nang Nong where the CooCoo birds go Coo,\nAnd the trees go Bump and the teapots go Splosh,\nThe mice go Squeak-Snap in a row of two,\nAnd the pots go Clatter-Bang on the grassy bush.\n\nThe big blue tree goes Thrum-Thrum-Thrum,\nWhile the little red pot goes Tinkle-Tink-Ting,\nA mouse with a hat goes Hum-Boom-Hum,\nAnd the sky goes Zizz-Zazz all day long.\n\nNo silence here, no quiet at all,\nJust Zonk and Zoom and Zip and Zap,\nThe Ning Nang Nong is a noisy hall,\nWhere the world goes Pop and the clouds go Sap.", 1, "Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the wind goes whoosh,\nThe trees go creak and groan and rustle with a hush-hush.\nA giant teapot boils and sings a clank-a-clink-a-boing,\nWhile mice run round the spout and squeak a tiny zing-zing.\n\nThe leaves go flap-flap-flutter when the breezes start to blow,\nAnd pots go ping-pang-pungo as they tumble down below.\nThe mice go skitter-scratch and chitter-chatter loud,\nAbove the clatter-clash of every noisy cloud.\n\nSo listen for the rattle-rump and tinkle-tang-a-ting,\nIn this wild and wobbly world where strange sounds ring and sing.\nNo silence here can stay, for noise is all around,\nFrom the creaking, creaking trees to the clanking, clanging ground.", 1, "Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the noisy winds blow,\nThe trees go Clink-Clink and the grass goes Glug-Glug low.\nA teapot on a stump starts to Sizzle and Hiss,\nWhile a mouse in a teacup lets out a loud Bzzz-Bizz.\n\nThe branches go Clatter-Clack as they shake in the breeze,\nAnd the pots start to Boing-Bang with a rhythmic squeak.\nThe mice scurry round with a Tiptoe-Tap-Tap,\nChasing the sound of a Plop-Plop that won't stop or flap.\n\nOh, the world is so loud with its Wobble and Wheeze,\nFrom the Sproing-Sproing of the roots to the Chitter-Chitter of leaves.\nIn the heart of the Ning Nang Nong where the strange noises ring,\nEvery creature and object begins to Ping-Ping-Ping.", 2, "In the Ning Nang Nong where the wind goes whoosh,\nThe silver teapots go clink and clush.\nThey boil with a bubbling bloop and a burp,\nWhile the trees in the distance give out a sharp chirp.\n\nA mouse made of marshmallows scurries about,\nMaking a squeak and a zippity-zout.\nHe jumps on a branch that goes swish and a snap,\nAs a pot lid falls down with a loud flippity-clap.\n\nThe leaves rustle round with a crinkle and crack,\nAnd the roots underneath make a thump and a whack.\nOh, the noise is a symphony, wild and untamed,\nIn the Ning Nang Nong where the strange sounds are named.", 2, "The Ning Nang Nong is loud and bright\nWhere trees go *crunch* in the middle of night\nTheir leaves are made of tin and glass\nThat *clatter-clack* as the breezes pass\n\nA teapot sits upon a stone\nAnd hums a low and bubbling tone\nIt whistles sharp with a *hiss-hiss-hiss*\nWhile steam escapes in a fuzzy mist\n\nThen out scurry mice with paws so small\nMaking a *skitter-scratch* against the wall\nThey giggle loud with a *giggle-goo*\nAs they chase the moon that never grew\n\nThe ground goes *thump* beneath our feet\nWhere rubber rocks and concrete meet\nNo silence here can ever stay\nJust *zoom-zoom-zap* throughout the day", 2, "Step softly where the grass goes bloop and snap\nThe sky above is painted in a loud clack-clap\nHere the ancient oaks do not just rustle low\nBut boom with heavy thuds that make the river flow\n\nA teapot on the hill begins to whistle high\nIt sings a jagged tune of screech and sputter cry\nThe lid jumps up and down with rhythmic pop and ping\nWhile steam escapes in bursts of fizzing, hissing thing\n\nSmall mice in socks run fast across the floor\nTheir tiny paws create a rattle, then a roar\nThey squeak in harmony with bells that ring so deep\nAwaking giants from their slumber, wide awake to keep\n\nThe wind blows through the valley with a whoosh and hum\nAs clouds collide in thunderous, booming drums\nNo silence exists within this wild, chaotic place\nJust endless noise that fills the air with strange embrace\n\nSo listen close to every sound that breaks the calm\nWhere logic bends to let the madness play its psalm\nIn Ning Nang Nong the world is made of sound alone\nA symphony of chaos where the lost are never known", 2], [283, "ultra_held_out", "A Night-Piece by William Wordsworth", "William Wordsworth", "\"A poem about a traveler marveling at the majesty of the moon breaking through dark clouds and illuminating the sky, leaving their mind quietly musing on the powerful and ever-present force witnessed above them.\"", "\u2014\u2014\u2014The sky is overcast\nWith a continuous cloud of texture close,\nHeavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,\nWhich through that veil is indistinctly seen,\nA dull, contracted circle, yielding light\nSo feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,\nChequering the ground\u2014from rock, plant, tree, or tower.\nAt length a pleasant instantaneous gleam\nStartles the pensive traveller while he treads\nHis lonesome path, with unobserving eye\nBent earthwards; he looks up\u2014the clouds are split\nAsunder,\u2014and above his head he sees\nThe clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.\nThere, in a black-blue vault she sails along,\nFollowed by multitudes of stars, that, small\nAnd sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss\nDrive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,\nYet vanish not!\u2014the wind is in the tree,\nBut they are silent;\u2014still they roll along\nImmeasurably distant; and the vault,\nBuilt round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,\nStill deepens its unfathomable depth.\nAt length the Vision closes; and the mind,\nNot undisturbed by the delight it feels,\nWhich slowly settles into peaceful calm,\nIs left to muse upon the solemn scene.", "The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud\nOf shifting gray that swallowed up the stars,\nUntil a sudden tear in all the cloud\nRevealed the moon behind its iron bars.\n\nIt broke the dark with silver, sharp and bright,\nA silent king ascending from the deep,\nAnd poured its light across the night so white,\nAwaking worlds while weary travelers sleep.\n\nI stood still as the shadows fled away,\nWatching that ancient, unblinking eye,\nNo longer just a stone to mark the day,\nBut force that pulls the tides within the sky.\n\nMy mind grew quiet in the face of such,\nA power vast and ever present there,\nThat needs no voice to speak, nor hand to touch,\nJust hanging high above the empty air.", "The heavy velvet curtain of the night\nDrew tight across the world, a sudden shroud,\nWhen suddenly a silver edge of light\nBroke through the cloud that hid the moon from view.\n\nA moment more and all the sky was gold,\nThe darkness shattered like a brittle shell,\nAnd in that instant, I beheld unfold\nThe majesty that makes the heavens swell.\n\nThe clouds rolled back as if by magic hand,\nAnd left the moon to ride her chariot high;\nShe seemed to hold the very stars in command,\nAnd make the whole firmament bow down on high.\n\nMy mind was quiet then, and yet it mused\nOn this great power that is for ever there,\nThat shines above us while our eyes are used,\nAnd waits for us when we have done with care.", 7, "The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud\nOf shifting gray that swallowed up the stars,\nUntil a sudden tear within the cloud\nRevealed the moon's unyielding, silver bars.\n\nIt burst with force to pierce the velvet night,\nA silent king commanding all below,\nAnd bathed the sleeping hills in pale white light\nThat made the dark and distant valleys glow.\n\nI stood quite still as shadows fled the view,\nMy breath held tight against the cooling air,\nWhile vast and ancient radiance broke through\nTo hang like hope suspended everywhere.\n\nNo word I spoke could match the scene above,\nSo let my mind just sit and quietly muse\nOn that great power of enduring love\nWhich rules the sky and never will refuse\nTo break the darkness with its steady beam,\nAn ever-present force in every dream.", 7, "The heavy velvet shroud of night hangs low\nAnd swallows all the stars that dared to shine,\nUntil a sudden break in shadows shows\nA silver spear that pierces through the line.\n\nThe moon bursts forth with majesty and light,\nDispelling gloom with beams of cold command,\nIt turns the darkened world to blinding white\nAnd paints the ocean with a ghostly hand.\n\nI stand beneath this ancient, silent force,\nThat rules the tides and pulls the earth around,\nNo storm can hold it back, no wind nor course\nCan dim its glow or shake its steady ground.\n\nMy mind grows quiet as I watch it rise,\nA power present through the ages past,\nReflecting in my eyes the vast, wide skies,\nA constant truth that will forever last.", 7, "The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud\nOf velvet night that swallowed every star,\nWhen suddenly the silence broke aloud\nAs silver light began to pierce and jar.\n\nThe clouds tore open like a ragged seam\nTo let the moon rise up in golden pride,\nA lantern in the center of my dream\nWhere shadows fled and darkness could not hide.\n\nIt flooded valleys with a ghostly grace\nAnd turned the dust to paths of liquid pearl,\nI stood within that vast and holy space\nWith awe that made the weary world uncurl.\n\nMy thoughts grew quiet as the beam descended\nUpon the earth below and deep within,\nNo longer just a traveler who wandered\nBut witness to the power from without begin.\n\nFor there it hung, an eye that never sleeps,\nA constant force that rules the turning tide,\nWhile all the frantic noise of man retreats\nBeneath the majesty it cannot hide.", 7, "The night was heavy with a shroud of gray\nAs weary feet sought rest upon the stone\nThen suddenly the wind began to sway\nAnd tore the veil that kept the light unknown\n\nA silver arc emerged from depths so deep\nTo pierce the storm and claim the empty space\nThe clouds recoiled in silence while they weep\nRevealing beauty in its cold embrace\n\nIt floods the world with pale and ghostly fire\nTurning the shadows into softest blue\nA silent god fulfilling ancient desire\nTo show the traveler what the heavens do\n\nMy mind grows quiet as the beam descends\nNo longer racing thoughts or fears of old\nJust watching how the endless sky extends\nWith power vast and stories never told\n\nThis force remains when all else fades away\nUnmoved by time, unbroken by the rain\nIt watches over night and turning day\nA constant heart within the dark domain", 7, "The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud\nWhere shadows stretched and silence held its breath\nUntil the wind began to tear the cloud\nAnd wake the sleeping light from out of death\n\nA silver blade cuts through the velvet night\nRevealing spheres of dust and ancient stone\nThat burn with cold and unrelenting light\nTo claim the sky as their eternal throne\n\nI stand so small beneath this vast display\nWith heart that beats against the quiet air\nAs moonlight washes all the doubt away\nAnd leaves me with a wonder beyond compare\n\nNo voice can speak the power that I see\nIn orbits drawn by forces we ignore\nIt pulls the tide and guides the wandering sea\nA constant force behind the shifting door\n\nMy mind grows still within this grand design\nReflecting on the time that has passed by\nWhile stars align in patterns sharp and fine\nBeneath the watchful, ever-present eye", 7, "The road is long and shadows stretch so deep\nWhere weary eyes have learned to fear the night\nBut suddenly a silver light begins to creep\nAnd tears the heavy curtain from its height\n\nA fractured moon breaks through the storm's embrace\nRevealing stars that wait in silent grace\nIts glow spills down upon this quiet place\nA gentle hand that time cannot erase\n\nNo sound can match the power of this view\nAs clouds retreat before a radiant hue\nIt speaks to thoughts I never knew were true\nOf forces vast and ancient, old and new\n\nI stand alone beneath this cosmic dome\nWith heart expanded by the space above\nThe traveler finds a home within their own\nAnd knows the sky will always watch with love", 7], [285, "ultra_held_out", "No Coward Soul Is Mine by Emily Bront\u00eb", "Emily Bront\u00eb", "\"A poem about a speaker drawing immense strength from her boundless faith in God, remaining unafraid of death and temptation, and affirming that no earthly force could ever overcome the limitless power of divine love.\"", "No coward soul is mine\nNo trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere\nI see Heaven's glories shine\nAnd Faith shines equal arming me from Fear\n\nO God within my breast\nAlmighty ever-present Deity\nLife, that in me hast rest,\nAs I Undying Life, have power in Thee\n\nVain are the thousand creeds\nThat move men's hearts, unutterably vain,\nWorthless as withered weeds\nOr idlest froth amid the boundless main\n\nTo waken doubt in one\nHolding so fast by thy infinity,\nSo surely anchored on\nThe steadfast rock of Immortality.\n\nWith wide-embracing love\nThy spirit animates eternal years\nPervades and broods above,\nChanges, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears\n\nThough earth and moon were gone\nAnd suns and universes ceased to be\nAnd Thou wert left alone\nEvery Existence would exist in thee\n\nThere is not room for Death\nNor atom that his might could render void\nSince thou art Being and Breath\nAnd what thou art may never be destroyed.", "The shadow lengthens but I do not tremble,\nFor in the silence of my soul, a light burns bright and true.\nDeath is but a door to something greater,\nA whisper that dissolves into the morning dew.\nLet temptation knock with all its silver lies,\nIt finds no purchase on this anchored heart,\nWhere grace has built a fortress past surprise,\nAnd torn the chains of fear and doubt apart.\n\nNo storm can shake the ground where I have stood,\nNo army march against the peace within.\nMy strength is drawn from blood that once was shed for good,\nFrom love that conquered every trace of sin.\nThe world may rage and try to break the chain,\nBut earthly power bows before the throne above.\nI stand unshaken through the wind and rain,\nHeld by the limitless and boundless love.", "My heart is anchored in a boundless faith\nThat makes the shadow of the grave but light,\nFor death cannot unmake what God hath made,\nNor break the seal that guards my soul from night.\n\nNo temptation's lure can shake this firm resolve,\nSince I have seen the strength that love supplies;\nIt turns the poison into healing wine,\nAnd opens heaven's gates before mine eyes.\n\nLet earth and hell combine their utmost force,\nThey cannot touch the power that holds me fast;\nThe infinite love of God is more than all,\nAnd will be with me to the very last.", 7, "When shadows stretch across the narrow path\nAnd whispers of the grave begin to call,\nI do not tremble at the silent aftermath,\nFor in my heart I hear a louder thrall.\nNo temptation's net can hold this spirit fast,\nBound by a chain that earth cannot unbind;\nThe future holds no terror for the past\nThat is secure within a loving mind.\n\nLet empires rise and crumble into dust,\nLet kings declare their power absolute,\nIn God alone is found the perfect trust,\nWhere every doubt and fear is made obsolete.\nNo sword of man, no plague, nor storm, nor fire,\nCan pierce the shield of love that guards my soul;\nMy faith ascends beyond all earthly ire,\nTo make the broken vessel whole again, made whole.\n\nFor death itself is but a door ajar,\nLeading to light where pain is never known;\nTemptation fades before the morning star\nOf grace that makes the weary heart its own.\nLet all the world conspire to break my peace,\nThey cannot touch the fortress of the Lord;\nMy strength is boundless, never shall it cease,\nFor I am held by an eternal cord.", 7, "When shadows lengthen and the grave calls out,\nMy heart remains a fortress, calm and bright,\nFor in my soul there burns a holy doubt\nThat fear can never extinguish with its night.\n\nThe tempter whispers lies of sweet decay,\nBut I have seen the dawn that breaks the chain,\nAnd know that death is but the end of day,\nA door swung wide to let me enter rain.\n\nLet empires rise and crumble into dust,\nLet storms rage on the mountains and the sea,\nNo earthly power can break this sacred trust,\nOr shake the ground where God has built for me.\n\nFor love divine is vast beyond all measure,\nA tide that swallows every wave of hate,\nIt is the anchor in the stormy treasure,\nThe key that opens every iron gate.\n\nSo let the world fall down in ruin's sound,\nI stand secure within His endless grace,\nWhere not a single shadow can be found,\nTo dim the light upon my resting place.", 7, "When shadows lengthen and the grave calls near,\nMy heart beats steady with a calm so deep,\nFor in the silence I can hear Him clear,\nA promise that no mortal sleep can keep.\n\nThe serpent whispers lies of sweet despair,\nOf fleeting pleasures built on shifting sand,\nBut faith lifts up my spirit through the air,\nTo stand unshaken by his trembling hand.\n\nLet kings and armies march with steel and fire,\nLet storms arise to tear the sky apart,\nNo earthly force can quench this holy pyre,\nOr break the fortress of His boundless heart.\n\nFor love divine is stronger than the night,\nMore vast than oceans, deeper than the stone,\nIt turns the darkest terror into light,\nAnd makes the lonely soul feel not alone.\n\nI walk ahead without a trace of fear,\nKnowing the end is just a door to grace,\nFor every tear He wipes away is dear,\nAnd time itself cannot erase His face.\n\nSo let the world rage on with all its might,\nIt cannot touch the throne where He resides,\nMy strength is drawn from endless, purest light,\nWith nothing left for death or sin to hide.", 7, "When shadows stretch across the trembling ground\nAnd silence calls my name to fade away,\nI feel no fear, for I am safe and sound\nWithin the arms that hold both night and day.\n\nThe tempter whispers lies of hollow gain,\nOf fleeting gold and power made of dust,\nBut in my heart, a quiet, steady rain\nHas washed the soil where only trust can grow.\n\nLet death come close with all its icy breath,\nIt finds no purchase on this living soul;\nFor life is more than what the grave bequeath,\nA story written to make broken whole.\n\nNo army marching, no sword drawn in rage,\nNo mountain high enough to block the light,\nCan shake the foundation of this holy stage,\nOr dim the fire burning through the night.\n\nFor love divine is vast beyond all measure,\nAn ocean deep where every tear is known,\nIt breaks the chains of sorrow and of pleasure,\nAnd claims a kingdom built upon its throne.\n\nSo let the world collide and crumble down,\nLet stars fall from their ancient, spinning place,\nI wear a crown that cannot know a frown,\nSecure within this boundless, endless grace.", 7, "The shadow falls but cannot dim the light\nThat burns within this soul so deeply steeped\nIn promises that hold through endless night\nWhere every fear is by the grace unkept\n\nLet death approach with silent, hollow breath\nFor I have walked beyond its final door\nNo temptation holds a grip on one who's met\nThe infinite and everlasting roar\n\nThe world may shake and crumble into dust\nYet mountains bow before the hand above\nIn every trial placed in iron trust\nI find the anchor of a boundless love\n\nNo sword can cut the thread of sacred grace\nNo chain can bind the spirit set apart\nI stand unmoved within this holy space\nWith God's own fire beating in my heart", 7, "The shadow falls but cannot touch my skin\nFor I am wrapped in light that never ends\nA promise kept where fear once held its kin\nAnd every broken heart finds peace again\n\nLet death approach with silent, hollow breath\nIt meets a soul that knows the way to rise\nNo chain of earth can hold this life beneath\nOr dim the fire within these watching eyes\n\nWhen whispers call to turn from sacred ground\nI stand unmoved by shadows deep and wide\nMy anchor holds what no storm could unbound\nWith grace as vast as oceans, deep inside\n\nLet kingdoms fall and stars forget their name\nThe power of the divine remains the same\nA love so fierce it burns away the shame\nProving no force can break the holy flame", 7], [292, "ultra_held_out", "The Rest by Jane Huffman", "Jane Huffman", "\"A poem about carrying the constant pain of lung sickness and slowly succumbing to its tragic physical impacts on the human body.\"", "Still, I keep myself, I take\nto bed. One lung is red. Cut red\nflowers hung in pink water.\n\nMy other lung is out of \u200aline.\nFrom one lung, I tell the truth.\nFrom the other lung, I lie.\nCut pink flowers hung in red water.\n\nLike a pain, the truth is mine.\nThe lie is that today I want to die.\nCut red water hung in pink flowers.\n\nThe rest of it is stillness, rest.\nA soft cough into a hard pan.\nA hard cough into a soft plane.\nCut pink water hung in red flowers", "The air arrives as a heavy stone\nThat settles deep within the rib cage walls\nWhere once the breeze moved light and free\nNow every breath is a battle fought in vain\n\nA dry and rattling sound begins to rise\nLike wind through hollow branches in the cold\nIt scratches at the throat with jagged edges\nLeaving no room for the quiet of sleep\n\nThe skin turns pale, a map of fading veins\nWhile fingers curl into claws of desperate need\nFor oxygen that slips away like water\nThrough cupped hands that cannot hold it tight\n\nThe chest becomes a prison of tight wires\nSqueezing out the life with every gasp\nThe lungs are filled with fluid, thick and gray\nTurning the vibrant red to shades of rust\n\nTime slows down to match the laboring heart\nThat beats against the weight of drowning air\nEach moment stretches thin and brittle now\nAs shadows lengthen across the weary floor\n\nThe body bows beneath the unseen load\nA slow surrender to the creeping dark\nUntil the final rattle fades to silence\nAnd the struggle ends in stillness, deep and cold", "The air is a heavy stone I must lift with my ribs\nEvery time the bellows of my chest expand,\nAnd when they collapse it is like a door slamming shut\nOn a finger that has been cut off.\n\nThere is a fire in the hollows behind the breastbone\nThat never goes out, only smolders and stings,\nAnd the blood is thick as tar and slow to move,\nSo the hands are blue at the tips and cold.\n\nI cough up the phlegm that blocks the windpipe,\nA blackish slime that tastes of old copper,\nAnd I know it is my own lung tissue rotting away\nTo make this poison for me to swallow again.\n\nMy legs are thin as sticks because I cannot walk,\nOnly shuffle from the bed to the chair,\nFor the heart is tired and pumps weakly now,\nAnd the water rises in the feet and ankles.\n\nI can see the ribs sticking out like the bars of a cage,\nAnd the skin is yellow and dry as paper,\nAnd the eyes are sunken and staring at the ceiling,\nWaiting for the breath to stop coming in.\n\nIt is a long dying, a suffocating slowly,\nLike being buried alive inch by inch,\nWith the dirt piling up on the mouth and nose,\nAnd the lungs filling up with water and death.", 2, "The air grows thin and heavy as a stone\nThat presses down upon the tender chest\nA hollow ache that never leaves alone\nBut turns the morning light into a test\n\nMy ribs feel like a cage of brittle wire\nThat creaks and groans with every shallow breath\nThe fire inside consumes my own desire\nTo fight the slow and silent march of death\n\nThe coughing fits arrive like sudden storms\nAnd shake the fragile vessel to its core\nLeaving me weak and shivering and warm\nWith sweat that sticks to skin I can't ignore\n\nMy fingers curl in blue and twisted knots\nAs oxygen refuses to take hold\nThe world dissolves in blurry, distant spots\nWhile strength drains out like water from a mold\n\nI watch the mirror show a stranger's face\nWith sunken eyes and cheeks that have grown pale\nNo longer do I recognize this place\nWhere once I walked and ran without a fail\n\nThe lungs are now just sacks of broken glass\nThat fill with fluid and refuse to clear\nI wait for moments that will never pass\nAnd listen to the rattling grow near\n\nSoon the weight will lift and I will sleep\nIn silence where the breathing does not hurt\nUntil the final darkness comes to keep\nThe promise of a painless, quiet dirt", 6, "The air grows thick and heavy as a stone\nInside the cage of ribs that used to sing\nA rattle starts, a ghostly, hollow tone\nThat marks the place where breath can no longer cling\n\nMy chest becomes a drum of failing skin\nWhere every beat is fought with shallow gasps\nThe fire burns beneath the surface thin\nWhile cold sweat beads in sudden, clammy claps\n\nI watch the color drain from fingers first\nAs oxygen retreats like tide from shore\nA quiet, creeping, inevitable thirst\nFor wind that will not come through any door\n\nThe world tilts soft and edges blur away\nWith each step heavier than all before\nThe light dissolves into a gray decay\nAnd silence waits behind the bedroom door", 6, "The air grows thick and heavy in the chest\nA silent thief that steals the morning light\nEach breath a battle fought against the rest\nOf lungs that fail to hold the day so bright\n\nThe ribs feel tight as if bound by wire\nWhile coughing shakes the fragile frame within\nA burning heat, a dry and ragged fire\nThat marks the place where life begins to thin\n\nThe fingers turn a shade of pale and blue\nAs oxygen retreats from every vein\nThe world outside looks distant, hazy too\nLike rain falling on an empty window pane\n\nMy legs grow weak beneath this sudden weight\nThe stairs become a mountain I cannot climb\nI wait for night to bring a gentle fate\nAnd silence all the struggle and the time\n\nThe body fades like smoke into the gray\nA hollow shell where once a spirit burned\nThe final breath is stolen, taken away\nUntil the quiet lesson is fully learned", 7, "The air grows thick with invisible dust\nA heavy fog that settles in the chest\nWhere once a rhythm danced so pure and just\nNow only ragged gasps are left to rest\n\nEach breath becomes a battle fought in vain\nAgainst the weight that presses on the bone\nThe ribs feel tight as iron, cold and plain\nWhile fire burns beneath the skin alone\n\nMy hands grow thin as parchment, pale and gray\nThe color drains from cheeks I used to know\nThe sun feels distant, fading far away\nAs strength dissolves into a quiet flow\n\nThe coughing shakes the fragile frame apart\nA hollow sound that echoes in the room\nIt tears a jagged line through every heart\nAnd plants the seeds of inevitable doom\n\nI watch the ceiling spin in dizzy circles slow\nThe world recedes to shadows soft and deep\nThere is no place for weary lungs to go\nExcept the silence where the broken sleep\n\nThe final breath arrives without a sound\nA gentle letting go of all the fight\nAs gravity pulls everything down\nInto the endless, welcoming night", 7, "The air arrives as jagged glass\nThat scrapes the inner walls of breath\nA heavy weight within the chest\nThat steals the rhythm of my death\n\nMy ribs expand to meet the void\nBut find no purchase, only strain\nEach inhale is a battle fought\nAgainst a slow and silent pain\n\nThe color fades from fingertips\nAs oxygen retreats too far\nA burning fire in the throat\nWhere stars have dimmed behind a scar\n\nI count the seconds in the dark\nWhile shadows stretch across the floor\nThe body weakens, bone by bone\nTo open up a locked door\n\nNo sound remains but ragged gasps\nA final plea the lungs cannot keep\nAs gravity pulls down the light\nAnd drags me toward the endless sleep", 6, "The air grows thick with dust and gray\nA heavy weight that steals the day\nEach breath a war fought in the chest\nWhere quiet hope begins to rest\n\nThe ribs expand but find no space\nTrapped within this hollow place\nA rattle rises, sharp and deep\nAwaking ghosts from endless sleep\n\nThe skin turns cold against the fire\nAs strength dissolves in slow desire\nTo let the shadow take its hold\nAnd trade the warmth for stories told\n\nFingers tremble at the edge\nOf every promise left unpledged\nThe lungs collapse beneath the strain\nOf rain that falls without a name\n\nNow silence calls a final tune\nBeneath the pale and waning moon\nNo fight remains, no voice to cry\nJust watching as the light goes dry", 6], [294, "train", "To one who has been long in city pent by John Keats", "John Keats", "\"A poem about a city-dweller experiencing the awe-inspiring joy of nature during a countryside escape, breathing open air and delighting in birdsong and open skies before returning home as the day slips by unnoticed.\"", "To one who has been long in city pent,\n'Tis very sweet to look into the fair\nAnd open face of heaven,\u2014to breathe a prayer\nFull in the smile of the blue firmament.\nWho is more happy, when, with heart's content,\nFatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair\nOf wavy grass, and reads a debonair\nAnd gentle tale of love and languishment?\nReturning home at evening, with an ear\nCatching the notes of Philomel,\u2014an eye\nWatching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,\nHe mourns that day so soon has glided by:\nE'en like the passage of an angel's tear\nThat falls through the clear ether silently.", "The concrete hum fades into silence deep,\nWhere only wind and ancient oak trees keep\nA rhythm slow and steady as a heart,\nNo longer torn by city's frantic art.\n\nI breathe the air, so crisp it stings the lung,\nWith scents of pine where once the smoke was hung,\nAnd look above to skies of endless blue,\nThat stretch unbroken, vast and clear and true.\n\nA chorus rises from the hidden boughs,\nAs birdsong weaves its joy among the leaves,\nWhile time itself seems gently to allow\nThe heavy weight of urban life to eaves.\n\nThe sun dips low, a golden, slipping thread,\nThat steals the hours without a single sound,\nBefore I turn to walk the path ahead,\nLeaving this peace that I have newly found.\n\nThe road back calls, the day is gone too fast,\nYet in my chest a wilder sky remains,\nTo hold the memory of light so vast,\nUntil the next escape through rain or rains.", "The concrete canyon fades behind the gate,\nAnd suddenly the sky is not a roof but space,\nA vast blue dome where clouds drift slow and great,\nAnd time seems to have lost its frantic pace.\n\nI breathe deep drafts of air that taste of green,\nNo longer choked by exhaust and city dust;\nThe silence here is rich and full, unseen,\nExcept for birdsong singing in the bush.\n\nThey trill and chirp as if they never stop,\nTheir voices fill the hollows of my ear;\nI feel a sudden, strange and happy hop,\nAs if my heart were one with theirs, and near.\n\nI look about me at the open sky,\nThe grassy fields, the hedgerows, and the trees;\nI did not know such joy could ever be,\nUntil I saw them with these very eyes.\n\nBut now the shadows lengthen on the grass,\nThe day has slipped away without a sound;\nI must go back to where the tall buildings pass,\nAnd walk again upon the hard, paved ground.", 6, "The concrete gray dissolves in morning mist,\nAnd I step out where only green exists.\nNo sirens scream, no tires hum on stone,\nJust open air that fills my lungs like wine.\nAbove, the sky is vast and deep and blue,\nUnbroken by a single wire or line.\n\nA thrush begins a song so wild and clear,\nIt shakes the dew from leaves and wakes the ear.\nI watch the clouds drift slowly, soft and white,\nWhile time forgets to rush me through the light.\nThe world feels wide, uncluttered, and so free,\nAs if the earth was made just for me.\n\nBut soon the shadows stretch across the grass,\nAnd golden hour slips away too fast.\nThe birds fall silent as the day takes flight,\nAnd I must turn back toward the city night.\nYet in my chest, the joy remains so strong,\nTo carry home within my heart all long.", 6, "The concrete hum fades into silence deep,\nAs I step out where wild green fields sweep.\nNo sirens wail, no engines roar above,\nJust open air that fills my lungs with love.\n\nA chorus rises from the hidden boughs,\nWhere birdsong drowns the city's dusty vows.\nThe sky stretches in blue and endless wide,\nWith not a single building to hide.\n\nI breathe the scent of rain and fresh-cut hay,\nAnd watch the golden sunlight slip away.\nThe hours melt like sugar in the tea,\nUnnoticed by the heart so wild and free.\n\nBut shadows lengthen on the grassy floor,\nAnd time reminds me I must go once more.\nBack to the grid, the noise, the narrow street,\nWith nature's joy still dancing at my feet.", 6, "The concrete hum fades into silence deep,\nWhere only wind and ancient willows speak.\nI breathe a lungful of the morning steep,\nAnd feel the weight of city streets grow weak.\n\nAbove, the sky unfolds in endless blue,\nNo steel to cage the light or block the view.\nA thrush begins a melody so true,\nIt stitches up the cracks I didn't knew.\n\nThe hours melt like sugar in the tea,\nAs clouds drift by with slow and lazy grace.\nI watch the wild bees dance in wild glee,\nAnd lose all track of time and familiar place.\n\nBut shadows lengthen on the grassy floor,\nThe sun dips low behind the distant hill.\nI turn my face toward the open door,\nWith quiet heart and spirit strangely still.\n\nBack to the grid where neon lights ignite,\nYet carrying this dawn within my chest.\nThe day has slipped away into the night,\nLeaving the city and its rush to rest.", 7, "The concrete hum that filled my chest\nDissolves beneath the morning light,\nAs open fields replace the street\nAnd silence swallows up the night.\nI breathe a air so crisp and clean,\nNo exhaust fumes to cloud the lung,\nJust wild grass brushing at my knees\nWhere ancient, quiet songs are sung.\n\nA thrush erupts in sudden song,\nA melody of pure delight,\nWhile clouds drift slow across the blue,\nUnbound by walls or city height.\nThe sky stretches an endless dome,\nA canvas vast and deeply deep,\nWhere time forgets its hurried pace\nAnd promises it means to keep.\n\nI watch the golden sun descend,\nToo lost in wonder to depart,\nUntil the shadows stretch and lengthen,\nAnd twilight settles round my heart.\nThe road calls back with familiar sound,\nYet I am changed by what I've seen,\nCarrying the wild and open sky\nWithin the spaces in between.", 6, "Concrete shadows fade behind the rearview glass\nAs pavement turns to dirt and silence breaks the rush\nThe air tastes sweet with rain and wild green grass\nNo longer filtered through a window's hushed hush\n\nA chorus rises from the branches high above\nWhere sparrows dance on wings of morning light\nEach note a song I never knew I loved\nAgainst the vast and endless dome of white\n\nI breathe until my lungs forget the gray\nOf sirens screaming in the crowded street\nHere time dissolves into the golden day\nWith every heartbeat matching nature's beat\n\nThe sun dips low to paint the hills in gold\nAnd slowly calls me back to where I started\nYet something in my spirit will unfold\nLong after city lights have left their mark", 6, "Concrete shadows fade behind the gate\nAs tires roll on paths of worn-out stone\nThe heavy air of traffic, thick and late\nDissolves beneath a sky I've never known\n\nA sudden breath fills lungs with crisp and clean\nNo smog to choke the rhythm of my chest\nHere green fields stretch in emerald sheen\nAnd silence offers up a gentle rest\n\nAbove the trees a chorus starts to rise\nWhere sparrows dance on wings of gold and brown\nTheir songs are ancient lullabies\nThat wash away the noise of every town\n\nI watch the clouds drift slow across the blue\nUnhurried by the clock that ticks so fast\nTime loses all its rigid shape for you\nAs moments stretch into the golden past\n\nThe sun dips low to kiss the distant hill\nA final warmth before the twilight grows\nThe city calls but softly, quiet still\nWith secrets that the countryside bestows\n\nI turn my back to walk the path again\nCarrying the light within my soul\nThe wild world fades from sight and brain\nYet leaves a piece of nature in my whole", 7], [313, "ultra_held_out", "But He Was Cool, or: he even stopped for green lights by Haki R. Madhubuti", "Haki R. Madhubuti", "\"A poem about a Black man trying to fit into American society by acting cool and wearing imported items, while losing touch with his real roots and identity.\"", "super-cool\nultrablack\na tan/purple\nhad a beautiful shade.\nhe had a double-natural\nthat wd put the sisters to shame.\n&his beads were imported sea shells\n(from some blk/country i never heard of)\nhe was triple-hip.\nhis tikis were hand carved\nout of ivory\n&came express from the motherland.\nhe would greet u in swahili\n&say good-by in yoruba.\nwoooooooooooo-jim he bes so cool &ill tel li gent\ncool-cool is so cool he was un-cooled by other niggers' cool\ncool-cool ultracool was bop-cool/ice box cool so cool cold cool\nhis wine didn't have to be cooled, him was air conditioned cool\ncool-cool/real cool made me cool--now ain't that cool\ncool-cool so cool him nick-named refrigerator.\ncool-cool so cool\nhe didn't know,\nafter detroit, newark, chicago &c.,\nwe had to hip\ncool-cool/ super-cool/ real cool\nthat\nto be black\nis\nto be\nvery-hot.", "He buttons up the Italian silk to hide the sweat\nOf a body that remembers walking barefoot on red clay\nAdjusting the gold chain that weighs down his neck\nLike a heavy promise he cannot keep\nThe sneakers are limited edition, imported from Tokyo\nBut they make no sound on the pavement of his childhood street\nHe speaks in slang he heard on television\nA borrowed rhythm that trips over his own tongue\nForgetting the lullabies his grandmother hummed\nIn a dialect that sounds like rain on tin roofs\nHe laughs too loud at jokes that do not land\nTrying to prove he belongs in this room of glass and steel\nWhile the mirror shows a stranger wearing his face\nThe fabric is soft but it does not breathe\nIt chokes out the memory of the soil\nThat once held him when he fell\nNow he stands tall in designer shadows\nAfraid to take them off\nLest the world see the roots he tried to cut away\nAnd find nothing left but air", "He bought the Italian loafers that pinch his toes\nAnd the silk shirts from Lagos he never wears\nBecause they are too loud for the office breakroom\nWhere everyone talks about golf and stocks.\n\nHe speaks in a clipped, sharp American accent\nHiding the rolling vowels of his grandfather's village\nAnd laughs at jokes about black people on TV\nWhile his mother calls to ask if he has eaten.\n\nHe thinks he is cool because he drinks espresso\nAnd knows the names of obscure French painters\nBut when he walks down the street in his sunglasses\nThe old women cross over to the other side.\n\nHe forgets the rhythm of the drums in his blood\nAnd the way the earth smells after rain in the tropics\nAnd now he only smells of expensive cologne\nAnd feels like a stranger in his own skin.", 2, "He buys the leather jacket from a shop in Milan\nand thinks the cold Italian wind will warm him here,\ntaping his mouth shut with a smile that says I am cool,\nI am modern, I am one of you.\n\nThe gold chain is heavy on his neck but light on his heart,\nswinging like a pendulum counting down the seconds\nof a heritage he forgot how to speak.\nHe walks with a swagger that isn't his own gait,\nmimicking a rhythm from a radio station he doesn't understand.\n\nIn the mirror he sees a stranger wearing imported shadows,\na man dressed in labels that scream belonging\nwhile his soul screams silence.\nThe roots are dry now, buried under concrete and designer shoes,\nthe soil of his ancestors turned into a parking lot for foreign cars.\n\nHe tries to laugh at jokes made in a language not his mother's tongue,\nnodding along as if the history being erased is just a bad dream.\nBut when the lights go out and the imported leather creaks,\nhe hears the drumbeat fading,\nthe old song getting lost in the static of a new world,\nand he stands alone in a room full of things\nthat fit perfectly but do not belong to him.", 2, "He buttons up the silk shirt from Milan\nand checks his reflection in the shop window glass\nwhere the man staring back is smooth and polished\na product of imported threads and foreign labels\nhe walks with a stride that says he belongs here\ncool as the ice in his glass, detached from the heat\nof the street where his grandfather once stood\ntelling stories under a sky that knew no borders\nbut now he speaks a language of brands and trends\nswapping the rhythm of the drum for the beat of the city\nforgetting the taste of soil that grew his ancestors\nhe trades the heavy gold of memory for lightweight chains\nthat chafe against a neck trying to hold up a new name\nthe roots are tangled deep beneath the pavement\nbut he refuses to look down at the dirt\nafraid that if he digs too deep he will find himself\nso he keeps walking, cool and distant\nuntil the mirror shows only a stranger\nwearing a face that does not fit\nin the house of his own making.", 2, "He ties a silk scarf from Lagos tight around his neck\nBut speaks in slang he heard on screens, not streets\nThe leather boots are Italian made and stiff\nThey pinch the feet that once ran bare on red clay dust\nHe laughs at jokes he does not understand\nNods to rhythms that beat inside a different chest\nA curated coolness built of imported threads\nTo hide the ache of being seen as something less\nHe buys the brands that say he belongs here now\nWhile elders call his name in tongues he cannot speak\nThe mirror shows a stranger in the glass\nWith foreign logos stitched upon his skin\nHe trades the stories of the ancestors for status\nAnd watches as the roots beneath him turn to stone\nThe city swallows him with open arms of neon light\nLeaving the man who was before behind\nA hollow shell of trends and borrowed grace\nDrifting far from where his blood began to flow.", 3, "He buttons up a shirt from Milan\nStitched with threads that never knew the soil\nOf where his ancestors first stood tall\nAnd traded in the drum for a silent phone\nA cool detachment, a practiced smile\nThat hides the rhythm of the ancestral call\n\nThe sneakers imported from across the sea\nAre pristine white, untouched by mud or rain\nThey whisper of a status he can buy\nBut drown out songs that once spoke his name\nHe walks the street with posture sharp and cold\nAfraid to let the warmth of home remain\n\nHe speaks in slang that isn't quite his own\nAdopting tones to blend into the crowd\nWhile inside something deep begins to fade\nA quiet grief, too heavy to be loud\nThe mask is perfect, polished, and so sleek\nBut underneath, the roots are turning gray\n\nHe fears the mirror shows a stranger's face\nA man who bought his worth but lost his soul\nThe imported gold feels heavy on his skin\nAs pieces of himself begin to roll\nAway into the cracks of city stone\nLeaving the boy he was to lose control\n\nNo title marks this slow and silent drift\nJust footsteps echoing on concrete floors\nWhere coolness is a wall he built too high\nTo keep the truth behind its locked doors\nHe fits the mold, he plays the part so well\nBut does not know what it means anymore", 6, "The leather boots are made in Italy\nBut they pinch the arch of a foot that knows the red clay\nHe smooths his hair with gel from Paris\nHiding the crown where ancestors once wore gold\nHe speaks in slang borrowed from the screen\nA performance polished for a crowd that nods politely\nWhile the drumbeat of his grandmother's kitchen fades to static\nHe trades the stories of the village for a designer label\nThinking the price tag proves he belongs here\nBut the mirror shows a stranger in expensive clothes\nEyes searching for a reflection that no longer fits\nThe cool facade cracks when the music stops\nLeaving only silence and the heavy weight of what was sold\nTo buy a seat at a table that never truly welcomed him home", 2, "He pulls the silk from distant shores\nA fabric not of home or dust\nTo mask the skin that bears the scars\nOf ancestors who knew the rust\n\nHe walks with strides designed for show\nIn shoes that cost a month of bread\nThe rhythm in his chest grows slow\nAs words of kin are left unsaid\n\nA laugh too sharp, a glance too cold\nTo hide the ache beneath the vest\nHe trades the stories told of old\nFor approval from a foreign guest\n\nThe mirror shows a stranger's face\nWith eyes that search for something new\nWhile roots run dry without a trace\nAnd silence fills the space they grew\n\nHe wears the world upon his back\nBut feels the weight of what he lost\nA kingdom built on borrowed track\nWhere every step is paid at cost\n\nThe cool facade begins to crack\nRevealing cracks within the soul\nAs imported dreams turn into black\nAnd leave him fractured, incomplete and whole", 6], [318, "ultra_held_out", "Homecoming by Simon Armitage", "Simon Armitage", "\"A poem about a child navigating the developing trust and relationships between parents and children.\"", "Think, two things on their own and both at once\nThe first, that exercise in trust, where those in front\nstand with their arms spread wide and free-fall\nbackwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight.\n\nThe second, one canary-yellow cotton jacket\non a cloakroom floor, uncoupled from its hook\nbecoming scuffed and blackened underfoot. Back home\nthe very model of a model of a mother, yours, puts\ntwo and two together, makes a proper fist of it\nand points the finger. Temper, temper. Questions\nin the house. You seeing red. Blue murder. Bed.\nThen midnight when you slip the latch and sneak\nno further than the call-box at the corner of the street;\nI'm waiting by the phone, although it doesn't ring\nbecause it's sixteen years or so before we'll meet.\nRetrace that walk towards the garden gate; in silhouette\na father figures waits there, wants to set things straight.\n\nThese ribs are pleats or seams. These arms are sleeves.\nThese fingertips are buttons, or these hands can fold\ninto a clasp, or else these fingers make a zip\nor buckle, you say which. Step backwards into it\nand try the same canary-yellow cotton jacket, there,\nlike this, for size again. It still fits.", "The door is open but the lock remains\nA heavy thing I do not yet understand\nYou hold my hand so tight it feels like pain\nThen loosen just enough to let me stand\n\nI watch you leave and wait for your return\nCounting the seconds on the kitchen wall\nIs this a game where I am meant to burn\nOr will you catch me if I start to fall\n\nYour voice is soft when shadows start to creep\nAnd promises are made in quiet tones\nBut sometimes silence makes the dark too deep\nAnd I am small within these unfamiliar zones\n\nYet morning comes with coffee in your cup\nAnd laughter breaks the tension of the night\nI learn that love is something built up\nNot given all at once but earned by light\n\nSo I step forward though my knees may shake\nTrusting the ground beneath my wandering feet\nKnowing that whatever choice I make\nYou'll be the harbor where my heart can meet", "I watch you build the wall\nwith bricks of \"because I said so\"\nand mortar made of silence,\nwatching to see if I can climb it.\n\nSometimes you leave a gate open\njust to see if I will walk through,\nor leave a window cracked\nto hear if I will jump out.\n\nWhen I come back with a scraped knee\nyou say I should have been more careful,\nbut when I cry you give me a bandage\nand tell me not to be afraid.\n\nOne day you will say I am too old\nfor a bandage and for your arms,\nso I must learn to trust my own knees\nand my own legs before they break.", 3, "I test the floorboards with a heavy step\nTo see if they will hold my weight today,\nAnd watch your eyes to see if you will let me fall\nOr catch me before I hit the ground.\n\nYou say the sky is blue and I believe it\nUntil I climb the tree and find the leaves are green,\nThen I look at you to see if you are angry\nThat I found out the truth was different from your word.\n\nSometimes you promise ice cream for tomorrow\nAnd sometimes you forget, and then I learn\nThat words are like the wind that blows away,\nBut hugs are solid things that stay.\n\nWhen you are sad, I do not know what to do\nSo I bring you my toy car, small and red,\nAnd you take it and smile, and I feel safe again,\nKnowing I can fix the broken world.\n\nBut when you shout, the air turns sharp and cold,\nAnd I hide under the table in the dark,\nWondering if you still love me here or there,\nOr if the love has gone where I cannot go.\n\nI walk back and forth between your hands and mine,\nBuilding a bridge of trust one stone at a time,\nTesting the water, testing the depth,\nLearning how deep the love goes, and how far.", 4, "The floor is cold but your hand is warm\nA small anchor in the morning storm\nYou say I will be back before the sun\nBut shadows stretch and day is done\n\nI learn that words are not just sound\nThey are promises that can be found\nIn empty chairs or full again\nIn laughter breaking through the rain\n\nSometimes you leave and sometimes stay\nSometimes you forget to bring the toy away\nAnd I watch the door with held-up breath\nWondering if love can last until death\n\nOr until tea time, or until school\nUntil I learn to break the rule\nThat trust is built in tiny steps\nNot giant leaps across the gaps\n\nSo when you return with keys and coat\nI do not run, I do not float\nI wait and watch your face appear\nTo see if you are really here", 6, "The floor is cold but your hand is warm\na steady weight against my small palm\nI watch you leave and the door clicks shut\nand for a moment the world feels thin\nlike paper tearing in the rain\n\nYou come back with milk and stories\nyour voice a bridge across the dark room\nI test the edge of your promise\nby dropping the cup just to see\nif you will still look at me with kindness\nif the love is strong enough to hold the pieces\n\nIt grows slowly like a vine finding light\nnot all at once but day by day\nwhen I fall and you do not rush to catch me\nbut wait to see if I can stand\nthen offer your shoulder when I am ready\n\nSometimes you are tired and sharp\nand I pull away into my quiet corner\nwondering if the bond is real or made of glass\nuntil you sit on the floor beside me\nsilent and soft until the air clears again\n\nI learn that trust is not a wall built high\nbut a door left open in the night\nthat you will walk through\nand I will know your footsteps\neven before you speak my name", 2, "Small hands reach out to test the air\nBefore they grasp a waiting pair\nOf arms that hold but do not squeeze\nAnd let the quiet moments ease\n\nThe first time you let go of my hand\nI stumbled on the shifting sand\nBut when I looked and saw you stand\nA steady wall against the land\n\nYou taught me that a broken toy\nIs fixed with patience, not with noise\nThat anger passes like a cloud\nAnd love remains both clear and loud\n\nNow trust is not a thing I find\nIn sudden leaps or grand design\nIt lives in cups of morning tea\nIn promises you keep for me\n\nWe build a bridge from day to day\nWhere words can float and fears give way\nTwo hearts that learn to beat as one\nBeneath the rising of the sun", 7, "Small hands reach out to test the air\nFor solid ground that isn't there\nA wobble in the morning light\nBefore the day has fully bright\n\nThey watch the way you turn away\nTo wash the dishes, start the day\nAnd wonder if the love they hold\nIs fragile as a story told\n\nBut then a voice cuts through the doubt\nTo say what matters, what is about\nThe promise kept when storms roll in\nThe steady hand that helps them win\n\nTrust is not a single wall\nThat stands unbroken, tall and staid\nIt grows like vines along the stone\nIn quiet words and seeds sown\n\nSometimes you stumble, sometimes I\nAnd gaps appear beneath the sky\nYet in the space where fear takes root\nWe learn to heal and bear the fruit\n\nSo here we stand, both old and new\nWith nothing left for us to do\nBut walk this path, side by side\nWith trust as our only guide", 7, "Small hands reach out to test the air\nFor warmth that lingers in a mother's care\nA father's voice, a steady drum\nThat beats until the quiet comes\n\nThe first step taken on uncertain ground\nWhere safety is a promise newly found\nNot given freely but earned with time\nThrough every stumble and every climb\n\nTrust is built in whispered words at night\nIn stories told to chase away the fright\nIt grows in silence when the door closes tight\nAnd opens wide to let the morning light\n\nA fragile bridge between the old and new\nWhere love learns how to start again anew\nNo map exists for where this path will lead\nOnly the heart that chooses to believe", 7], [323, "ultra_held_out", "Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope", "Alexander Pope", "\"A poem about a man preferring the simple pleasures of solitary rural life, tending his land and herds through the seasons, over fame, luxury, and the company of others.\"", "Happy the man, whose wish and care\nA few paternal acres bound,\nContent to breathe his native air,\nIn his own ground.\nWhose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,\nWhose flocks supply him with attire,\nWhose trees in summer yield him shade,\nIn winter fire.\nBlest, who can unconcernedly find\nHours, days, and years slide soft away,\nIn health of body, peace of mind,\nQuiet by day,\nSound sleep by night; study and ease,\nTogether mixed; sweet recreation;\nAnd innocence, which most does please,\nWith meditation.\nThus let me live, unseen, unknown;\nThus unlamented let me die;\nSteal from the world, and not a stone\nTell where I lie.", "The city calls with bells of gold and streets of polished stone,\nBut I have found a quieter throne beneath the willow's shade.\nLet others chase the fleeting praise that fades like morning mist,\nWhile I count blessings in the dust where silent hours exist.\n\nMy kingdom is this rolling hill, my crown the rising sun,\nWhere work begins before the dawn and ends when day is done.\nNo silk to wear against the wind, no feast of spiced delight,\nJust bread baked from my own hard grain and stars that pierce the night.\n\nThrough spring I watch the lambs take form, their wool soft as a cloud,\nAnd summer heats the golden wheat above the grazing crowd.\nIn autumn, when the frost arrives, I gather in the store,\nThen watch the winter silence fall upon the frozen floor.\n\nI need no hand to shake in greeting, no voice to fill the air,\nFor nature speaks a language deep that only I can share.\nThe cowherd's song, the rustling grass, the river's steady flow,\nAre riches that no merchant king could ever hope to know.\n\nSo let them dance in gilded halls and seek the bright acclaim,\nI'll tend my simple, sacred land and never know their name.\nFor in this solitude I find a peace they cannot buy,\nBeneath the vast and open sky where honest shepherds lie.", "Let others seek the crowded street\nAnd chase the loud applause of fame;\nI'll walk where only winds and feet\nHave trod, and call my quiet name.\n\nNo gilded hall nor silken chair\nCan match the warmth of straw and fire;\nThe smell of hay and fresh-cut air\nIs all the luxury I desire.\n\nThrough spring I watch the lambs arise\nWith soft eyes in the morning dew;\nIn summer see the golden skies\nAnd hear the bees among the clover.\n\nWhen autumn comes, the granary fills\nWith grain that grew from soil I tilled;\nThe frosty fields are brown and stills,\nAnd silence is the only chill.\n\nThen winter brings the snow to bind\nThe land in white as in a shroud;\nI sit beside the blazing fire\nAnd talk with none but God aloud.", 6, "Let others chase the gilded stage and shout\nTheir names to crowds that cheer then turn away,\nI choose the quiet field where shadows grow\nAnd watch the seasons mark their steady way.\n\nNo velvet couch can match my straw-strewn floor,\nNo banquet taste as sweet as bread and cheese,\nWhen winter winds blow hard against the door\nAnd snow lies deep among the grazing trees.\n\nMy herd is all the company I need,\nTheir heavy breaths a rhythm in the cold,\nThey do not ask for words or flattery's greed,\nBut seek the shelter of the barn and fold.\n\nIn spring I mend the fence with calloused hand,\nIn summer watch the wheat turn golden brown,\nIn autumn gather fruit from orchard land,\nAnd store the harvest safely for the town.\n\nThe city lights may dazzle and entice,\nWith noise and gold and faces passing by,\nBut here I find the truth within the ice,\nBeneath the vast and unadorned sky.\n\nSo let them have their fame and crowded halls,\nI keep my simple life, my silent ground,\nWhere nature answers when the spirit calls,\nAnd peace is found in solitude profound.", 7, "Let kings keep their thrones of gilded wood\nAnd merchants count their stacks of gold,\nI seek the quiet where the solitude\nOf ancient oaks and hills unfold.\n\nNo banquet hall with roaring fire\nCan match the hearth of peat and pine,\nWhere winter's bite is less a dire\nAffliction than a sharp design.\n\nMy fame is in the sprouting grain,\nThe lamb that bleats at morning light,\nThe rhythm of the falling rain\nThat washes clean the long, hard night.\n\nWhy crave the crowd's loud, hollow cheer\nWhen silence speaks in wind and stream?\nThe only guest I need is here,\nA shadow cast by evening beam.\n\nSo let them chase the fleeting spark\nOf glory in a city street,\nI'll walk my fields within the dark\nWith boots worn soft against the beat.\n\nThe seasons turn, the herds grow fat,\nThe soil yields up its honest bread,\nAnd though I have no name but that\nOf one who tends the living dead,\n\nI am content, for I possess\nMore than the world can ever sell:\nThe quiet peace of wilderness,\nAnd heaven's bell that rings so well.", 6, "Let others chase the gilded stage\nAnd seek the applause of crowded rooms,\nI find my wealth in winter's fog\nAnd spring's first bloom among the looms.\n\nNo velvet cloak can match the warmth\nOf sun on wool and earthy skin,\nWhere silence speaks a deeper truth\nThan all the noise of city din.\n\nMy kingdom is this rolling hill,\nMy court the sheep that graze nearby,\nThe changing light upon the grass\nBeneath the vast and open sky.\n\nWhen autumn turns the leaves to gold\nAnd frost begins to bite the air,\nI need no banquet, no bright hall,\nJust woodsmoke rising from my lair.\n\nLet kings keep their thrones of stone\nAnd merchants count their piles of coin,\nI trade my days for quiet nights\nWith nothing but the moon to join.", 6, "The city calls with bells of gold and brass,\nBut I have chosen silence for my guest,\nTo watch the morning mist begin to pass\nAbove the hills where quiet shadows rest.\n\nNo crown of laurel sits upon my brow,\nNo silk to wrap me from the winter chill,\nJust woolen coats and furrows deep and now,\nAnd time that moves according to the hill.\n\nI wake before the sun has kissed the east,\nTo guide the flock across the dewy grass,\nWith only wind as any other feast,\nAnd let the noisy world of men go past.\n\nThey seek the roar of crowds and praise of kings,\nThe gilded halls where hollow echoes sound,\nWhile I find joy in simple, humble things,\nWhere roots run deep in undisturbed ground.\n\nLet others chase the phantom of renown,\nI trade it all for soil beneath my hand,\nTo feel the earth when summer turns to brown,\nAnd know the rhythm of this quiet land.\n\nWhen stars ignite the velvet dark above,\nNo banquet table holds a better view,\nThan firelight dancing with a gentle love,\nFor one who finds his whole life here, anew.", 7, "The city calls with golden bells and streets of polished stone\nBut I have found my kingdom in the silence, all alone\nWhere fame is but a whisper lost beneath the morning dew\nAnd luxury means nothing when the soil is fresh and new\n\nMy hands are rough with earth and time, stained deep with green\nA quiet crown of thorns upon a brow unseen\nI trade the clinking silver cups for water from the well\nAnd find a richer banquet than the feasts of heaven or hell\n\nThrough spring the lambs will follow close, a soft and woolen tide\nWhile summer heat brings heavy breath to where the oxen hide\nThe autumn wind will sweep the fields in rust and amber gold\nBefore the winter snows arrive to keep the world untold\n\nNo guest arrives to break the spell, no voice to fill the air\nJust birds that sing their ancient songs above the pasture bare\nLet kings command the armies vast and merchants count their gain\nI walk this narrow path of peace through sun and gentle rain\n\nFor in this solitude I hold a truth they cannot see\nThat freedom grows in quiet roots beneath the open tree\nSo let them chase the glittering light that fades before the dawn\nI am content to watch the seasons turn until the night is gone", 6, "The city calls with neon bright and loud\nBut I find peace beneath the clouded gray\nWhere silence speaks a language understood\nBy roots that drink the morning's gentle rain\n\nNo crown of gold can warm the winter chill\nThat settles deep within this ancient soil\nI trade the roar of crowds for birds that sing\nAnd count my wealth in harvest, not in toil\n\nMy hands are rough from tending to the earth\nFrom guiding sheep across the rolling green\nA simple life where time moves slow and steady\nWith no demand for what might have been seen\n\nLet others chase the fame that fades so fast\nWhile I watch seasons turn the fields to gold\nThe herd is mine, the land my only master\nA quiet story that needs never be told", 7], [326, "ultra_held_out", "On the Sale By Auction of Keats\u2019 Love Letters by Oscar Wilde", "Oscar Wilde", "A poem about lamenting the public auctioning of a beloved poet's private love letters to those who do not appreciate art, comparing the act to Roman soldiers gambling over Christ's clothes.", "These are the letters which Endymion wrote\nTo one he loved in secret, and apart.\nAnd now the brawlers of the auction mart\nBargain and bid for each poor blotted note,\nAy! for each separate pulse of passion quote\nThe merchant\u2019s price. I think they love not art\nWho break the crystal of a poet\u2019s heart\nThat small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.\nIs it not said that many years ago,\nIn a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran\nWith torches through the midnight, and began\nTo wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw\nDice for the garments of a wretched man,\nNot knowing the God\u2019s wonder, or His woe?", "The gavel falls like a judge's final breath\nUpon the paper where your heart once bled,\nSold to the highest bidder in this death\nOf privacy, by greed and silence fed.\nThey do not read the ink that trembled there,\nNor feel the pulse of love you tried to keep,\nBut count the cost with cold and empty air,\nAnd strip the soul before they fall asleep.\n\nJust as the soldiers cast their lots for Christ,\nDividing up the seamless robe of grace,\nThese modern wolves have made their darkly bright\nBet on the fragments of a sacred face.\nThey gamble over words meant only two,\nIgnoring how the poet's spirit bled,\nWhile I stand weeping for the truth you knew,\nNow scattered among those who never read.", "The hammer falls on paper stained with tears\nAnd ink that dried in the dark of a lover's room,\nSold to the highest bidder who will not read them,\nWho cares nothing for the rhythm of grief or the rhyme of love.\n\nThey are tossed like dice upon a table\nWhile the poet lies cold in his grave,\nJust as the Roman soldiers gambled for the seamless robe\nOf Christ while he hung dying on the cross.\n\nThey split the private words of a broken heart\nLike a garment without seam,\nTo those who do not know the value of art,\nWho would sell their own mother's soul for a shilling.\n\nO sacred silence of the dead, violated!\nO holy intimacy of the living, profaned!\nTo be auctioned off to the vulgar crowd\nWho cannot see the beauty in the lines.", 3, "The gavel falls like a judge's final breath,\nSelling the ink-stained confessions of a soul\nTo men who count their coins and check their watches,\nWho cannot read the rhythm in the lines,\nNor feel the pulse that beat beneath the paper.\n\nThey bid for scraps of intimacy,\nFor pages torn from a heart laid bare,\nWhile the poet sleeps in silence, unaware\nThat his most sacred whispers are now merchandise.\n\nIt is the same old story, worn and bloody:\nRoman soldiers round the cross, dividing up\nThe seamless robe of Christ by casting lots,\nGambling on fabric while the world dies slowly.\n\nHere, the tunic is made of love and grief,\nThe soldiers wear the suits of wealthy bidders,\nAnd though no blood runs down the wooden hill,\nThe spirit bleeds just as it did then, unseen.\n\nThey do not see the art, they only see\nThe value of the past, the price of fame,\nDestroying what was meant for one alone,\nBy selling it to those who know nothing of love.", 3, "The gavel falls like a stone on silence\nBreaking the seal of ink and breath,\nWhere once a trembling hand wrote longing\nNow strangers bid for stolen death.\nThey raise their paddles, eyes unseeing,\nFor paper scraps that held a soul,\nTo those who count in cold currency\nAnd never felt the lover's toll.\n\nOh cruel auctioneer of memory,\nYou strip the heart to sell the skin,\nWhile outside walls the world moves on\nIgnoring where the grief begins.\nJust as the soldiers stood at Calvary,\nDividing up the robe of Christ,\nWith dice that clattered in the dust\nBefore the final sacrifice.\n\nThey gambled for the seamless garment,\nUnaware of what they tore apart,\nWhile He hung silent on the tree,\nA broken and a bleeding heart.\nSo now these letters, sacred pages,\nAre tossed among the greedy crowd,\nBy men who cannot read the love\nBut only hear the numbers loud.\n\nNo reverence for the poet's pain,\nNo honor for the words he penned,\nJust bids placed high by empty hands\nThat do not know how hearts can bend.\nThe clothes were torn, the words are sold,\nThe spirit left upon the floor,\nWhile Roman soldiers laugh and count\nThe price of something pure no more.", 6, "The gavel falls like a stone on the heart\nAnd breaks the seal of a secret once kept,\nWhere ink bled purple with the ache of a part\nThat only two souls ever fully have wept.\nNow strangers in suits with cold, counting eyes\nBid for the tremble of a lover's hand,\nWhile silence is sold to the highest prize\nIn a market where beauty cannot stand.\n\nThey strip the paper as soldiers stripped flesh,\nDividing the rags of a sacred life,\nIgnoring the words that made the soul fresh,\nCut through by greed and avarice strife.\nJust so at the cross, when the sun turned to night,\nThe Roman guards cast lots for the garment below,\nLaughing while shadows swallowed the light,\nUnseeing the God that they did not know.\n\nSo here in this hall, the same dice are thrown,\nFor letters that whispered of heaven and pain,\nTo those who see value in what can be shown,\nBut never the spirit behind the plain stain.\nThey buy up the grief and they sell off the grace,\nLike dice rolling loud on a wooden floor,\nWhile the poet lies silent, erased from the place,\nAnd love is no longer a thing to adore.", 6, "The gavel falls like a judge's final breath\nUpon the silence of a lover's grief,\nWhere ink once bled with secrets meant for death\nNow hangs as merchandise for greedy chief.\nThey bid in coins on pages soft and worn,\nBy hands that never felt the weight of rhyme,\nWho see no soul within the lines that mourn,\nBut only value time and wasted time.\n\nOh cruel lot, to strip the sacred vest\nOf words that whispered through the darkest night,\nTo cast them down among the common quest\nFor profit in the fading morning light.\nLike Roman soldiers round the cross they stand,\nDividing up the tunic, thin and torn,\nWith dice that clatter in a hollow land,\nWhile art lies broken, waiting to be born.\n\nThey gamble now for scraps of holy fire,\nUnaware of what they hold so cheap,\nA poet's heart reduced to cold desire,\nWhile silent tears the auctioneer must weep.\nThe robe is gone, the gambler takes his prize,\nAnd leaves the spirit naked in the cold,\nWith empty eyes that never truly rise\nTo see the story that was never sold.", 6, "The gavel falls like a stone on silence,\nSelling the ink of a trembling hand,\nWhere once a heart beat in secret rhythm,\nNow reduced to a lot for the highest bidder.\nThey stand in rows with empty pockets and hungry eyes,\nCounting the cost of a soul laid bare,\nWhile the words meant for one gentle ear\nAre shouted down by the clamor of greed.\n\nOh, how the air grows thin with this betrayal,\nAs strangers tear at the fabric of devotion,\nBidding not for the beauty of the verse,\nBut for the scandal of a private grief.\nIt is the same old story written in dust,\nThe soldiers casting lots around the cross,\nDividing the robe of the innocent one\nAmong those who do not know the weight of grace.\n\nJust as they gambled for linen and thread,\nIgnoring the divinity wrapped within,\nThese modern gamblers trade paper for profit,\nBlind to the fire that burned in every line.\nThe poet weeps from a distance unseen,\nWatching their love become currency,\nA sacred text torn apart by the crowd,\nLeft cold in the hands of the indifferent.", 6, "The gavel falls like a judge's fist\nUpon the ink of trembling hands\nWhere secrets once were softly kissed\nAnd sacred vows in silence stand\nNow strangers bid with greedy eyes\nFor scraps of soul they cannot read\nIgnoring how the spirit dies\nBeneath the weight of their own greed\n\nA modern Rome has gathered round\nTo strip the flesh from holy bone\nWhere verses of profoundest sound\nAre sold to highest, hollow tone\nJust as the soldiers cast their dice\nUpon the robe of suffering grace\nThey gamble for a piece of ice\nAnd mock the light within this place\n\nNo one sees the poet's tear\nOr hears the ghost of what was said\nOnly the price, the cold, the fear\nOf love reduced to coins and lead\nLet history weep for what is lost\nAs art becomes a merchant's trade\nCounting every fragment, every cost\nWhile all that mattered starts to fade", 6], [327, "ultra_held_out", "The Express by Stephen Spender", "Stephen Spender", "\"A poem about an express train leaving the station and gathering momentum, becoming increasingly out of sync with its surroundings and symbolising unstoppable societal progress that may be harming ordinary people.\"", "After the first powerful plain manifesto\nThe black statement of pistons, without more fuss\nBut gliding like a queen, she leaves the station.\nWithout bowing and with restrained unconcern\nShe passes the houses which humbly crowd outside,\nThe gasworks and at last the heavy page\nOf death, printed by gravestones in the cemetery.\nBeyond the town there lies the open country\nWhere, gathering speed, she acquires mystery,\nThe luminous self-possession of ships on ocean.\nIt is now she begins to sing\u2014at first quite low\nThen loud, and at last with a jazzy madness\u2014\nThe song of her whistle screaming at curves,\nOf deafening tunnels, brakes, innumerable bolts.\nAnd always light, aerial, underneath\nGoes the elate metre of her wheels.\nSteaming through metal landscape on her lines\nShe plunges new eras of wild happiness\nWhere speed throws up strange shapes, broad curves\nAnd parallels clean like the steel of guns.\nAt last, further than Edinburgh or Rome,\nBeyond the crest of the world, she reaches night\nWhere only a low streamline brightness\nOf phosphorus on the tossing hills is white.\nAh, like a comet through flame, she moves entranced\nWrapt in her music no bird song, no, nor bough\nBreaking with honey buds, shall ever equal.", "The whistle cuts the morning mist\nA silver serpent uncoils its length\nThe wheels begin their rhythmic hiss\nAnd swallow up the station's strength\n\nAt first the platform stands so still\nWith faces pressed against the glass\nBut soon the blur begins to kill\nThe quiet moments as they pass\n\nThe trees outside turn into lines\nThe fields dissolve to streaks of green\nWe leave behind the old designs\nFor speeds no human heart has seen\n\nThe rhythm builds a deafening roar\nThat drowns the voices on the street\nIt does not wait for those who pour\nTheir weary lives beneath its feet\n\nIt rushes past the broken home\nWhere time moves slow and shadows grow\nIt leaves the silence far alone\nTo where the frantic engines blow\n\nNo brake can hold this iron will\nAs progress tears the fabric wide\nIt climbs the hill and crushes still\nThe fragile things we cannot hide\n\nWe are the dust the wheels have raised\nBy momentum swept away\nWhile in our haste, we lose all phases\nOf what it means to live today", "The whistle screams a sharp command\nAnd iron wheels begin to grind,\nLeaving the platform's dusty land\nAnd all the people left behind.\n\nA blur of brick and window pane\nFlashes past the driver's eye,\nWhile on the track the heavy train\nGathers a rolling thundering cry.\n\nIt rushes on with growing speed,\nThe station fades into a dot,\nAnd nothing now can stop its need\nTo rush along this iron plot.\n\nThe fields fly by in streaks of green,\nThe villages are swallowed fast,\nThe world is but a rushing scene\nThat vanishes before it lasts.\n\nIt does not care for old men's feet\nThat stumble on the crossing line,\nNor for the poor who find no seat\nBut stand and clutch the strap and pine.\n\nIt does not see the child that falls\nBefore the buffer's solid end;\nIt knows no mercy, hears no calls,\nBut sweeps them on without an end.\n\nFor progress is a monster train\nThat must be fed with life and breath,\nAnd crushes all who stand in pain\nUpon the road to wealth and death.\n\nIt will not wait for you or me,\nIt has no time for tears or sighs;\nWe must run hard to keep abreast,\nOr get run over as we lie.", 6, "The whistle screams a sharp command\nAnd iron wheels begin to turn,\nLeaving the platform's quiet stand\nWhere weary faces wait and burn.\n\nAt first it matches streetlamp pace,\nA rhythmic clatter, slow and deep,\nThen blurs the faces in the place\nAs promises it means to keep.\n\nNow trees become a greenish streak,\nThe houses melt into a stream,\nWhile those who cannot run or speak\nAre left behind within the dream.\n\nIt does not care for those who fall,\nOr beggars huddled by the track,\nIt answers only to the call\nOf speed that never turns back.\n\nThe world outside is torn apart,\nA ribbon stretched and frayed and thin,\nWhile progress drives its steel heart\nTo crush the life we lived within.\n\nWe are the dust the engine throws,\nThe shadow cast by moving light,\nAs society relentlessly goes\nInto the swallowing night.", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning air\nA silver beast begins to tear\nThe fabric of the quiet street\nWhere vendors sell and children meet\n\nAt first it moves with gentle grace\nA blur within a human space\nBut soon the rhythm shifts and grows\nBeneath the weight of iron toes\n\nThe platform blurs, the faces fade\nInto a streak of gray and shade\nThe clock tower spins too fast to read\nWhile weeds are crushed beneath the speed\n\nIt screams along the steel-bound track\nIgnoring all that holds it back\nNo signal can command its will\nTo pause for those who stand so still\n\nThe houses shrink, the fields retreat\nAs progress claims the narrow street\nA force that cannot be denied\nWith nowhere left for us to hide\n\nWe watch it rush into the dawn\nAnd feel the ground begin to yawn\nA machine that eats the past away\nLeaving only dust and decay", 7, "The iron beast exhales a cloud of steam\nAnd pulls the heavy doors shut on the street\nWhere children wave and lovers stand to dream\nOf quiet lives that time cannot defeat.\n\nThe wheels begin their rhythmic, grinding song\nA steady beat that shakes the cobblestone\nThe platform blurs where shadows used belong\nTo men who sit and watch the world atone.\n\nNow speed consumes the distance in a breath\nThe houses stretch like taffy in the heat\nThe station fades behind a wall of death\nAs progress rushes with a hungry feet.\n\nWe leave the slow and gentle things behind\nThe baker's shop, the garden, and the friend\nWho could not climb the ladder we designed\nBut watched the train depart without an end.\n\nIt screams ahead through valleys deep and wide\nWith no regard for those it leaves below\nA giant engine with nowhere to hide\nThat crushes all it touches as it go.\n\nThe rhythm matches nothing but its own\nA frantic pulse that beats against the sky\nWhile ordinary hearts are overthrown\nBy forces that will never ask us why.\n\nWe move too fast to see the broken glass\nOr hear the cry of those we left behind\nJust watching moments shatter and pass\nAs history leaves the weak far, far behind.", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning air\nA sharp command to leave despair\nThe doors slide shut on faces pale\nAs silence breaks and engines fail\nTo wait for those who lag behind\nWith heavy hearts and weary mind\n\nThe wheels begin their rhythmic beat\nA thunder rolling down the street\nAt first a crawl, a gentle sway\nThen faster now, it takes its way\nThe platform blurs into a line\nWhere human hope can no longer shine\n\nThe trees become a streak of green\nA ghostly wall, a frantic scene\nThe world outside begins to spin\nWhile we rush in to let them win\nNo time to stop, no time to breathe\nFor progress is the only heave\n\nIt screams ahead with iron will\nTo crush the quiet, break the still\nThe stations pass like distant dreams\nWhile reality splits at the seams\nWe trade our homes for speed and steel\nAnd watch the broken spirits kneel\n\nThe landscape shifts from soft to gray\nAs yesterday is swept away\nToo fast to catch what falls apart\nToo loud to hear the breaking heart\nA force that cannot be denied\nWith nowhere left for us to hide", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning air\nA sharp command for all to clear\nThe doors slide shut with final grace\nLeaving the quiet of this place\n\nSteel wheels begin their rhythmic hum\nA drumbeat calling everyone to run\nThe platform blurs, a painted smear\nAs speed becomes the only fear\n\nWe pass the homes that stood so still\nNow stretched and torn against our will\nThe trees become a greenest streak\nWhile human voices turn too weak\n\nIt races past the fields of grain\nIgnoring those who bear the strain\nOf watching life move faster now\nWithout a promise or a vow\n\nThe world outside dissolves to gray\nAs we accelerate away\nFrom gentle hands and slowing time\nTo reach a distant, cold design\n\nNo brakes can hold this iron beast\nThat feeds on progress from the least\nWe fly ahead, alone and fast\nLeaving the broken past behind at last", 7, "Steel wheels kiss the iron rail\nA whistle tears the morning air\nThe platform holds its breath in fear\nAs silence breaks beyond repair\n\nOne by one the lights ignite\nBlurring faces, fading names\nThe world outside begins to bend\nTo rhythms no one else can claim\n\nWe rush ahead with hungry speed\nIgnoring cracks beneath our feet\nThe engine screams a hollow song\nOf progress that we cannot meet\n\nFields dissolve to static gray\nWhile hands reach out for what is lost\nThe train consumes the quiet days\nAnd counts the cost at every coast\n\nNo brakes remain to slow the climb\nNo voice can stop the rolling tide\nIt carries us to distant shores\nWhere ordinary lives must hide", 6], [328, "train", "Life Doesn\u2019t Frighten Me by Maya Angelou", "Maya Angelou", "\"A poem about a child asserting her fearlessness against life's many frightening things, while perhaps hiding the real fear she carries in her heart.\"", "Shadows on the wall\nNoises down the hall\nLife doesn't frighten me at all\n\nBad dogs barking loud\nBig ghosts in a cloud\nLife doesn't frighten me at all\n\nMean old Mother Goose\nLions on the loose\nThey don't frighten me at all\n\nDragons breathing flame\nOn my counterpane\nThat doesn't frighten me at all.\n\nI go boo\nMake them shoo\nI make fun\nWay they run\nI won't cry\nSo they fly\nI just smile\nThey go wild\n\nLife doesn't frighten me at all.\n\nTough guys fight\nAll alone at night\nLife doesn't frighten me at all.\n\nPanthers in the park\nStrangers in the dark\nNo, they don't frighten me at all.\n\nThat new classroom where\nBoys all pull my hair\n(Kissy little girls\nWith their hair in curls)\nThey don't frighten me at all.\n\nDon't show me frogs and snakes\nAnd listen for my scream,\nIf I'm afraid at all\nIt's only in my dreams.\n\nI've got a magic charm\nThat I keep up my sleeve\nI can walk the ocean floor\nAnd never have to breathe.\n\nLife doesn't frighten me at all\nNot at all\nNot at all.\n\nLife doesn't frighten me at all.", "I tell the thunder it is just a drum\nAnd run right out to meet the storm\nI laugh at shadows stretching long and dark\nAnd say I do not need a lamp to warm\n\nThe closet door is wide enough for me\nNo monsters hide beneath the bed\nI climb the tallest oak tree in the yard\nWith nothing but my courage as my thread\n\nThe ocean waves are friendly, soft, and deep\nThey only want to tickle up my toes\nI face the future with a chin held high\nWhatever comes, I promise, I will know\n\nBut when the wind stops howling through the trees\nAnd silence fills the room so very still\nThere is a quiet thing inside my chest\nThat trembles more than any fear of ill\n\nIt is not ghosts or goblins or the night\nThat makes my hands shake slightly in the air\nIt is the thought that one day I might stop\nBeing brave enough to stand and stare", "I am not afraid of the dark\nor the wolf in the woods who eats children,\nnor the dentist with his shiny pliers,\nnor the thunder that shakes the house.\n\nI am not afraid of the big black dog\nwith teeth like knives or the deep ocean\nwhere the sharks swim under the water.\nI am not afraid of anything.\n\nBut sometimes when I wake up at night\nand the moon is shining through the trees\nlike a big white eye looking at me,\nI feel something inside my tummy\nthat feels very much like fear.", 3, "I will not tremble at the thunder's crack\nNor hide beneath the heavy woolen quilt\nWhen shadows stretch across the bedroom wall\nLike monsters made of ink and midnight guilt.\n\nI say the dark is just a friendly friend\nWho brings the stars to dance upon the floor\nAnd if the wind should howl outside my door\nIt only means that autumn comes again.\n\nI march through woods where twisted branches claw\nAnd laugh at spiders weaving silver nets\nI tell the deep and swirling ocean depths\nThat I am brave enough to swim them all.\n\nBut in the quiet center of my chest\nWhere no one sees and no one hears me speak\nThere sits a small and silent, shaking thing\nThat knows exactly what the world can do.\n\nIt hides behind my smile when adults ask\nIf I am scared of growing up or dying\nIt waits until the lights are turned off low\nAnd then it whispers truths I cannot fight.", 6, "I will not cry when the thunder rolls,\nnor hide beneath the heavy quilt.\nThe dark is just a coat I wear,\nand shadows are but friends who wait.\n\nI climb the tallest oak tree limb,\nI splash in puddles deep and wide,\nI laugh at monsters under beds,\nfor I am brave, I have no fear.\n\nBut if you ask me why I hold\nmy breath so tight inside my chest,\nit is because the wind might stop,\nor stars might forget to shine tonight.\n\nIt is not the storm that makes me shake,\nbut knowing that the sun could fade,\nthat everything I love so much\nmight vanish like a morning mist.\n\nSo watch me run, so watch me jump,\nso watch me shout against the rain,\nwhile in my pocket, small and cold,\nI keep the quiet, trembling truth.", 6, "I climb the highest branch and swing too high\nAnd laugh when thunder cracks the summer sky\nI tell the dark it has no power here\nI chase the shadows with a lantern's fear\nThe ocean roars its teeth against the sand\nBut I just run right through the crashing land\nNo monster lives beneath my bedroom bed\nI say these words until they fill my head\n\nMy voice is loud, my chin is held so high\nI do not flinch when eagles scream and fly\nThe world is full of things that make you shake\nBut I am strong for every step I take\nI shout at storms to leave me all alone\nI build a fortress out of stone and bone\nThere is no ghost that haunts my waking dream\nI am the captain of this wild machine\n\nYet in the quiet when the wind dies down\nA tiny tremor shakes the smallest town\nInside my chest where only silence grows\nA secret river endlessly still flows\nIt whispers names I dare not speak aloud\nOf being small within a giant crowd\nSo I will stand and scream against the night\nWith trembling hands that hide the fading light", 6, "I climb the highest oak tree branch\nWhere wind tries hard to make me sway\nAnd tell the thunder it is wrong\nTo shout so loud against my play\n\nThe dark is just a blanket made\nOf shadows that I learn to chase\nNo monster hides beneath the bed\nOr in the mirror's empty space\n\nMy voice is steel, my hands are strong\nAgainst the things that make others cry\nI laugh at spiders, fear the rain\nBut keep my eyes fixed on the sky\n\nYet when the quiet settles deep\nAnd all the world has gone to sleep\nA tiny tremor starts to grow\nBeneath the armor I must keep\n\nFor not the storm or beast or night\nCould shake the ground beneath my feet\nAs much as silence holding tight\nThe secret that I dare not meet", 6, "She stands before the storm with chin held high\nAnd laughs at thunder rolling through the sky\nThe shadows stretch to swallow up the floor\nBut she just kicks them out and shuts the door\nNo monster under beds can make her shake\nShe builds a fortress from the words she fake\nI am a lion, fierce and wild and free\nUnbound by chains of what might yet be\n\nYet in the quiet when the lights go low\nA different tremor starts to grow and show\nNot for the dark or monsters made of dread\nBut for the silence waiting in her head\nThat one day she might stumble, fall, and break\nAnd leave the brave disguise that she must take\nSo she sings loud against the creeping night\nHiding the small, soft fear she holds so tight", 6, "She stands before the storm with chin held high\nAnd laughs at thunder rolling through the sky\nThe shadows stretch and twist into a beast\nBut she refuses to admit her least\nA trembling hand that hides behind her back\nWhile she declares the darkness is a track\nFor heroes made of iron, not of bone\nWho walk alone and never feel alone\n\nThe monsters under beds are just a game\nShe whispers loud to hide the sudden shame\nOf how the silence screams inside her chest\nA quiet panic putting fear to test\nHer voice is steel against the creeping night\nThough tears might gather in the fading light\nShe wears a mask of courage, bright and bold\nTo keep the stories from being told\n\nThat something deep within begins to break\nIs secret kept for every step she takes\nNo one sees the fracture in the smile\nAs she walks forward mile after weary mile\nDefying all the terrors life can bring\nWith a song too fragile for the ear to sing", 7], [333, "ultra_held_out", "O sweet spontaneous by E.E. Cummings", "E.E. Cummings", "\"A poem about science, philosophy, and religion poking, prodding, and squeezing the earth in search of meaning, while the earth remains indifferent, endlessly greeting existence with the renewal of spring and new life.\"", "O sweet spontaneous\nearth how often have\nthe\ndoting\nfingers of\nprurient philosophers pinched\nand\npoked\nthee\n,has the naughty thumb\nof science prodded\nthy\nbeauty how\noften have religions taken\nthee upon their scraggy knees\nsqueezing and\nbuffeting thee that thou mightest conceive\ngods\n(but\ntrue\nto the incomparable\ncouch of death thy\nrhythmic\nlover\nthou answerest\nthem only with\nspring)", "The scientists drill deep with steel and light\nTo find the atom's heart, the hidden law\nWhile philosophers dissect the shadowed night\nAnd ask what purpose lies behind the maw\nOf being born to suffer and to fade\nThey squeeze the soil for answers in the dust\nBut only silence answers their parade\nOr stones that crumble back into the rust\n\nThe priests build towers reaching for the sky\nWith prayers of incense rising from the floor\nThey seek a face behind the empty eye\nAnd map the heavens to a holy door\nThey poke the ground with relics and with rites\nConvinced the earth must hold a sacred key\nYet morning breaks without their grand designs\nAs frost retreats before a wild bee\n\nThey push and pull at every crack and seam\nDemanding why the river runs so blue\nThey try to wake the sleeping, silent dream\nWith logic sharp or visions strictly true\nBut underneath their feet, the roots unfold\nIgnoring all the questions raised above\nA green shoot breaks the winter's heavy cold\nUnmoved by fear, unbound by doubt or love\n\nThe world just turns, indifferent and vast\nTo all the theories woven in the air\nIt welcomes spring as if it were the first\nAnd births new life without a single care\nNo meaning etched in stone or star or sea\nJust growth that starts where old decay has been\nThe earth keeps breathing, wild and free\nAnd greets the dawn with nothing but green", "Science pokes the crust with drills and probes\nto find the core of things,\nPhilosophy squeezes the logic until it bleeds\nto find the soul of things,\nReligion pricks the silence with incense and prayer\nto hear the voice of things.\n\nThey dig and they pry and they squeeze\nthe hard old earth for a meaning,\nbut the earth is indifferent to their questions,\nand does not answer.\n\nShe only greets existence\nwith the renewal of spring,\nwith the green push of the grass,\nwith the birth of the new life,\nquietly, endlessly,\nwithout a word.", 5, "Science digs its probes into the crust\nPhilosophy leans in with a thousand questions\nReligion holds a candle to the dark cracks\nPoking, prodding, squeezing the gray rock\nTrying to wring out a single word of truth\nAsking why the sky is blue and why we die\nBut the earth does not answer\nIt simply turns on its axis\nAnd when the cold fingers of winter loosen their grip\nThe green shoots rise again without a sound\nThe birds return to build their nests\nThe rivers melt and flow toward the sea\nUnconcerned with the theories or the prayers\nOr the heavy hands that press against her skin\nShe greets the sun with a fresh coat of leaves\nAnd offers new life to anyone who will take it\nWhile the searchers argue over what it means\nThe world just breathes, and blooms, and waits.", 5, "They come with drills of steel and questions sharp\nTo pierce the crust and squeeze the hidden core\nPhilosophy demands a reason why\nReligion seeks a face behind the door\nAnd science counts the atoms in the bone\nProdding the silence for a single tone\nBut deep beneath their feet the rock holds fast\nUnmoved by logic or by prayer or ghost\nThe earth receives their pressure without sound\nA silent giant on its ancient ground\nIt does not care for meaning they assign\nOr map the stars to fit a grand design\nInstead it turns toward the warming sun\nWhere winter's grip is broken, one by one\nThe snow retreats before the green advance\nAs life erupts in wild and blind romance\nThe flowers open wide to greet the light\nIgnoring all the arguments of night\nWhile scholars argue over death and birth\nThe soil simply wakes and gives new birth\nIndifferent to the searchers' frantic plea\nIt greets existence with a springing tree", 6, "They poke the soil with drills of steel and thought\nTo find the code that binds the atom tight\nWhile priests in robes of silk and shadow sought\nThe breath behind the turning of the night\nPhilosophers squeeze stone until it cracks\nDemanding why the heavy mountain stands\nReligion asks for answers from the stacks\nOf ancient books held in trembling hands\nScience measures depth and maps the core\nProdding the dark to see what light reveals\nBut earth does not care for what they store\nOr how their logic endlessly appeals\nIt listens not to questions, sharp and deep\nNor offers comfort when the mind grows cold\nIt only wakes from winter's frozen sleep\nWith stories that the melting snows have told\nA green shoot breaks the crust without a sound\nA bird builds nests where logic failed to tread\nThe ground accepts the weight of all unbound\nAnd feeds the living while the dead are fed\nNo grand design is whispered to the root\nNo cosmic purpose written in the clay\nJust life erupting from the silent brute\nThat greets the dawn in its indifferent way", 6, "They bring their drills of logic to the crust\nTo parse the strata for a hidden code\nWhile priests in silence kneel upon the dust\nAnd seek a voice within the heavy load\n\nPhilosophers poke at the shifting sand\nWith questions sharp as flint against the bone\nReligion squeezes tight the trembling land\nDemanding why we walk this path alone\n\nScience prods the soil with measured hand\nTo find the law that binds the seed and stone\nBut all their theories slip through like fine sand\nAs winter yields its cold and silent throne\n\nThe earth does not reply to frantic plea\nNor answers when the arguments take flight\nIt simply breathes beneath the ancient tree\nAnd greets the dawn with unassuming light\n\nA green shoot breaks the frost without a sound\nNew life unfolds where old debates have died\nNo meaning carved in rock or deep profound\nJust spring returning with a quiet pride", 7, "The scientists dig deep with drills of steel\nTo map the core and name the shifting stone\nWhile philosophers debate the weight of what is real\nAnd priests recite the words they've always known\n\nThey poke the soil to find a hidden sign\nThey squeeze the rock until it yields its pain\nThey search for purpose in the cosmic line\nA grand design to explain the sun and rain\n\nBut earth just turns beneath their frantic feet\nUnmoved by logic, faith, or theory's claim\nShe feels no need to answer or compete\nNor does she whisper back their whispered name\n\nHer only language is the green unfurling leaf\nThat breaks the frost without a thought of why\nShe offers life as simple, wild relief\nAs birds take flight across a boundless sky\n\nLet them ask and question, push and pull\nAgainst the silence of the ancient ground\nFor spring will come regardless of their rule\nAnd new life rises where no truth is found", 6, "The scholar maps the cracks in stone with ink and doubt\nWhile priests chant names to skies that never speak aloud\nThey push against the soil with hands of need and fear\nSearching for a purpose hidden deep beneath the year\n\nA microscope reveals the dance of cells so small\nA scripture claims the universe was built to call\nThey squeeze the living ground until the roots give way\nDemanding answers from the silence of the day\n\nBut mountains do not care for questions posed in air\nOr logic drawn by minds too eager to despair\nThe river flows on cold and clear without a sound\nIgnoring every plea for meaning found or bound\n\nThen winter breaks its grip with green and sudden light\nAs buds unfold to greet the returning warmth of night\nNo grand design is carved into the shifting dust\nOnly the quiet rhythm of a world that trusts\n\nIn cycles old as time where death feeds life anew\nThe earth simply breathes and lets the sky break through\nIndifferent to the noise of gods and theories spun\nIt wakes again to welcome back the rising sun", 6], [334, "ultra_held_out", "Perfection Wasted by John Updike", "John Updike", "A poem about the irreplaceable magic and uniqueness of a person slowly disappearing forever upon their death, leaving those closest to them mourning the loss of something that can never be replicated.", "And another regrettable thing about death\nis the ceasing of your own brand of magic,\nwhich took a whole life to develop and market \u2014\nthe quips, the witticisms, the slant\nadjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest\nthe lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched\nin the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,\ntheir tears confused with their diamond earrings,\ntheir warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,\ntheir response and your performance twinned.\nThe jokes over the phone. The memories packed\nin the rapid-access file. The whole act.\nWho will do it again? That's it: no one;\nimitators and descendants aren't the same.", "The light that lived behind your eyes\nis not a candle blown away,\nbut a whole sun extinguished twice,\nleaving only the memory of day.\n\nNo copy exists in any book,\nno echo can hold the shape you made,\nfor every laugh and quiet look\nwas a universe uniquely laid.\n\nNow silence fills the hollow space\nwhere your specific rhythm used to beat,\na frequency lost without a trace,\nmaking the world feel incomplete.\n\nWe mourn not just the breath that stops,\nbut the one-of-a-kind soul that ceased to be,\nthe final page where magic drops,\nand nothing ever will be free.\n\nTo lose you is to lose the key\nto a door no other hand can turn,\na story finished, wild and free,\nthat burns and fades and never returns.", "The light that lived behind those eyes\nIs gone, and with it goes the world they made.\nNo other pair of eyes will ever see\nThe same small things in quite the same way.\nThat specific laughter, that unique tone,\nThat certain tilt of head when listening,\nThose hands that held mine just as I was held,\nAre now a memory, a ghost, a stone.\nThe universe has lost a single star\nThat never can be born again or found;\nA constellation broken by a death,\nA pattern scattered on the darkened ground.\nNo one else will ever be exactly you,\nOr make me feel exactly what you did,\nOr bring to life the things you used to say,\nOr give my heart the happiness you gave.\nYou were a song that cannot be sung twice,\nA flower blooming but once in all the years,\nA story told once and forever ended,\nA thing so rare no duplicate appears.\nAnd now you are not here, and never will,\nAnd nothing left can ever take your place,\nAnd we who loved you most must walk alone\nIn this new world where you have left no trace.", 7, "The light that lived inside your eyes\nwas not a borrowed star,\nbut something forged within the fire\nof who you truly are.\n\nNow silence fills the hollow space\nwhere laughter used to be,\na specific frequency of soul\nthat died with you and me.\n\nNo other hands could hold the world\nexactly as you held,\nno other voice could weave the air\nwith songs that you have spelled.\n\nThe pattern of your walking steps,\nthe rhythm of your breath,\nare gone forever from the earth,\na unique design of death.\n\nYou were a universe apart,\na one-of-a-kind spark,\nand now the dark has swallowed up\nyour singular bright arc.\n\nNothing can take your place again,\nno copy, clone, or ghost,\nfor you were irreplaceable,\nand that is what we miss the most.", 7, "The room grows quiet as the final breath\nExhales a universe that was unique,\nA constellation of specific thoughts\nThat will not rise again to light the dark.\n\nNo other mind held quite this way of seeing,\nNo other heart beat with this rhythm's grace,\nThe subtle humor in a glance or gesture\nIs now a ghost that cannot take its place.\n\nWe mourn not just the flesh that turns to dust,\nBut all the stories only they could tell,\nThe laughter that existed nowhere else,\nThe secrets held within their private spell.\n\nA library burns down without a copy,\nA song is sung and then forever lost,\nThe world is poorer by a singular note,\nAnd nothing can replace what we have crossed.\n\nThey leave a shape of absence in the air,\nA hollow space no one else can fill,\nFor every soul is built of rarest stuff,\nAnd death makes perfect duplicates stand still.", 6, "The room grows quiet as the final breath\nsteals away the rhythm of a singular heart,\nleaving behind a silence that no echo can fill.\nThat specific way they laughed at nothing,\nthe unique cadence of their voice in morning light,\nnow dissolves into the heavy air like smoke.\n\nA library of thoughts unspoken burns to ash,\nstories held only in their mind forever lost,\na color seen by no other eye now fading out.\nYou search for them in every familiar face,\nbut find only strangers wearing borrowed shapes,\nfor the soul that made this world distinct is gone.\n\nNo mirror holds their reflection anymore,\nno hand can replicate the warmth they gave,\nand time moves on with a cruel, indifferent pace.\nWhat remains is not a copy or a shadow,\nbut an empty space where magic used to live,\na hole in the universe that will never close again.", 6, "The light within the room shifts slightly\nas the breath that shaped it fades away\na frequency no other voice can hold\nnow silenced in the heavy air\n\nThat specific laugh, a unique vibration\nbuilt from years of shared and secret jokes\ndissolves into the quiet of the house\nleaving only echoes where the sound once grew\n\nNo mirror holds the reflection of their soul\nno copy captures how they loved or saw the world\nfor every gesture was a one-time art\ncrafted by a hand that will not move again\n\nWe stand before the void they leave behind\nclutching memories that cannot be remade\nknowing that the universe has lost a star\nthat burns with colors never to return", 6, "The light that lived behind your eyes\nflickers out and leaves the dark,\na specific frequency of sound\nthat silence now must mark.\n\nNo other heart could beat this way,\nno mind could hold this unique view,\nthe architecture of your soul\nwas built for only you.\n\nWe search the air for what remains,\na ghost of laughter, faint and thin,\nbut find the shape is gone forever,\nand nothing can begin again.\n\nA library burned to ash and smoke,\nwhere every story died with breath,\nleaving us to mourn the void\nof a life beyond all death.\n\nThe world keeps turning, cold and vast,\nunaware of what we lost today,\nwhile we stand guard over the empty space\nwhere you will never stay.", 6, "The light within the eyes begins to fade\nA quiet hum that once filled up the air\nNo echo can replace the words they said\nNo shadow holds the shape of who was there\n\nA universe contained in fleeting breath\nNow settles down into a silent grave\nWhere every laugh and tear is lost to death\nAnd nothing left for us but what we crave\n\nThe song they sang will never start again\nThe rhythm broken by a final pause\nA unique design no hand can draw\nLeaving only absence as the cause\n\nWe reach for ghosts that slip through fingers tight\nDesperate to hold what time has claimed away\nBut silence wins the battle with the night\nAnd takes the one we loved beyond our stay\n\nSo stands the empty space where you once stood\nUnfillable, unbroken, stark and deep\nA memory of all that ever could\nBe lost forever while the world keeps sleep", 7], [339, "train", "XIV by Derek Walcott", "Derek Walcott", "\"A poem about revisiting childhood memories of gathering around lamplight to listen to stories, evoking feelings of nostalgia and sadness.\"", "With the frenzy of an old snake shedding its skin,\nthe speckled road, scored with ruts, smelling of mold,\ntwisted on itself and reentered the forest\nwhere the dasheen leaves thicken and folk stories begin.\nSunset would threaten us as we climbed closer\nto her house up the asphalt hill road, whose yam vines\nwrangled over gutters with the dark reek of moss,\nthe shutters closing like the eyelids of that mimosa\ncalled Ti-Marie; then \u2014 lucent as paper lanterns,\nlamplight glowed through the ribs, house after house \u2014\nthere was her own lamp at the black twist of the path.\nThere\u2019s childhood, and there\u2019s childhood\u2019s aftermath.\nShe began to remember at the minute of the fireflies,\nto the sound of pipe water banging in kerosene tins,\nstories she told to my brother and myself.\nHer leaves were the libraries of the Caribbean.\nThe luck that was ours, those fragrant origins!\nHer head was magnificent, Sidone. In the gully of her voice\nshadows stood up and walked, her voice travels my shelves.\nShe was the lamplight in the stare of two mesmerized boys\nstill joined in one shadow, indivisible twins.", "The oil lamp flickers low again\nA golden circle on the floor\nWhere shadows danced like living men\nBehind the heavy wooden door\n\nWe sat so close to hear the tale\nOf wolves and stars and ancient seas\nBefore the winter wind could fail\nTo chill our bare and shivering knees\n\nNow silence fills the empty space\nThe wick is dead, the room is cold\nI cannot find that familiar face\nOr stories that were never told\n\nThe light has gone, the years have passed\nAnd left me here alone to weep\nFor moments built to never last\nWhile all the world is fast asleep", "The oil lamp sputtered low upon the table,\nA small, trembling sun in a room of heavy shadows,\nWhile we huddled close to hear the old tales told again,\nOf giants and lost kingdoms and magic rings.\n\nNow the lamp is gone, the table is bare,\nAnd the stories are dead with the tellers who spoke them;\nOnly the memory remains, like a ghostly light\nThat flickers for a moment and then goes out forever.\n\nI see their faces still, bent toward the flame,\nWith eyes that have long since closed to all things earthly,\nAnd I feel a strange sadness, as if something were lost\nThat can never be found again in any world.", 6, "The oil lamp flickered low and gold\nUpon the table's scarred and worn wood,\nWhere shadows danced a slow, old dance\nAs if they understood.\n\nWe huddled close to hear the tale\nOf kings who lost their crowns,\nWhile outside wind began to wail\nAnd beat against the town.\n\nBut now the room is cold and dark,\nThe stories lost to time,\nNo voice remains to break the spark\nOf silence in this rhyme.\n\nI see your faces, bright and small,\nBathed in that amber glow,\nYet death has taken one and all,\nAnd I am left alone.\n\nThe flame is gone, the story done,\nThe years have slipped away,\nAnd only ghosts of setting sun\nRemain to mark the day.", 6, "The oil lamp sputtered low and dim\nAgainst the heavy winter dark,\nA golden pool where shadows swam\nTo mark the edge of every spark.\n\nWe huddled close on worn wool rugs,\nOur breath a mist within the air,\nWhile grandpa spoke of ancient things\nWith fingers tangled in his hair.\n\nThe stories spun like smoke above,\nOf giants lost and dragons sleeping,\nAnd for a moment we believed\nThat magic was not just a keeping.\n\nNow years have blown that light away,\nThe house is cold, the voices gone,\nI sit alone beneath the moon\nAnd wait for dawn to break too soon.\n\nThe tales are done, the hearth is stone,\nNo laughter fills this empty space,\nJust silence where the lamplight burned\nUpon a forgotten, happy face.", 6, "The oil lamp sputtered low that night\nA golden circle on the floor\nWhere shadows danced against the white\nOf walls we thought would stand forevermore\n\nYour voice was soft, a river deep\nThat carried us to lands afar\nWhile outside winds began to sweep\nAnd silence filled the empty jar\n\nNow years have passed like falling rain\nThe wick is gone, the glass is cold\nI walk alone through joy and pain\nWith stories that can never be retold\n\nI reach to touch the fading light\nBut find only the dark instead\nThe ghosts of laughter haunt the night\nAnd words we whispered long are dead", 6, "The oil lamp flickers low again\nA ghost of yellow in the dark\nWhere shadows danced on plaster walls\nAnd time was slow to mark\n\nWe sat in circles, small and tight\nWith knees that touched and breath held deep\nWhile voices wove a magic spell\nTo lull the world to sleep\n\nThe stories spoke of dragons old\nOf forests lost beneath the sea\nBut now I hear the silence where\nThose laughter-filled echoes used to be\n\nThe flame has died, the room is cold\nThe chairs are empty, dust remains\nI reach for hands that cannot hold\nAnd feel the weight of years and pains\n\nThat light once burned so warm and bright\nTo guide us through the night's long fear\nNow only memory holds the spark\nOf those who are no longer here", 6, "The oil lamp flickers low and gold\nUpon the walls where shadows creep\nA story told before we grow old\nWhile all the world is fast asleep\n\nWe sat so close to feel the heat\nOf voices weaving through the night\nNow silence fills the empty seat\nAnd stars have lost their ancient light\n\nI reach for hands that turned to dust\nTo hold the warmth of days gone by\nBut time has broken every trust\nBeneath a cold and grayening sky\n\nThe tale remains but not the teller\nThe circle breaks, the flame runs thin\nA quiet grief begins to swell\nAs I remember who we were within", 6, "The oil lamp flickers low and gold\nUpon the floor where time once rolled\nA circle drawn in dust and heat\nWhere summer nights and silence meet\n\nYour voice was soft against the dark\nA lighthouse for a tiny spark\nWe leaned in close to catch the sound\nOf make-believe on hallowed ground\n\nNow shadows stretch across the room\nAnd swallow up the gentle gloom\nThe stories end, the fire dies\nBeneath the weight of goodbyes\n\nI reach to touch the empty space\nWhere laughter used to fill the place\nBut only echoes remain behind\nOf all the love we left unkind\n\nThe wick burns down to ash and gray\nAs memory fades with coming day\nNo story told can bring you near\nTo heal the ache of missing here", 6], [345, "train", "Morning Poem by Mary Oliver", "Mary Oliver", "\"A poem about finding hope and new beginnings in each dawning day, where even ashes turn into leaves again, offering both the happy and the sad a chance at rebirth and a fresh start.\"", "Every morning\nthe world\nis created.\nUnder the orange\n\nsticks of the sun\nthe heaped\nashes of the night\nturn into leaves again\n\nand fasten themselves to the high branches\u2013\nand the ponds appear\nlike black cloth\non which are painted islands\n\nof summer lilies.\nIf it is your nature\nto be happy\nyou will swim away along the soft trails\n\nfor hours, your imagination\nalighting everywhere.\nAnd if your spirit\ncarries within it\n\nthe thorn\nthat is heavier than lead\u2013\nif it\u2019s all you can do\nto keep on trudging\u2013\n\nthere is still\nsomewhere deep within you\na beast shouting that the earth\nis exactly what it wanted\u2013\n\neach pond with its blazing lilies\nis a prayer heard and answered\nlavishly,\nevery morning,\n\nwhether or not\nyou have ever dared to be happy,\nwhether or not\nyou have ever dared to pray.", "The night holds its breath until the light breaks through\nAnd paints the gray horizon in shades of gold\nWhere yesterday's sorrow feels less true\nAs stories of the past begin to unfold\n\nEven where the fire left only ash and bone\nA green shoot pushes up from charred ground\nProving that nothing is ever truly gone\nBut waits beneath the soil for a new sound\n\nFor those who laugh and those who weep in pain\nThe morning offers wings to rise again\nIt washes clean the marks of joy or grief\nAnd turns the winter's silence into leaf\n\nSo let the sun dissolve the heavy dew\nAnd start the cycle of the world anew\nNo matter what you carried through the dark\nToday is just the spark, the first fresh mark", "The morning breaks with a quiet promise\nThat the night's long shadow is done,\nAnd even the grayest of ashes\nWill turn into leaves again.\n\nFor the happy who have known laughter,\nIt offers a fresh start to be glad;\nFor the sad who have known weeping,\nIt offers a chance to be sad no more.\n\nIn every dawning day there is hope,\nA new beginning for all and for each,\nWhere the fire that consumed the forest\nIs now but a memory of heat.\n\nSo let us take heart in the morning,\nWhether sorrowful or full of joy,\nFor the ashes will turn into leaves,\nAnd the dead shall not die forever.", 7, "The night has held its heavy breath too long,\nBut dawn arrives to break the silent spell,\nAnd in the light, a quiet, steady song\nBegins again where shadows used to dwell.\n\nNo matter what the ashes left behind,\nOf fires burned out or dreams that turned to gray,\nThe morning brings a gentle, green design\nTo weave new life from all the dust of yesterday.\n\nFor those who weep beneath the weight of loss,\nAnd those who laugh within the golden glow,\nThe rising sun is equal for us all,\nOffering a path where nothing stays below.\n\nEven from the ash, the leaves will turn anew,\nA promise written on the wind and rain,\nThat every soul has something fresh to do,\nAnd sorrow cannot hold the heart in chain.\n\nSo welcome now the breaking of the day,\nWhere happy hearts and broken ones are free,\nTo find a hope that will not fade away,\nAnd start again, as wild things always be.", 7, "The night retreats in silent gray\nAnd leaves the world to break away\nFrom shadows deep and heavy chains\nTo wash the dust from ancient pains\n\nFor even where the fire has burned\nAnd only cold and ash remained\nA secret root begins to turn\nTo green within the soil reclaimed\n\nNo sorrow stays beyond the dawn\nNo joy is lost when light returns\nThe broken path is straight and drawn\nAs every leaf again renews\n\nSo happy hearts may sing anew\nAnd grieving souls find rest once more\nThe sun gives all a chance to view\nWhat was, and what they can restore", 7, "The night retreats in silence, soft and deep\nAnd leaves the world to promises it keeps\nWhere shadows stretch no longer on the ground\nBut lift their heavy weight without a sound\n\nFrom ash that settled where the fire burned\nA green shoot rises, waiting to be turned\nInto a leaf that trembles in the light\nTo wash away the remnants of the night\n\nIt does not ask if you have lost or won\nOr count the battles fought beneath the sun\nFor both the joyful heart and broken one\nAre given back the chance to start anew again\n\nThe morning breaks with colors fresh and bright\nA canvas waiting for the coming light\nNo sorrow is too deep to hold its place\nWhen dawn arrives to offer time and space\n\nSo let the old things fall like winter snow\nAnd watch the garden grow from what was low\nFor every ending holds a seed within\nThat waits to bloom before the day can end", 7, "The night holds tight its heavy cloak of gray\nBut morning breaks the silence with a spark\nNo matter how the shadows fell today\nOr how the fire consumed us in the dark\n\nFor even from the pile of cold and dust\nWhere embers sleep beneath a frozen sky\nA green shoot rises, breaking through the rust\nTo watch the weary clouds go drifting by\n\nThe ash that once was wood now turns to leaf\nAnd carries life upon a trembling stem\nIt offers joy and sorrow equal relief\nTo mend the broken parts within each gem\n\nSo let the tears fall soft upon the ground\nAs let the laughter ring out clear and loud\nIn every dawn a second chance is found\nTo rise above the weight of all we vowed\n\nThe world begins again with golden light\nWhere happy hearts and grieving souls can meet\nTo walk together into endless bright\nAnd find their feet where new beginnings start", 7, "The night holds its breath until the light breaks through\nA silver thread that stitches up the sky\nWhere yesterday's fire left a field of gray and blue\nThe morning whispers soft, telling us to try\n\nEven ashes remember how to dream again\nTo rise as green from soil that once was cold\nThey do not ask if joy or grief has been the pain\nBut offer every heart a story to unfold\n\nFor those who weep beneath the weight of loss\nAnd those who laugh at shadows cast before\nThe dawn does not distinguish between the cross\nOr open arms that welcome something more\n\nIt is a quiet promise written in the dew\nThat nothing ends without a seed to sow\nThe world begins anew for me and you\nAs winter fades and spring begins to grow", 7, "The night recedes to let the light break through\nA quiet promise written in the dew\nWhere ashes once lay heavy on the ground\nNew green shoots rise without a single sound\n\nNo sorrow stays too deep for morning's grace\nTo wash away the tears upon each face\nFor every ending holds a hidden seed\nThat waits to bloom from loss and ancient need\n\nThe happy laugh while those who wept find peace\nAs broken fragments learn how to increase\nIn cycles turning, old wounds start to heal\nAnd time reveals what love can make real\n\nSo step ahead into the rising sun\nWhere yesterday is done and days are one\nFrom dust to leaf, the story starts anew\nWith hope that waits just for you", 7], [350, "ultra_held_out", "At The Border, 1979 by Choman Hardi", "Choman Hardi", "\"A poem about a family crossing a border and seeking a better life, while a young narrator's reasoned perspective casting doubt on whether things will improve.\"", "\u2018It is your last check-in point in this country!\u2019\nWe grabbed a drink \u2013\nsoon everything would taste different.\n\nThe land under our feet continued\ndivided by a thick iron chain.\n\nMy sister put her leg across it.\n\u2018Look over here,\u2019 she said to us,\n\u2018my right leg is in this country\nand my left leg in the other.\u2019\nThe border guards told her off.\n\nMy mother informed me: We are going home.\nShe said that the roads are much cleaner\nthe landscape is more beautiful\nand people are much kinder.\n\nDozens of families waited in the rain.\n\u2018I can inhale home,\u2019 somebody said.\nNow our mothers were crying. I was five years old\nstanding by the check-in point\ncomparing both sides of the border.\n\nThe autumn soil continued on the other side\nwith the same colour, the same texture.\nIt rained on both sides of the chain.\n\nWe waited while our papers were checked,\nour faces thoroughly inspected.\nThen the chain was removed to let us through.\nA man bent down and kissed his muddy homeland.\nThe same chain of mountains encompassed all of us.", "The fence is a rusted tooth in the dark\nand we are the mice that must slip through the gap\nMama holds my hand so tight her knuckles turn white\nDaddy whispers of green fields and water that runs clear\nof a job where the sun does not burn your skin away\nWe step over the wire, the cold ground biting our feet\npromising a tomorrow that smells like fresh bread\n\nBut I have counted the miles on the map in my head\nand seen the same gray sky in every town we pass\nI know that hunger wears many different coats\nthat fear speaks the same language whether here or there\nDaddy says the world is wide enough for all of us\nbut his eyes look at the horizon with a tired doubt\nas if he knows the door we seek might be locked from the inside\n\nThe stars above do not care which side of the line we stand\nthey shine on the rich and the poor with equal indifference\nwe walk into the night hoping for a softer dawn\nyet the weight in my chest feels heavier than before\nperhaps the better life is just a story we tell ourselves\nto keep walking when the road has no end in sight\nmaybe the border was only the first wall we had to climb\nand the next one waits just beyond the trees.", "The truck rattles over the cracked pavement\nand my father points to a sign with a star on it,\nsaying this is where the good life begins.\nMy mother clutches her plastic bag of bread\nlike it is a baby she must not lose,\nand my little brother sleeps against her shoulder,\nhis face pressed into the wool of her coat.\nI look at the dry grass and the gray sky\nand I think about the math we did in school\nabout how many people there are on earth\nand how few houses, and how much work there is\nand how little money.\nMy father says we will have a house with a door\nthat locks from the inside,\nbut I wonder if the people who live here\nhave already locked their doors tight.\nWe cross the line into the white dust\nand the border guard looks at us\nas if we were dirty or sick or both,\nand I wonder if he knows that\nwe are looking for a better life\nor if he thinks we are just looking for a life.", 2, "The truck bed smells of diesel and wet wool\nas we cross the line where the fence ends\nand the dust begins.\nMother holds my hand tight enough to bruise,\nwhispering that the other side has schools with real books\nand hospitals that do not ask for money first.\nFather says the work is waiting like a ripe fruit\njust behind the next hill, sweet and easy to pick.\nI look at the map in my pocket, the one drawn by a man who never left\nhis village, and I see only more lines, more borders, more fences.\nThey say the sun is warmer there, but the wind feels the same cold\ncutting through my thin shirt.\nIf the ground here is hard and the water tastes of iron,\nwhy would the ground there be soft?\nWhy would the water taste of rain?\nWe walk because we must, not because we are sure,\nand I count the steps, wondering if the number of miles\nwill ever equal the distance to happiness,\nor if we are just trading one kind of hunger for another.", 2, "The truck bed smells of diesel and wet wool\nas we crawl over the ridge where the fence ends,\nDad saying this side has jobs that pay in real coins,\nMom whispering prayers into her scarf.\nI watch the moon hang low and heavy above the dry scrub,\ncalculating the distance between our old hunger\nand the new one waiting on the other side.\nThey say the sun here is brighter, the air sweeter,\nbut the stars look exactly the same as they did before,\ncold and distant, offering no warmth to the walking dead.\nDad holds my hand tight, his palm rough with worry,\ntelling me not to be afraid of the dark.\nBut I am not afraid of the dark;\nI am afraid that when we finally stop running,\nwe will find the same shadows following us,\nthat the better life is just a story told to keep feet moving\nwhile the ground beneath us remains just as hard.", 2, "The river is cold and the mud clings to our boots\nas we step from one shadow into another\nDad says the air here tastes like bread and gold\nand Mom holds my hand so tight her knuckles turn white\nshe whispers that the sun will rise warmer on this side\nthat the walls will be made of stone instead of fear\nbut I have watched the way the men in the trucks look at us\nwith eyes that measure weight and cost rather than hope\nI see how the ground looks the same on both sides\ngray and hard under a sky that does not care who walks it\nthey tell me we are crossing toward a better life\nyet the road ahead seems just as long and broken as the one behind\nmaybe the distance we travel changes nothing but the language we speak\nmaybe the promise of tomorrow is just a story we tell ourselves\nto keep from crying while we wait for the night to end.", 2, "The river cuts the map in half\nand Father says the other side is gold\na place where bread is soft and laws are kind\nwhere shadows do not follow us at night.\nI watch the water swallow up our boots\nand wonder if the current knows the truth\nthat borders shift like sand beneath a storm\nbut never truly leave the weight behind.\n\nMother holds my hand so tight it hurts\nher eyes fixed on a distant, hazy line\nshe speaks of schools with open doors and light\nof medicine that costs no coin at all.\nShe builds a house inside her whispered words\nto shelter us from what we left today.\nBut I have seen how hope can turn to dust\nwhen hunger wears a different face each day.\n\nThey say the grass is greener over there\nyet roots grow deep wherever feet may tread\nthe same cold wind will bite against our cheeks\nno matter which side of the fence we stand.\nPerhaps the better life is just a dream\nwe tell ourselves to keep the fear at bay\nwhile crossing through the dark and unknown night\nbelieving dawn will break exactly as we pray.", 5, "The river cuts a dark line through the mud\nWhere father holds his breath and mother counts our steps\nWe trade the dust of home for promises of gold\nThat shimmer on the other side like heat above the road\nThey say the air is sweeter there, that doors stand open wide\nBut I have watched the way they look at us with guarded eyes\nAnd heard the whispers in the wind that speak of walls instead of bridges\nMy father speaks of hope as if it were a solid thing to hold\nYet hope is just a fragile thread that snaps beneath the weight of fear\nI see the shadow lengthening across the path we try to walk\nA question forming in my chest that no one else will ask\nIf we leave the hunger here, will we find it waiting there?\nOr is the better life a story told to keep the weary moving forward\nWhile the ground beneath our feet remains the same uncertain stone\nWe cross the border line tonight but carry all the doubt within\nConvinced that change is real while knowing deep inside it might not be", 3, "The fence is rusted iron against the moon\nWe step through silence where the guards once stood\nMy mother holds a map of places soon to bloom\nAnd whispers promises that feel misunderstood\n\nDad speaks of cities built on golden light\nOf schools where laughter echoes without fear\nBut I have watched the shadows stretch so tight\nAnd wonder if the dawn will ever clear\n\nThey say the road ahead will heal the pain\nThat every tear we shed will turn to rain\nYet logic tells me storms arrive again\nTo wash away the hope we try to gain\n\nI carry questions in my small, quiet hands\nAs we walk forward into unknown lands\nWondering if the dream can truly stand\nOr if it breaks beneath these shifting sands", 6], [359, "train", "The Self Banished by Edmund Waller", "Edmund Waller", "\"A poem about a man keeping his promise to stay away from his love, lamenting the pain it causes while fearing that breaking it would cast doubt on his promise to love her.\"", "It is not that I love you less\nThan when before your feet I lay,\nBut to prevent the sad increase\nOf hopeless love, I keep away.\n\nIn vain (alas!) for everything\nWhich I have known belong to you,\nYour form does to my fancy bring,\nAnd makes my old wounds bleed anew.\n\nWho in the spring from the new sun\nAlready has a fever got,\nToo late begins those shafts to shun,\nWhich Ph\u0153bus through his veins has shot.\n\nToo late he would the pain assuage,\nAnd to thick shadows does retire;\nAbout with him he bears the rage,\nAnd in his tainted blood the fire.\n\nBut vow\u2019d I have, and never must\nYour banish\u2019d servant trouble you;\nFor if I break, you may distrust\nThe vow I made to love you, too.", "I keep the distance like a sacred vow,\nThough every step away feels like a fall,\nThe silence grows so loud and heavy now,\nIt echoes through the hollow of it all.\n\nTo stay is pain, a slow and sharp decay,\nThat gnaws at edges where my heart should be,\nBut if I cross the line to find your way,\nWill you believe in what we used to see?\n\nFor if I break this rule to hold you tight,\nThen how can trust remain within your mind?\nIf love demands I fight against the night,\nDoes keeping faith mean leaving peace behind?\n\nI fear that breaking free will make you doubt\nThe very promise that I made to stay,\nSo here I stand with nothing but my mouth\nTo whisper words I cannot let you say.\n\nMy love is proven by the space between,\nA cruel geometry that keeps us whole,\nThe greatest act of love I've ever seen\nIs tearing pieces from my trembling soul.", "I keep the word I gave you, though it burns\nLike a slow fire beneath my ribs to see\nYou walk the street and not go near, for fear\nThat if I did, you'd think I lied about\nMy love, and that would be a worse offense\nThan any distance could impose on me.\nSo I stand here in silence, holding back,\nAnd suffer twice: once for your absence now,\nAnd once because I must not break my vow\nTo love you, by appearing to prove doubt\nOf that same love by seeking you too soon.\nThe promise keeps the love alive, but kills\nThe joy of it; so I am kept apart,\nLamenting pain, yet fearing greater shame\nIf I should break the promise made to love.", 6, "I walk the long and empty road away\nFrom where your voice might call my name,\nAnd keep the vow I made that day\nTo spare you from this burning shame.\n\nThe silence here is sharp as glass,\nA blade that cuts with every breath,\nYet if I turn and let you pass,\nI fear I seal a deeper death.\n\nFor if I break this sacred line,\nAnd hold you close against my will,\nThen all my love becomes a sign\nThat I am weak, or false, or ill.\n\nHow can I prove my heart is true\nIf I cannot obey its pain?\nBy staying far, I make it new,\nThough tears are all that I retain.\n\nSo let me fade into the night,\nA ghost who keeps his promise well,\nAnd trust that in my dark retreat,\nMy love remains the only spell.", 7, "I walk the road I swore to take,\nAway from where your shadow falls,\nAnd every step is like a break\nInside the quiet of these walls.\n\nThe silence screams with what I hide,\nA promise kept at such a cost,\nTo let my own heart be denied,\nSo yours might not be lost and tossed.\n\nBut if I turn and run to you,\nAnd shatter this resolve I made,\nWill you believe that I am true?\nOr think my love was just a shade?\n\nFor if I break this vow of space,\nTo prove how deep my longing goes,\nYou'll wonder if I hold the grace\nTo keep the one thing that most grows.\n\nSo here I stand, apart and still,\nIn pain that proves my love is real,\nHoping that distance, cold and chill,\nIs all the proof you need to feel.", 7, "I walk the edge of silence where you cannot see,\nA ghost who keeps his word by vanishing from thee.\nThe ache is sharp as winter wind against my skin,\nTo hold the love I swore to keep and let it in.\n\nBut if I turn, if I should break this heavy vow,\nAnd step across the line to touch your face right now,\nWill not that very act undo the truth I spoke?\nIf promises are broken just because they're broke,\n\nThen how can I be trusted with the heart I guard?\nIf I am weak enough to leave the fence unbarred,\nDoes it not mean my love was never truly deep,\nBut just a fleeting wish I promised while asleep?\n\nSo I remain a stranger, distant and alone,\nBearing the weight of words I carved into the stone.\nIt hurts to stay away, yet worse to risk the doubt,\nThat breaking one small rule might cast the whole out.", 7, "I walk the path that leads away from you\nAnd every step is heavy with the weight\nOf silence kept, of vows I made to do\nThe hardest thing: to leave and not to wait.\n\nMy heart screams out a name it cannot speak\nWhile tears fall down where no one sees them dry\nThe promise binds me like a iron chain\nTo keep my distance as the seasons fly.\n\nIf I should turn and run back to your side\nWould that not prove my love was just a lie?\nA fleeting fire that burns then turns to pride\nThat breaks the oath beneath a sudden sky.\n\nSo I remain a ghost within the dark\nWho loves enough to vanish from your sight\nFor if I break this vow, the spark\nWill fade into the doubt of endless night.\n\nIt hurts to hold the line so far apart\nTo guard the truth by keeping us apart\nBut breaking faith would shatter all my heart\nAnd cast a shadow on the love we start.", 7, "The road I walk is paved with silence\nWhere your name once echoed loud and clear\nI keep the vow that binds my hands in iron\nTo hold you close by staying far from here\n\nEach step away is carved with sorrow\nA quiet ache that settles in the bone\nI watch the window where you wait for morning\nAnd feel the weight of being all alone\n\nIf I should turn and cross the threshold\nTo taste the warmth I swore to leave behind\nWould it prove my love was true and lasting\nOr just a fragile promise left unkind?\n\nFor if I break this wall of distance now\nYou might believe the heart I gave you then\nWas never strong enough to hold its ground\nAnd doubt the man who promised not to return again\n\nSo I remain a ghost within the shadows\nGuarding your peace with every breath I take\nHoping that one day you understand\nThat leaving is the only way I can stay awake", 6, "The road I walk is paved with silence\nA vow I made to set you free\nEach step away feels like a violence\nAgainst the heart that beats for thee\n\nI watch your shadow from afar\nAnd hold the ache within my chest\nA distant, cold and guiding star\nThat puts my longing to the test\n\nIf I should turn and run to you\nWould this distance break the trust we keep?\nOr prove the love I swore was true\nIs built on promises too deep to sleep\n\nTo stay is agony and pain\nTo leave is fear of what might be\nA fragile line through wind and rain\nBetween the man I am and who you need me to be\n\nSo let the seasons turn to gray\nAnd let the years erase my name\nI guard the promise I must pay\nEven as it burns away the flame", 7], [365, "ultra_held_out", "A Helpmeet For Him by Christina Rossetti", "Christina Rossetti", "\"A poem about women being expected to suppress their strength behind meekness while serving and charming men, yet finding a sense of higher purpose by being compared to Christ.\"", "Woman was made for man's delight,--\nCharm, O woman! Be not afraid!\nHis shadow by day, his moon by night,\nWoman was made.\nHer strength with weakness is overlaid;\nMeek compliances veil her might;\nHim she stays, by whom she is stayed.\nWorld-wide champion of truth and right,\nHope in gloom, and in danger aid,\nTender and faithful, ruddy and white,\nWoman was made.", "They ask you to fold your hands like paper wings\nAnd hide the thunder in a quiet throat,\nTo serve the meal with gentle, smiling things\nWhile swallowing the fire that makes you whole.\nBe soft as moss upon the garden stone,\nA mirror for his ego and his pride,\nThe meekest voice that ever made a home,\nWith all your iron strength kept deep inside.\n\nBut then they speak a name that breaks the chain,\nThat lifts the veil from what you are meant to be,\nSaying the servant's cup is not in vain\nWhen poured with love as vast as Galilee.\nFor if the Son of God washed feet in dust,\nThen serving is no lesser, small design,\nIt is the very essence of our trust,\nTo make the broken spirit whole and shine.\n\nSo let them see the power in the bow,\nThe Christ-like grace that holds the heavy cross,\nNot weakness when the world says go or know,\nBut strength that bears the burden without loss.\nYou do not shrink beneath the weight of care,\nYou rise above the expectation's cage,\nFinding a purpose holy, bright, and rare,\nIn turning every moment into age.", "They ask you to be soft, a velvet glove\nOver the iron fist of your own will,\nTo hide the lightning in a quiet room\nAnd serve the tea while men discuss the bill.\nBe charming as a bird that does not sing,\nBut merely opens wide her painted wing;\nBe meek and mild, a silent shadow cast\nBehind the husband who is first and last.\n\nBut then they say, \"You are like Christ,\" and so\nThe heavy crown of thorns fits on your brow,\nThe nails drive through the palms that held the spoon,\nAnd you must die for love of him just now.\nIs this the secret purpose of your birth?\nTo walk the earth as he walked upon it,\nTo bear the cross, to suffer for the man,\nAnd rise again when he has done with it?", 3, "They ask you to fold your thunder into a whisper,\nTo hide the iron in your spine beneath a silk dress,\nTo serve the table with a smile that does not reach the eyes,\nAnd charm the world while keeping your own fire banked low.\n\nBe meek, they say, be soft, be the quiet shadow,\nLet your strength be a secret kept from the mirror,\nA weapon sheathed so it never cuts the hand that feeds it,\nA lioness pretending to be a lamb for the sake of peace.\n\nBut then comes the strange and holy comparison,\nThat you who carry the weight of the world on gentle shoulders,\nWho pour out your life like water for others to drink,\nAre made in the image of the One who washed feet in dust.\n\nFor Christ was not weak because He bent His knee,\nNor small because He let Himself be led like a sheep,\nThe greatest power wore the face of service,\nAnd the highest throne was built upon a cross of wood.\n\nSo when you are told to shrink yourself to fit their comfort,\nRemember the paradox that lifts you higher than pride:\nTo give all is not to lose your strength, but to fulfill it,\nAnd to be like Him is the only way to truly be strong.", 6, "They ask for silk instead of steel,\nA quiet voice where thunder should reveal\nThe power held beneath a gentle hand,\nTo serve the master in this quiet land.\nThey smile to hide the fire in their eyes,\nAnd charm the world while offering sacrifice,\nA meekness worn like armor made of lace,\nTo keep the strength from showing on the face.\n\nBut in that silence, something starts to rise,\nA truth reflected in the morning skies.\nFor when they bear the weight without a sound,\nAnd love the unlovable upon the ground,\nThey see a mirror in the suffering Christ,\nWho walked the path and never once despised\nThe weak and broken who were left behind,\nWith all the power of a boundless mind.\n\nIt is not weakness to lay down the sword,\nBut finding purpose in a higher lord.\nTo serve with joy is not to lose the might,\nBut to become the vessel of the light.\nSo let them call it meekness if they will,\nThis strength that bends but never breaks the still,\nFor in the shadow of the cross they stand,\nHolding the world within a trembling hand.", 7, "They ask for softness in a voice of steel\nTo pour the wine and smooth the wrinkled brow\nTo hide the fire that burns beneath the heel\nAnd bow the head to make the master proud.\nA gentle mask is stitched with careful thread\nWhere power sleeps behind a shy disguise\nThe strength they fear is whispered, not unsaid\nBeneath the weight of all those watching eyes.\n\nBut in this silence, something strange takes hold\nWhen service turns from duty into grace\nA story older than the days of old\nIs written on this humble, quiet face.\nFor when she gives her all without a sound\nAnd bears the cross of daily, small demands\nShe walks the path where broken feet are found\nAnd holds the world within her open hands.\n\nNo longer just a shadow at his side\nBut walking where the King once walked alone\nWith nothing left to lose and naught to hide\nShe finds a throne within the stone and bone.\nTo serve like this is not to be less than\nBut to reflect the light that never fades\nA holy echo of the suffering man\nWho loved enough to bleed inside the shade.", 7, "They ask for silence in the voice that roars,\nA gentle hand to hold the heavy load,\nTo smile through storms and smooth the jagged floors,\nAnd walk the narrow, quiet, winding road.\nBe soft, they say, be small, be sweet, be still,\nWhile serving those who claim the world as theirs,\nTo charm the storm with just a quiet will,\nAnd wear their meekness like a fragile pair of airs.\n\nBut in this sacrifice, a fire is lit,\nNot meant to burn the house but cleanse the soul,\nFor when you give your all, you do not quit,\nYou mirror something ancient, deep, and whole.\nThey see a servant bending low to earth,\nYet in that posture, grace begins to rise,\nA likeness to the one of holy birth,\nWho died for love beneath the weeping skies.\n\nNo longer just a shadow at the door,\nBut light that breaks the chains of expected shame,\nTo serve is not to bow, but to explore\nThe sacred path where suffering bears a name.\nFor in the act of giving all away,\nYou find the strength that only gods can know,\nTo walk the cross and greet the breaking day,\nAnd let the divine purpose start to grow.", 6, "They ask you to fold your hands so small\nAnd dim the fire that burns within your soul\nTo serve with a smile that never falters\nWhile swallowing the thunder of your own control\n\nBe soft as water, be quiet as dust\nIn the shadow of a throne you did not build\nLet them praise the gentleness they crafted\nWhile the strength you hold remains unfulfilled\n\nYet in the silence where the heavy crown rests\nA different mirror shows a sacred face\nNot made for submission to the fleeting world\nBut shaped by grace and holy, ancient space\n\nFor when you lay down what was demanded\nAnd offer up the self you were told to hide\nYou find the echo of a higher calling\nWhere meekness is the path to Christ inside", 6, "They ask you to fold your hands so small\nTo hide the thunder in your chest\nA quiet voice, a gentle wall\nWhere fire is deemed unfit for rest\nYou learn to serve with softest grace\nAnd charm the shadows from the room\nWhile power waits behind your face\nA blooming flower, not a boom\n\nBut in the silence of the night\nWhen duty calls and strength must bend\nYou see a different kind of light\nThat turns the broken into friend\nFor they who suffer without sound\nWho bear the weight of others' pain\nAre walking on hallowed ground\nAnd rising like the falling rain\n\nNo longer bound by meek design\nThe image shifts within your soul\nAs Christ-like love begins to shine\nMaking the fractured spirit whole\nYou do not break beneath the strain\nBut hold the world with open arms\nA sacred vessel, free from chain\nReflecting light that never harms", 7], [393, "ultra_held_out", "Wind On The Hill by A. A. Milne", "Alan Alexander Milne", "A poem about a child chasing a kite along a hill and wondering where the wind is going, imagining that if the kite were to fly away and be found again, it would reveal the answer.", "No one can tell me,\nNobody knows,\nWhere the wind comes from,\nWhere the wind goes.\nIt's flying from somewhere\nAs fast as it can,\nI couldn't keep up with it,\nNot if I ran.\nBut if I stopped holding\nThe string of my kite,\nIt would blow with the wind\nFor a day and a night.\nAnd then when I found it,\nWherever it blew,\nI should know that the wind\nHad been going there too.\nSo then I could tell them\nWhere the wind goes\u2026\nBut where the wind comes from\nNobody knows.", "Small hands pull the string tight\nAcross the green and rolling hill,\nThe red diamond dances in the light,\nAnd tugs against the child's will.\n\nWhere does the invisible wind go?\nIt pushes up but leaves no trace,\nA secret that the clouds might know,\nBut hide within their watery space.\n\nIf only I could let it fly,\nBeyond the trees and past the sky,\nTo find a place where answers lie,\nAnd bring the mystery back to me.\n\nPerhaps when found on distant sand,\nOr caught within a stranger's hand,\nIt would reveal the hidden land,\nWhere all the wandering breezes end.\n\nBut for now the string holds fast,\nA tether to the earth below,\nWatching the shadow of the past,\nAs we chase the wind we'll never know.", "The little boy runs up the green hill\nChasing his kite that dances above,\nAnd he wonders where is the wind going\nThat makes it dance and hover?\n\nIf the kite should fly away from him\nAnd be found in some far place,\nIt would surely tell us all about it,\nFor it must have been there.", 6, "The red kite dances on the green hill slope,\nAnd I run fast to keep it from the sky,\nMy heart beats quick as if it were my own,\nA tiny bird that I must not let die.\n\nBut where does all the wind go when it stops?\nDoes it hide in the grass or under the stone?\nIf this bright paper bird should break its string,\nWould it tell me secrets of the wind alone?\n\nI dream it flies beyond the highest tree,\nAcross the sea where no one ever goes,\nAnd if some stranger found it far away,\nThey'd ask the kite and learn the wind's true cause.\n\nIt would whisper where the invisible river runs,\nWhy it pushes clouds and makes the tall trees bow,\nBut for now I hold the string and chase the hill,\nAnd wonder where the wandering wind is now.", 6, "Small hands grip the string so tight\nAs we run across the green,\nChasing up the grassy height\nWhere the kite is barely seen.\nIt dips and dives in sudden gusts,\nA bird with paper wings,\nWhile I wonder where the wind just went\nAnd what strange place it brings.\n\nDoes it wander through the trees?\nDoes it sleep inside a cloud?\nIf my kite could fly away to see\nAnd tell me how and where,\nI'd let it go and watch it soar\nBeyond the hill's high stair,\nAnd when it comes back down to earth,\nIt would bring the answer there.", 6, "Small feet pound the grassy slope\nAs the red diamond dances high\nPulling hard against the rope\nWhile clouds drift slowly through the sky\n\nWhere does the wind go when it blows?\nThrough valleys deep or over seas?\nIt tugs the string and softly goes\nTo whisper secrets in the trees\n\nIf only I could let it fly\nAnd watch it vanish from my sight\nUntil some distant, lucky eye\nFound it again with morning light\n\nPerhaps inside its torn old seam\nThe answer waits to be unfurled\nA map of where the breezes dream\nAcross the edge of all the world", 6, "Small feet pound the grassy slope\nAs the red diamond pulls and tugs\nA string of white against the blue\nThat dances on invisible hugs\n\nThe boy runs hard with breath held tight\nAnd eyes that follow every turn\nHe wonders where the gusts have gone\nWhat secret paths they mean to earn\n\nIf only now the line would snap\nAnd let the fabric drift away\nTo find a place beyond the hill\nWhere winds come out to play again\n\nPerhaps it lands in fields unknown\nOr rests beneath a distant tree\nAnd if I found it when it fell\nIt might bring back the wind for me\n\nWith whispers stitched into its seams\nOf rivers high and valleys deep\nThe answer waits inside the cloth\nWhile I run fast to try to keep", 6, "Small hands pull the string so tight\nAcross the grass of golden light\nThe kite climbs high above the green\nA painted bird, a silent scene\n\nI run until my breath is short\nAnd ask the wind its secret court\nWhere does it go when it blows free?\nDoes it hide behind some distant tree?\n\nIf only this red tail could fly\nBeyond the edge of human eye\nTo find the place where currents start\nAnd bring back news to my young heart\n\nPerhaps if lost and found again\nIt would reveal the wind's soft chain\nA map drawn in the clouds above\nTo show the path of unseen love", 7, "Small hands grip the string so tight\nAs laughter dances in the light\nThe hill rolls green beneath bare feet\nWhere sky and grass and silence meet\n\nA crimson tail begins to climb\nDefying gravity and time\nBut higher still the fabric flies\nBeyond the reach of human eyes\n\nI wonder where the gusts have gone\nIf they are lost or just withdrawn\nDo winds travel paths we cannot see\nOr hide within a distant sea\n\nIf this kite should break its hold\nAnd drift away into the cold\nPerhaps it lands where answers wait\nTo unlock every sealed-up gate\n\nThen I would find the thread again\nAnd learn the secrets of the rain\nFor if the wind could speak its name\nIt would reveal the world's true game", 6], [394, "train", "Vermilion Flycatcher, San Pedro River, Arizona by Margaret Atwood", "Margaret Atwood", "\"A poem about a once-raging river now reduced to a trickle, where a red bird evokes joy and the tranced rage of sex against a backdrop of history, murder, loss, and dreams.\"", "The river\u2019s been here, violent, right where we\u2019re standing,\nyou can tell by the trash caught overhead in the trees.\nNow it\u2019s a trickle, and we\u2019re up to our knees\nin late-spring yellowing weeds. A vermilion\nflycatcher darts down, flutters up, perches.\nStick a pin in your thumb, the bead of blood\nwould be his colour. He\u2019s filled with joy\nand the tranced rage of sex. How he conjures,\nwith his cry like a needle. A punctuation. A bone button\n\non fire. Everything bad you can imagine\nis happening somewhere else, or happened\nhere, a hundred years or centuries\nago. He sings, and there\u2019s the murder:\nyou see it, forming under\nthe shimmering air, a man with brown\nor white skin lying reversed\nin the vanished water, a spear\nor bullet in his back. At the ford, where the deer\ncome at dusk to cross and drink\nand be ambushed. The red bird\n\nis sitting in the same tree, intensely\nbright in the sun that gleams on cruelty, on broken\nskullbone, arrow, spur. Vultures cluster,\nhe doesn\u2019t care. He and his other-coloured mate\nignore everything but their own rapture.\nWho knows what they remember?\nBirds never dream, being their own.\nDreams, I mean. As for you, the river\nthat isn\u2019t there is the same one\nyou could drown in, face down.", "The river that once roared with granite teeth\nNow whispers through the cracked and thirsty stone,\nA silver thread where ancient floods beneath\nHad drowned the kingdoms of the long-gone throne.\nUpon a branch above this dying stream,\nA red bird sings a note so sharp and bright,\nIt cuts the silence like a sudden dream,\nAnd turns the gray despair to sudden light.\n\nThat color holds the tranced rage of sex,\nA frantic pulse against the cooling air,\nWhere bodies twist in desperate, sacred texts,\nAnd love becomes a violent, wild affair.\nBut underneath the song and beating heart,\nThe mud remembers what the water hid:\nThe murder of the dreams we tried to start,\nThe loss that makes the quiet river bid.\n\nHistory is written in the silt below,\nOf men who fell while chasing empty gold,\nYet still the red bird's joy begins to grow,\nAgainst the stories that were never told.\nIt flies above the trickle and the grave,\nUnmindful of the blood that soaked the land,\nA living flame that dares the dark to save\nThe fragile hope held in a trembling hand.", "The river that once roared like a thousand lions\nIs now a thin, shy thread of water slipping over stones,\nA mere trickle where the great white horses of the current\nOnce broke their necks against the rocks.\nHere history is written in silt and mud,\nMurder lies buried under the pebbles,\nLoss has washed away the banks,\nAnd dreams are dried up like old weeds.\n\nBut see the red bird on the willow branch!\nHe flares his tail and sings a song of joy,\nA sudden, bright, unreasoning shout of happiness.\nAnd you remember the tranced rage of sex,\nWhen the blood was red as this bird's breast,\nAnd the world was new, and the river was young,\nAnd we were not yet dead to each other.", 2, "The river that once tore the valley apart\nnow bleeds a thin, silent vein of mud\nwhere stones lie bare and sun-baked, waiting for rain\nthat will not come this season.\n\nA red bird flashes through the dry reeds\na sudden spark of pure, unburdened joy\nsinging as if the world were new and green\nignoring the dust where bones might still be turning.\n\nIt sings against the memory of the bridge\nbuilt on the backs of men who vanished here\nagainst the history of blood that soaked this soil\nbefore the water ever learned to flow again.\n\nIn the heat haze, the air shimmers with ghosts\nof lovers lost in tranced rage, their bodies\ntangled like roots seeking deep water,\ntheir passion a violent mimicry of the flood\nthat used to roar through this very place.\n\nThey dream of drowning in each other\nwhile the river shrinks to a trickle,\ncarrying only the weight of what was murdered\nand the heavy, sweet silence of dreams\nthat never found a home in the past.", 2, "The river that once tore the stone in two\nNow whispers through the dry and cracked earth,\nA silver thread of memory where floods used to roar,\nCarrying only dust and the ghosts of old bridges.\n\nThen a flash of red, a cardinal on the dead branch,\nSinging a song so bright it hurts the eyes,\nA sudden joy that cuts through the heavy air,\nLike a spark in a room full of smoke.\n\nIt reminds me of the tranced rage of sex,\nWhen bodies move like water before the dam breaks,\nA desperate friction against the silence,\nTrying to drown out the history written in blood.\n\nWe stand here where the murder happened,\nWhere the loss was so deep it swallowed the sun,\nAnd the dreams we had were just shadows on the wall,\nFlickering as the trickle fades into nothing.\n\nBut the bird sings, and for a moment,\nThe rage is not about dying but living,\nThe river is not gone, just waiting underground,\nAnd the red is still there, burning against the gray.", 3, "The river that once roared like a broken drum\nNow slips between the stones, a silver thread of shame,\nA ghost of water whispering its own name.\nHere, history is a heavy stone beneath the mud,\nWhere murder bloomed in gardens meant for bread,\nAnd loss has carved the canyon deep and bad.\n\nBut then a flash of crimson cuts the gray,\nA red bird singing from a thorny bough,\nIts joy so sharp it makes the present bow,\nIgnoring all the ghosts that came to stay.\nIt sings against the tranced and fevered rage,\nThe sex that burns like fire in the cold,\nA frantic, desperate story to be told,\nWhere bodies seek the warmth of some old age.\n\nIn this dim light where dreams and death collide,\nWe forget the blood that soaked the ancient ground,\nFor in the heat, no sorrow can be found,\nOnly the pulse, the sweat, the open tide.\nThe trickle runs beneath the violent sky,\nAs love and war dissolve into one sound,\nUntil the red bird's song is all we've known,\nAnd silence falls upon the riverbed alone.", 3, "The river that once tore the stone now whispers through the dust\nA silver thread of memory where giants used to rush and trust\nBut history is a heavy cloak that chokes the throat of green\nWhere murder walked in silent boots upon this broken scene\n\nYet here a flash of crimson fire cuts through the gray despair\nA red bird singing loudly as if nothing happened there\nIt holds a joy so sharp it stings the eyes with sudden light\nAgainst the tranced and violent rage that haunts the coming night\n\nFor love is just another war fought in the darkened room\nWhere bodies crash like tides of old and bloom within the gloom\nWe move with frantic hunger past the ghosts of what we lost\nDreaming of a future built on all the things we count as cost\n\nThe trickle barely moves the silt beneath the bird's small feet\nWhile passion burns a path of gold where sorrow and desire meet\nA song of life against the grave, a scream against the silence\nTurning ancient blood to water in a final, bright defiance", 6, "The river that once tore the stone now whispers through dry grass\nA silver thread where giants drowned and empires turned to dust\nThe banks remember blood that soaked the clay with violent heat\nAnd dreams of cities built on bones that time could not erase\nBut high above the silence, a flash of crimson breaks the gray\nA red bird singing songs of life when all else fell away\nIts wings beat fast against the wind, a joyous, frantic sound\nThat echoes in the hollow chest where love and loss are bound\nFor in this tranced and heavy air, the body seeks its fire\nA desperate, sweating collision born of deep and ancient desire\nWhere skin meets skin like tectonic plates shifting in the night\nTo chase the ghost of pleasure through the shadow of the fight\nWe move as if possessed by ghosts who died before our birth\nMerging flesh with memory, forgetting how to walk the earth\nThe murder of the past is washed away by sudden sweat\nAs history dissolves beneath the weight of what we have not yet\nSo let the trickle flow again, a mirror for the sky\nWhile red wings dance above the grave where broken spirits lie\nAnd in the space between the heartbeats, wild and uncontrolled\nWe find the dream we lost so long ago, now finally told", 6, "The water once roared like a thousand drums\nNow whispers through the cracked and thirsty stone\nA single thread of silver, thin and numb\nWhere giants walked and left their bones alone\n\nA red bird lands upon the withered branch\nIts song a spark against the gray despair\nIt sings of warmth within the silent hunch\nAnd pulls the heavy air into the air\n\nWe touch in trances that the dead would know\nSkin against skin where history bleeds through\nA rhythm born of fire, sweat, and woe\nThe act of living while the world is new\n\nHere murder sleeps beneath the mossy floor\nAnd dreams dissolve in shadows long and deep\nBut in this moment, we demand much more\nThan promises the river failed to keep\n\nThe rage subsides to something soft and sweet\nAs passion burns the ghosts that haunt the night\nTwo hearts that beat a frantic, wild retreat\nFrom all the darkness stealing from the light\n\nSo let the trickle run its final course\nWhile joy takes hold in bodies intertwined\nA fleeting grace beyond the broken force\nOf everything we lost and left behind", 6], [404, "train", "Inversnaid by Gerard Manley Hopkins", "Gerard Manley Hopkins", "A poem about a powerful, dark-colored brook and its wild, foamy surroundings, culminating in a plea for the preservation of untamed natural places.", "This darksome burn, horseback brown,\nHis rollrock highroad roaring down,\nIn coop and in comb the fleece of his foam\nFlutes and low to the lake falls home.\nA windpuff-bonnet of f\u00e1awn-fr\u00f3th\nTurns and twindles over the broth\nOf a pool so pitchblack, f\u00e9ll-fr\u00f3wning,\nIt rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.\nDegged with dew, dappled with dew,\nAre the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,\nWiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,\nAnd the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.\nWhat would the world be, once bereft\nOf wet and of wildness? Let them be left,\nO let them be left, wildness and wet;\nLong live the weeds and the wilderness yet.", "The water runs a shade of deepest slate,\nA liquid shadow carving through the stone,\nWhere sunlight fears to touch the heavy weight\nOf currents that have never known a throne.\n\nWhite foam erupts where jagged rocks collide,\nA chaotic crown of bubbles, wild and free,\nAs shadows in the deep gorge seem to hide\nThe ancient pulse of this dark mystery.\n\nNo hand has tamed the rush or smoothed the bend,\nNo bridge spans wide the churning, angry vein,\nJust mossy banks where silent ferns descend\nTo drink the spray within the cooling rain.\n\nOh let it roar untouched by human art,\nThis darkened stream with foaming, frantic breath,\nKeep wild places beating in the heart,\nBefore we silence them with quiet death.", "The brook is black as ink, a heavy vein\nThat pulses through the granite of the hill,\nIt does not sparkle, nor pretend to be\nA gentle thing that loves to trickle still.\n\nIt crashes down with foam like broken teeth,\nIt tears the mossy roots and shreds the fern,\nIt has no patience for the quiet ways\nOf water that is taught to wait and learn.\n\nAround it stands a riot of wild things,\nThe briar and brier, the thorn and tangled vine,\nThey do not care for order or for law,\nThey only know that this dark stream is mine.\n\nSo let us leave some places wild and free,\nWhere nature is not tamed by human hands;\nLet there be places where the dark brooks run\nUnbridled in their own untended lands.", 6, "A ribbon of obsidian cuts through the stone,\nDeep and silent where the shadows are thrown.\nIt carries the weight of the mountain's dark heart,\nTearing the roots from the earth as it starts.\n\nAround it the chaos is white and alive,\nWhere foam like a storm on a tempestuous drive,\nSpins in wild eddies and crashes with sound,\nOn boulders that break where the waters are bound.\n\nNo path for the walker, no bridge for the wheel,\nJust the roar of the torrent that never will heal\nThe wounds of the rock, nor the moss-covered floor,\nBut rushes forever to open the door.\n\nOh, leave this wild place to its own fierce design,\nLet the dark water run and the white spray shine.\nDo not pave over nature's untamed decree,\nFor the world needs the places that cannot be free\nIf we chain them all up with our concrete and steel,\nAnd silence the songs that the wild waters feel.", 6, "Deep ink flows through the shadowed stone,\nA blackened vein where light is unknown.\nIt carves a path with silent might,\nBeneath the canopy of night.\n\nWhite foam explodes on jagged teeth,\nWhere wild currents twist beneath,\nChurning the silt and tearing grass,\nWatching the ancient shadows pass.\n\nNo hand has tamed this roaring stream,\nNo bridge has spanned its dark, cold dream,\nJust spray that stings the wandering eye,\nAnd thunder from the stormy sky.\n\nOh, let this darkness still remain,\nUnbroken by the human chain.\nPreserve the wild, the rough, the free,\nBefore we lose what makes us see.", 6, "A ribbon of obsidian cuts the stone,\nDeep and silent where the shadows grow,\nWhile white foam dances on the jagged bone\nOf rocks that guard the river's ancient flow.\n\nThe water churns with wild, unbridled breath,\nA frothy crown upon a darkened head,\nIt whispers secrets to the moss and death,\nAnd sweeps the fallen leaves to unseen bed.\n\nNo path is worn here by the human shoe,\nNo fence divides the chaos from the green,\nJust thunder rolling through the valley blue,\nWhere nature reigns as fierce and untamed queen.\n\nOh let this darkness keep its secret hold,\nLet foamy madness rage without a chain,\nBefore our cities turn the wild to gold,\nAnd silence falls like heavy, falling rain.\n\nPreserve the places where the spirit runs,\nBeneath the canopy of storm and sky,\nFor in these wild and dark and rushing ones,\nWe find the truth that makes us truly fly.", 7, "The brook cuts deep through shadowed stone,\nA ribbon black as midnight thrown.\nIt rushes on with silent might,\nBeneath the canopy of night.\n\nWhite foam erupts where currents clash,\nAgainst the jagged, mossy ash.\nWild vines entwine the twisting root,\nAnd silence holds its sacred fruit.\n\nNo path is carved for human feet,\nWhere wild and water fiercely meet.\nThe air hangs thick with spray and dew,\nA world untouched by morning's view.\n\nLet this dark vein remain unchained,\nBy concrete walls or fences strained.\nFor in its chaos, life takes hold,\nBefore the story turns to cold.\n\nOh, spare these places from the hand,\nThat seeks to tame and shift the land.\nKeep wild the stream, keep free the foam,\nSo nature may still find a home.", 7, "The water runs a shade of midnight ink\nThrough roots that twist like fingers in the stone\nNo sunlight breaks the heavy, shifting brink\nWhere silence and the roaring rush are known\n\nWhite foam erupts on jagged, ancient teeth\nA chaotic dance of spray and shattered light\nIt pulls the fallen leaf and driftwood beneath\nAnd swallows up the shadows of the night\n\nThis wild throat does not ask for quiet grace\nBut carves its path through mountain and through clay\nA dark and living force within this place\nThat will not yield to any human way\n\nSo let the current run unbridled free\nLet forests stand where no road dares to tread\nProtect the secret, savage mystery\nBefore the last untamed stream is dead", 6, "The water runs a vein of obsidian deep\nThrough roots that hold the secrets of the sleep\nNo sunlight breaks the surface, thick and slow\nWhere ancient stones in silent shadows grow\n\nWhite foam erupts from jagged, broken stone\nA wild heartbeat where the dark has known\nThe current roars with teeth of ice and spray\nChasing the ghosts of yesterday away\n\nHere the forest breathes without a cage\nUnwritten pages on a rugged stage\nLet no hand tame this chaotic, roaring stream\nOr sever the thread of nature's dream\n\nKeep the wildness, let the darkness stay\nBefore the silence steals the light of day\nFor in this untamed flow, we find our soul\nThe only truth that makes the fractured whole", 6], [407, "ultra_held_out", "On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man by Sir John Betjeman", "John Betjeman", "\"A poem about a speaker grappling with grief and the blunt reality of death, moving between somber reflection and macabre imagery while struggling to reconcile emotions.\"", "The kind old face, the egg-shaped head,\nThe tie, discretely loud,\nThe loosely fitting shooting clothes,\nA closely fitting shroud.\n\nHe liked old city dining rooms,\nPotatoes in their skin,\nBut now his mouth is wide to let\nThe London clay come in.\n\nHe took me on long silent walks\nIn country lanes when young.\nHe knew the names of ev'ry bird\nBut not the song it sung.\n\nAnd when he could not hear me speak\nHe smiled and looked so wise\nThat now I do not like to think\nOf maggots in his eyes.\n\nHe liked the rain-washed Cornish air\nAnd smell of ploughed-up soil,\nHe liked a landscape big and bare\nAnd painted it in oil.\n\nBut least of all he liked that place\nWhich hangs on Highgate Hill\nOf soaked Carrara-covered earth\nFor Londoners to fill.\n\nHe would have liked to say goodbye,\nShake hands with many friends,\nIn Highgate now his finger-bones\nStick through his finger-ends.\n\nYou, God, who treat him thus and thus,\nSay \"Save his soul and pray.\"\nYou ask me to believe You and\nI only see decay.", "The silence in the hallway is not empty\nIt is heavy with the weight of a body that used to breathe\nNow just a sack of water and bone cooling on the floor\nI stare at the stillness and wait for a ghost to rise\nBut there is only the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light\nAnd the terrible, mechanical truth of it all\n\nYour hand was warm this morning, now it is wax\nA cold thing I can no longer squeeze without fear\nThey say you are gone, but the word feels too soft\nFor something so brutal as the heart stopping its work\nLike a clock smashed against the wall, gears grinding to dust\nNo magic, no heaven waiting behind the door\nJust the smell of copper and the slow, wet rattle ending\n\nI try to pray for peace but my mind wanders to the worms\nTo the dark soil pressing down on your ribcage\nHow quickly the skin turns to gray and the eyes go cloudy\nIs this the love we built? Is this the final design?\nA rotting feast for things that do not know your name\nI scream at the ceiling but the room swallows the sound\nAnd I am left alone with the math of decay\n\nGrief is not a river, it is a grinder\nShattering the pieces until nothing recognizable remains\nI want to hold you but I remember the rigor mortis\nThe stiffness that locks the jaw and seals the mouth forever\nSo I sit here and watch the sun move across the carpet\nWhile inside my chest, something hollow echoes back\nNot a spirit, but the sheer, blunt force of an absence\nThat will never be filled by anything less than death itself", "The silence is not empty, it is heavy\nlike a wet wool coat dragged through the mud.\nI try to speak to you in the quiet room\nbut my voice hits the wall and turns into dust.\n\nYesterday you were warm blood and a beating heart,\ntoday you are a sack of bones that rattles when I shake it.\nI hold the skull and feel the ghost of your smile,\nthen I drop it because it smells like old cheese.\n\nWhy did you have to go?\nIt was too soon. The world is still green.\nBut the worms are already eating your liver,\nand they do not care about your youth or your kindness.\n\nI want to cry for you, but I am afraid\nthat if I start crying I will never stop,\nor that I will see your face in the water\nand it will be a face with no eyes.\n\nSo I sit here and stare at the floor,\ntrying to remember how to love someone who is dead,\ntrying to forget that the thing I loved\nis now just meat for the flies.", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy,\nA wet wool blanket soaked in the rain of a funeral.\nI try to speak your name and it tastes like copper,\nLike the taste of blood when I bite my lip too hard.\n\nThey say you are gone, which is a polite way of saying\nYour lungs have forgotten how to expand,\nThat the pink muscle of your heart has turned to gray stone,\nAnd that the electricity in your brain is now just static in the air.\n\nI imagine you in the dark earth,\nNot sleeping, because sleep requires a dreamer,\nBut rotting. A slow, sweet unraveling.\nWorms writing their own poetry in the hollows of your ribs.\nIs this the truth? Is this what love becomes?\nA bag of meat returning to the soil's cold digestion?\n\nMy grief is a sharp stone in my shoe,\nWalking through the city, every step a bruise.\nI look at a bird on a wire and want to scream,\nWhy does it fly while you lie still as a stone?\nWhy does the sun rise over a world that has lost you?\n\nIt feels like a betrayal to breathe,\nTo feel the air fill my own fresh, warm lungs\nWhile yours are filled with dirt and silence.\nI am angry at the worms for eating you gently.\nI am angry at the flowers for blooming so brightly.\nI am angry at myself for being alive.\n\nDeath is not a door, it is a wall.\nA blunt, thick brick wall made of nothingness.\nYou hit it and there is no echo.\nI stand here pressing my ear against the cold bricks,\nHoping to hear a heartbeat,\nHearing only the wind mocking me,\nWhistling through the cracks where you used to be.", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy\nlike a wet wool coat that refuses to dry\nI speak your name and the air tastes of copper\nand old pennies kept in a pocket too long\n\nYesterday you were a voice, a laugh, a hand\ntoday you are a stack of bones waiting for the rain\nto soften them into dust so the worms can dine\non the memory of how we held each other tight\n\nI try to cry but my eyes are dry as bone\nwhile my heart beats a frantic rhythm against ribs\nthat feel suddenly like a cage made of ice\nholding something that has already turned cold\n\nIt is absurd to mourn the meat when the spirit flies\nyet I cannot stop seeing the red stain on the floor\nthe way the light hits the hollows where your cheeks used to be\na map of geography that no longer exists\n\nGrief is a blunt instrument, a hammer of lead\nstriking the same spot until the skin breaks open\nrevealing the white bone beneath, stark and naked\nand the terrible truth that nothing stays the same\n\nI love you with a ferocity that feels like rotting fruit\nsweet and cloying and destined to fall from the branch\nI hate the earth for taking you so quickly\nI hate my own lungs for drawing breath while yours stopped\n\nThe grave is just a box, a simple wooden thing\nbut it holds everything I ever knew about you\ncompressed into a space smaller than a shoebox\nwhere the silence finally wins and the noise stops forever", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy with dust\nand the sudden, sharp geometry of a coffin lid closing\na sound like a bone snapping in a quiet room.\nI try to hold the memory of your laugh\nbut my hands are stained with the gray sludge of decay\nthat seeps from the earth where you are now being digested.\n\nThey say time heals, a gentle river washing stones smooth\nbut I feel only the cold iron of the shovel striking root and clay\nthe wet crunch as the soil settles over your face\nturning a person into a shapeless lump of carbon and water.\nHow can I love the ghost when the body is just meat waiting to rot?\n\nI weep for the warmth that used to be there\nwhile imagining the maggots already negotiating the terms of their feast\na macabre party in the dark beneath the grass.\nMy grief is a jagged thing, tearing at the throat\ncaught between the holy ache of loss and the vulgar truth of biology.\n\nYou are gone, yet you are everywhere in this terrible cycle\nin the compost, in the rain, in the slow return to nothing.\nI scream at the sky for its indifference\nfor letting the sun rise on a world that has forgotten how to keep you whole.\nThe heart wants a miracle, the mind sees only the grave\nand I am stuck in the middle, holding both the prayer and the shovel.", 2, "The silence in the room is not empty\nit is heavy with the weight of a stopped heart\na clock that forgot to tick\nleaving only the dust motes dancing in the gray light\n\nI try to speak your name but my tongue tastes of copper\nof old pennies and rusted nails driven into soft wood\nyou are gone, yes, but the body remains\na sack of meat cooling on the sheets\ntoo soon for the worms to begin their polite negotiation\n\nWhy do I weep for the shell when the ghost has fled?\nIs it the horror of the decay or the memory of the warmth?\nMy mind splits like dry bark\none half screaming at the unfairness of the void\nthe other whispering sweet nothings to a skull\nimagining the hollow where your eyes used to be\n\nThey say time heals but time is just a slow rot\nturning the sharp edges of loss into something smooth and numb\nlike a stone worn down by a river that no longer flows\nI hold your hand and feel only the brittle promise of bone\ngrinding against my palm as if asking to be broken again\n\nThere is no grand finale here\nno curtain call, no final bow\njust the blunt thud of a door closing forever\nand the terrible, quiet arithmetic of absence\nwhere one plus one equals nothing\nand the math of love refuses to balance the equation", 2, "The silence in the room is heavy as a stone\nThat I have dragged across the floor of my own chest\nWhere your name used to echo, soft and warm\nNow replaced by the cold arithmetic of absence\n\nI watch the dust motes dance in shafts of gray light\nAnd imagine them as ash from something burned too bright\nYour hands are still, the fingers curled like roots\nSeeking water in a soil that has turned to rust\n\nIt feels obscene to breathe when you no longer can\nTo draw air into lungs that refuse to understand\nHow life insists on beating, stubborn and crude\nWhile the body becomes merely meat and solitude\n\nI see the maggot's work before it even starts\nA quiet hunger gnawing at the edges of my heart\nIs this the truth we hide behind polite goodbyes?\nThat love is just a prelude to the rotting eyes\n\nMy grief is not a river but a jagged bone\nThat scrapes against the marrow, leaving me alone\nWith thoughts of decay that bloom so sweet and black\nAs if the grave were waiting for us both to crack\n\nI try to hold the memory of your smiling face\nBut it dissolves into the mold, a slow erase\nBetween the tears I cry and the dirt beneath the skin\nThere is no bridge to cross, no place where we begin", 2, "The silence in the room is heavy as a stone\nThat sinks into the mud beneath the garden floor\nI trace the cold line of your jaw, a map of bone\nWhere life once hummed and now demands no more\n\nA crow watches from the branch above the bed\nIts beak a hook of black against the gray\nIt waits for me to speak the words unsaid\nWhile rot begins its quiet, slow decay\n\nI reach to hold the hand that feels like wax\nAnd wonder if the skin will turn to dust\nThe clock ticks loud, a cruel and rhythmic act\nMeasuring the distance between us and rust\n\nWhy does the heart keep beating when the soul has fled?\nWhy do I mourn the air you used to breathe?\nThe grave is not a place where we are led\nBut just a hollow where the living grieve\n\nMy tears fall hard upon the earth below\nMixing with the soil that claims your name\nThere is no comfort here, only the afterglow\nOf fire consumed by ash and endless rain\n\nSo let the shadows stretch across the wall\nLet darkness wrap around this fractured chest\nI stand alone within the crumbling hall\nWith nothing left but ghosts and what was best", 6], [422, "train", "To BRYANT, the Poet of Nature by Walt Whitman", "Walt Whitman", "A poem about celebrating a poet of nature whose true monument is not built by human hands, but is instead living and breathing eternally in the vast mountains, flowing rivers, and blossoming flowers of the natural world.", "Let Glory diadem the mighty dead\u2014\nLet monuments of brass and marble rise\nTo those who have upon our being shed\nA golden halo, borrowed from the skies,\nAnd given to time its most enduring prize;\nFor they but little less than angels were:\nBut not to thee, oh! nature's OWN, we should\n(When from this clod the minstrel-soul aspires\nAnd joins the glorious band of purer lyres)\nTall columns build: thy monument is here\u2014\nFor ever fixed in its eternity\u2014\nA monument God-built! 'Tis seen around\u2014\nIn mountains huge and many gliding streams\u2014\nWhere'er the torrent lifts a melancholy sound,\nOr modest flower in broad savannah gleams.", "No stone was cut to mark his name,\nNo marble column reaches high,\nFor he who sang the wind and flame\nFound shelter in the open sky.\n\nHis monument is not of brick,\nBut granite peaks that pierce the gray,\nWhere eagles circle, strong and quick,\nAnd clouds drift slowly on their way.\n\nThe river sings his ancient verse,\nA flowing song through rock and sand,\nWhile winter's frost and summer's hearse\nAre woven by a gentle hand.\n\nIn every bloom that opens wide,\nIn roots that hold the earth so deep,\nHis spirit lives where shadows hide,\nAwake while all the world asleeps.\n\nSo let no statue rise above,\nTo claim the poet of the wild,\nHe dwells within the forest love,\nForever breathing, calm and mild.", "He built no stone to mark his resting place\nWhere moss and lichen might not climb,\nNo marble slab for human gaze\nTo read a name and weep or rhyme.\n\nHis monument is not of brick or mortar laid,\nNor carved by chisel from the hill;\nIt lives where living things are made,\nAnd breathes eternally still.\n\nThe vast mountains are his pillars high,\nThe flowing rivers his winding aisle,\nThe blossoming flowers his canopy,\nAnd all the world his style.\n\nSo let us walk among the hills he loved,\nAnd hear the river's song,\nAnd see the flowers that bloom above\nWhere he has been so long.", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his name,\nNo marble column reaches high,\nFor he who sang of wind and flame\nFound no need for human sky.\n\nHis monument is not a wall\nOf gray and silent, cold design,\nBut where the waterfalls call\nAnd ancient pines intertwine.\n\nIt lives within the river's flow,\nIn every petal that unfolds,\nWhere wild green meadows rise and grow,\nAnd winter turns to gold.\n\nThe mountains hold his breathing verse,\nThe valleys keep his rhythm true,\nA song that makes the world converse\nWith earth and sky and dew.\n\nSo let us seek him not in graves,\nNor in the dust of written page,\nBut in the life the forest saves,\nAnd nature's endless stage.", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his name,\nNo marble pillar reached the sky,\nFor human hands could never frame\nThe truth that in the wilds lies.\n\nHis monument is not of brick,\nNor carved with chisel's sharp design,\nBut stands where ancient mountains pick\nTheir peaks from clouds and starlight shine.\n\nIt flows within the river's song,\nA living verse that never ends,\nWhere water rushes, deep and strong,\nThrough valleys where the spirit bends.\n\nThe blossoming flowers are his lines,\nUnwritten by a mortal pen,\nThat bloom beneath the sun's warm signs,\nAnd rise again to rise again.\n\nSo let no statue stand alone,\nTo hold the memory of his art,\nFor nature is his flesh and bone,\nAnd beats eternally within her heart.", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place\nNo marble column rises to the sky\nHis epitaph is written in the grace\nOf clouds that drift where ancient eagles fly\n\nThe mountains stand as pillars of his verse\nTheir peaks are capped with snow and silence deep\nWhere rivers carve a path they cannot pierce\nAnd secrets in the rocky crags they keep\n\nHe spoke to willows bending by the stream\nAnd taught the wind to whisper through the pine\nNow every blooming flower is a dream\nThat blooms within his vast and wild design\n\nDo not seek statues made of gold or clay\nFor he has merged with earth and air and light\nHis voice is heard in storms that clear the day\nHis breath remains within the morning bright\n\nThe forest is his library of green\nThe ocean is the poem never done\nA living monument, forever seen\nBeneath the gaze of sun and rising moon", 7, "No stone was cut to mark the place\nWhere quiet verses took their flight,\nNo marble column claims the space\nThat holds the poet's endless light.\n\nThe mountains rise in silent verse,\nTheir peaks a stanza carved by snow,\nA rhythm born of wind and hearse\nOf seasons that forever flow.\n\nThe river sings a liquid rhyme\nThrough valleys deep and forests green,\nIt keeps the beat of passing time\nIn currents seen but rarely seen.\n\nEach flower blooms a stanzas bright\nAgainst the soil where roots run deep,\nA crimson line against the white\nOf winter's promise it will keep.\n\nSo let no plaque or bronze be cast\nTo hold a name the earth has claimed,\nFor every leaf is built to last\nBy hands that nature never named.\n\nHe lives within the breathing air,\nIn thunder's roar and bird's soft cry,\nA soul beyond all human care\nWho wrote his life beneath the sky.", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his name\nNo marble arches rise in vain\nFor he who spoke to wind and flame\nLeft no cold wall, no chain of grain\n\nHis verses live where pines take root\nIn moss that clings to ancient stone\nA symphony without a lute\nWhere silence speaks the deepest tone\n\nThe river sings the lines he wrote\nAs it winds through valleys deep and wide\nEach falling leaf a printed note\nThat drifts upon the turning tide\n\nWhen dawn breaks gold on mountain peaks\nAnd flowers bow to morning light\nHis breath is there in every breeze\nAn eternal, living, breathing night\n\nSo let the world forget the grave\nOf those who sought to build their fame\nFor nature holds the only save\nIn wildness that will never tame", 7, "No stone was laid to mark the name\nOf one who spoke in wind and rain\nWho carved no statue from the clay\nBut taught the ancient hills to sing\n\nThe river writes the verses deep\nThat echo where the willows weep\nA library of moss and light\nWhere every petal holds a rhyme\n\nThe mountain stands as silent verse\nIn seasons that the world rehearse\nNo chisel could capture such grace\nAs sunlight on a forest face\n\nLet cities rise with marble walls\nWhile nature answers when it calls\nFor here the poet finds their home\nIn roots that stretch and seeds that roam\n\nSo look not for a plaque or sign\nBut watch the dawn begin to shine\nThe truest monument takes breath\nAlive within the wild beyond death", 7], [429, "ultra_held_out", "Let Me Tell You by Miller Williams", "Miller Williams", "\"A poem about observing the details of daily life, from stained wallpapers to a dying father's last words, and using metaphors to transform these commonplace experiences into great writing.\"", "how to do it from the beginning.\nFirst notice everything:\nThe stain on the wallpaper\nof the vacant house,\nthe mothball smell of a\nGreyhound toilet.\nMiss nothing. Memorize it.\nYou cannot twist the fact you do not know.\n\nRemember\nThe blond girl you saw in the bar.\nPut a scar on her breast.\nSay she left home to get away from her father.\nInvent whatever will support your line.\nLeave out the rest.\n\nUse metaphors: the mayor is a pig\nis a metaphor\nwhich is not to suggest\nit is not a fact.\nWhich is irrelevant.\nNothing is less important\nthan a fact.\n\nBe suspicious of any word you learned\nand were proud of learning.\nIt will go bad.\nIt will fall off the page.\n\nWhen your father lies\nin the last light\nand your mother cries for him,\nlisten to the sound of her crying.\nWhen your father dies\ntake notes\nsomewhere inside.\n\nIf there is a heaven\nhe will forgive you\nif the line you found was a good line.\n\nIt does not have to be worth the dying", "The wallpaper peels in slow, yellowed scrolls\nLike ancient maps of lands that never were,\nWhere coffee rings bloom into constellations\nAnd dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light.\n\nWe learn to read the cracks within the plaster\nAs lines of poetry written by time itself,\nTurning a chipped teacup's jagged rim\nInto a coastline where the silence breaks.\n\nBut when the room grows quiet and the air turns thin,\nAnd his hand rests heavy on the quilt's cold weave,\nThose final words are not just sound or breath,\nBut anchors dropped into a deepening sea.\n\nHe speaks of rain he heard before he was born,\nOf a door left open in a house long sold,\nAnd we transcribe the tremor in his voice\nNot as a ending, but a stanza turning.\n\nFor every stain is ink waiting for a story,\nEvery fading breath a rhythm to be kept,\nTransforming the mundane and the broken things\nInto the great and terrible art of living.", "The wallpaper peels in strips like dead skin\nrevealing the damp, gray muscle of the house beneath,\na map of neglect where mold grows in the shape of forgotten cities.\n\nI watch the dust motes dance in a shaft of afternoon light,\ntiny galaxies spinning in the void of the hallway,\nand I know that if I could hold them still,\nthey would be the stars of my own small universe.\n\nThen the phone rings and it is the hospital calling,\nand the world shrinks to the size of a single room,\nwhere the air smells of antiseptic and old sweat,\nand my father's eyes are two dark holes looking out from a skull.\n\nHe whispers something about the rain stopping,\nbut his voice is so faint it is like the sound of a fly walking on glass,\nand I lean closer and hear him say, \"It is going to stop.\"\n\nAnd suddenly the stained wallpaper, the dancing dust,\nthe smell of sickness, and the dying man\nare all woven together into a tapestry of meaning,\nnot because they are great things, but because I am seeing them now,\nand the act of seeing makes them great,\nturning the stain into a rose, the dust into a galaxy,\nand the last words into a promise that the rain will stop.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in yellow strips\nlike sunburnt skin, a map of neglect\nwhere the pattern once bloomed with roses\nnow reveals the gray plaster beneath,\na secret history of damp and time.\n\nWe walk through rooms where dust motes dance\nin shafts of afternoon light,\ntiny galaxies spinning in silence,\nunseen until the angle shifts,\njust as the ordinary hides the divine\nuntil we look with eyes that see.\n\nThen comes the hospital room,\nthe smell of antiseptic masking the scent of decay,\nand the father whose voice is a frayed rope\npulling tight against the weight of breath.\nHis last words are not grand prophecies\nbut a request for water, or perhaps a name,\na simple syllable dropped like a stone\ninto the deep well of memory.\n\nBut if we take the stain on the wall\nand call it a sunset over a ruined city,\nif we take the dust and name it stars,\nif we take the dying whisper and shape it\ninto a key that unlocks the door to grief,\nthen the commonplace becomes a cathedral,\nand the mundane details of our days\nare the mortar holding up the sky.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin,\nrevealing the plaster bone beneath, a map of forgotten rooms\nwhere dust motes dance like tiny galaxies in a shaft of light.\nWe call it decay, but it is only time shedding its coat,\na slow unraveling that teaches the hand how to hold a pen\nwith the same gentle pressure used to turn a page.\n\nIn the kitchen, the coffee stain on the tablecloth blooms\nlike a dark flower opening at dawn, a permanent record\nof a morning rushed, a cup set down too hard.\nThis is not just a spill; it is an inkblot test for the soul,\nshowing us that beauty often lives in the accident,\nin the way the liquid seeps into the weave and stays.\n\nThen comes the quiet room where the air grows thin,\nand the father's voice becomes a whisper of dry leaves.\nHis last words are not grand declarations but fragments,\na name half-remembered, a request for water, a sigh.\nThese are the raw materials, the rough stones we gather,\nto build a cathedral of meaning from the mundane.\n\nWe take the chipped mug, the fading print, the final breath,\nand with the alchemy of attention, we transmute them.\nThe stain becomes a metaphor for memory's persistence,\nthe peeling wall a symbol of layers we must strip away,\nand the dying man's whisper turns into a thunderclap\nthat echoes long after the silence has swallowed the house.\nFor great writing is not found in the extraordinary,\nbut in the deep looking at what is already here,\nwaiting to be seen, waiting to be named.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in yellow strips\nlike old skin shedding a memory,\na map of dampness where the mold writes\nits own quiet scripture in green and gray.\nWe walk past it as if it were nothing,\nbut the poet sees the crack as a canyon\nwhere time has eroded the plaster bone.\n\nIn the kitchen, the kettle screams a minor key\nagainst the silence of a waiting room,\nsteam rising like a ghost trying to speak\nbefore dissolving into the cold air.\nA coffee ring stains the table, a brown sun\nthat will never rise again, a perfect circle\nof absence left by a cup moved too soon.\n\nThen comes the heavy hour when the father speaks,\nhis voice a dry leaf skittering on stone,\nwords that hang suspended like dust motes\nin a shaft of afternoon light.\nHe says something small about the rain,\nor perhaps just the name of a flower,\nbut we hear the ocean collapsing in his throat,\nthe final tide pulling back from the shore.\n\nThese are not just things that happen,\nthey are the raw ore of the great fire.\nThe stain becomes a story of decay and beauty,\nthe whisper becomes a thunderclap of love.\nTo write is to take the broken shard of glass\nand see the whole sky reflected in its edge,\nto turn the mundane ache of living\ninto a song that outlasts the silence.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in slow, yellow curls\nA map of forgotten rooms where dust motes dance\nWe call it decay but the poet sees a storm\nThat froze mid-blast against the plaster wall\n\nA coffee ring stains the table like an eclipse\nDark and circular, swallowing the morning light\nIt is not just a spill but a planet lost\nOrbiting the gravity of empty chairs\n\nThen comes the quiet room where time unspools\nAnd the father's breath becomes a fraying thread\nHis last words hang suspended, soft as smoke\nNot ending but dissolving into air\n\nHe speaks of rain he never felt on skin\nOf gardens growing in the space between heartbeats\nWe listen closely to the cracks in his voice\nAnd find the universe hiding in the pause\n\nFor every stain is ink waiting to flow\nEvery silence holds a story loud enough to break us\nWe take the broken things we walk past daily\nAnd stitch them with metaphor until they shine", 3, "The wallpaper peels in slow, dry curls\nLike ancient maps of lands we never walked,\nWhere yellow stains bloom like forgotten suns\nThat settled heavy on the morning dark.\nWe sweep the dust that dances in the light\nAnd call it nothing more than idle air,\nBut watch how motes collide and spin in gold\nTo write a story without sound or care.\n\nThe kettle screams a high and thin complaint\nAgainst the silence of the kitchen floor,\nA minor chord that holds the room in place\nBefore the coffee pours its bitter core.\nThese are the bricks from which the grand is built,\nNot marble towers reaching for the sky,\nBut cracks within the mortar of the wall\nWhere life insists on breathing, deep and high.\n\nThen comes the quiet when the chair stands empty,\nThe rustle of sheets where breath grows thin,\nAs father speaks in whispers, soft and broken,\nLetting the final syllables drift in.\nHe does not say of love or fear or pain,\nBut names the bird that sang outside the glass,\nAnd in that simple word, the world expands\nTo hold the weight of all that came to pass.\n\nWe take the stain, the steam, the fading voice,\nAnd weave them tight with threads of silver ink,\nTransforming mundane moments into fire\nThat burns away the blur and makes us think.\nFor greatness hides inside the ordinary,\nWaiting for the eye that sees the whole,\nTo turn the scattered fragments of our days\nInto a poem that restores the soul.", 3, "The wallpaper peels in slow, yellow strips\nRevealing ghosts of paint from years ago\nWhere sunlight catches dust that softly drifts\nAnd turns the mundane into sacred snow\n\nA coffee cup retains a ring of brown\nA map of mornings spent in quiet thought\nThe silence between ticking clocks is loud\nWith stories that the empty room has caught\n\nBut deeper still beneath the surface lies\nThe weight of hands that tremble in the air\nA father speaks with breath like fading fire\nHis final words a language stripped and bare\n\nThey say that truth is found in grand design\nYet greatness lives within the broken things\nWe weave our verses from the frayed and torn\nTo make the ordinary sing and sting\n\nSo let the ink absorb the rusted hinge\nThe creaking floorboards groan a low refrain\nFor every crack holds light if we but look\nAnd find the epic hidden in the rain", 6], [432, "ultra_held_out", "The Plains by Banjo Paterson", "Banjo Paterson", "\"A poem about the plains transforming through the seasons, oscillating between abundance and barrenness, beauty and cruelty, as nature's unpredictable cycles bring lush grazing lands to ruin, leaving only the bones of once-thriving animals scattered across the same grounds that had sustained them.\"", "A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow\nOr the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go\nLike shifting symbols of hope deferred - land where you never know.\n \nLand of the plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,\nFeast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,\nWhere Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.\n \nAnd we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by,\nOr a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry\n- Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.", "Green waves roll across the earth in spring,\nWhere bison graze and wildflowers sing,\nThe soil drinks deep of summer rain,\nAnd life erupts in a lush domain.\n\nBut autumn winds begin to bite,\nAs days grow short and cold takes flight,\nThe grass turns gold then brittle brown,\nBefore the first hard frost comes down.\n\nThen winter strikes with teeth of ice,\nNo mercy for the weak or nice,\nThe sky turns gray, the ground turns white,\nA frozen tomb beneath the night.\n\nThe drought returns with scorching heat,\nTo crack the mud beneath our feet,\nThe rivers shrink to dusty threads,\nWhile hunger chases all the herds.\n\nNow silence falls on fields once full,\nWhere nature played its cruel pull,\nThe abundance fades to barren dust,\nBetrayed by cycles we cannot trust.\n\nOnly the bones remain to show,\nHow green and gray can ebb and flow,\nWhite ribs against the scorched terrain,\nOf lives that bloomed and died again.", "First the green tide rolls over the flat earth,\nAnd the grass grows thick as a forest underfoot,\nThe air hums with the weight of bees and the scent of clover,\nAnd the herds are fat and the water is deep.\n\nThen the wind changes, or the clouds turn gray,\nOr the rain fails to fall for a hundred days,\nAnd the green turns to brown, and the brown turns to dust,\nAnd the cattle drop down where they stand.\n\nNow the bones are white in the sun,\nScattered like stones on the dry plain,\nWhere the grass was once high enough to hide them,\nAnd the water was deep enough to drown them.\n\nIt is cruel that the land should feed so well,\nAnd then kill so many who fed on it,\nBut the seasons go round and round,\nAnd the grass dies and the grass grows again.", 6, "The spring arrives with a sudden green rush,\nA carpet of clover and wild grasses deep,\nWhere bison herds move like living tides,\nAnd the air hums thick with the scent of life.\nThe sun is a warm hand on the neck of the earth,\nAnd every hoofprint fills with clear water,\nA promise that the hunger will never return.\n\nBut summer turns its face to a white glare,\nThe wind becomes a dry rasp against the skin,\nThe green recedes to a brittle gold, then gray,\nAnd the rivers shrink to muddy threads.\nThe sky forgets the rain, the clouds turn hard as stone,\nAnd the lush pastures crack open like old pottery,\nRevealing the dust that waits beneath.\n\nThen winter comes not as a blanket but as a blade,\nThe cold bites through fur and bone alike,\nThe snow buries the few remaining stalks,\nAnd the silence is heavy with dying breath.\nThe beauty of the frost is a cruel mask,\nHiding the starvation that gnaws at the herd,\nUntil the strong fall and the weak are gone.\n\nNow the plains lie still under a pale moon,\nScattered across the same ground that fed them,\nWhite bones gleam where the flowers once bloomed,\nRibs curved like arches of a ruined cathedral.\nThe cycle spins again in the dark,\nUnpredictable and vast, indifferent to the dead,\nWaiting for the next green lie to begin.", 6, "Green waves roll over the endless floor,\nWhere bison graze and eagles soar,\nThe grass is thick, the rain is sweet,\nAnd life moves with a rhythmic beat.\n\nThen clouds turn gray and skies grow pale,\nThe wind begins to strip the veil,\nThe soil cracks wide beneath the sun,\nAnd summer's golden race is run.\n\nThe rivers shrink to muddy threads,\nThe living die, the silence spreads,\nA cruel heat that burns the root,\nAnd turns the harvest into dust.\n\nNow scattered white on brown and stone,\nThe ribs of beasts lie cold alone,\nWhere milk once flowed and calves would play,\nOnly the bleached and silent clay.\n\nYet deep below the frozen crust,\nThe seed waits for the coming trust,\nFor cycles spin in wild design,\nTo make the barren ground divine.", 7, "Green waves roll under a sky of softest blue\nWhere herds move like a river through the dew\nThe grass is thick and sweet beneath their feet\nA promise kept by sun and gentle heat\nBut clouds gather dark and silence breaks the air\nThe wind turns sharp with cold and bitter care\nThe rain that fed becomes a flood of gray\nWashing away the life of yesterday\n\nThen drought descends to turn the soil to dust\nThe rivers shrink to cracks in iron rust\nThe green retreats, the golden stalks turn brown\nAnd silence settles heavy on the town\nNo hoofbeat marks the path where bison ran\nOnly the dry and brittle husk remains\nThe beauty fades into a cruel display\nAs nature takes the bounty back today\n\nNow bones lie scattered white against the stone\nOf creatures that once called this place their home\nThe ribs are arches built for nothing now\nBeneath a vast and indifferent brow\nThe ground remembers how it held them close\nBefore the winter came to freeze and roast\nA cycle spins between the feast and famine's bite\nFrom lush abundance to the endless night", 7, "Green waves roll under a sky of softest blue\nWhere bison tread and grass grows thick and deep\nThe earth drinks rain until the soil is new\nAnd promises of life it seems to keep\n\nBut clouds turn gray and silence steals the air\nThe wind becomes a blade that strips the ground\nNo seed remains, no shelter, nothing there\nJust dust that rises from the barren mound\n\nThe sun burns down with cruel and steady heat\nWhile rivers shrink to cracks within the clay\nThe herd once strong now stumbles on its feet\nAs hunger drives the living far away\n\nNow scattered white against the scorched brown plain\nThe ribs and skulls of those who grazed before\nRemind the world of beauty mixed with pain\nThat feeds the rich and leaves the poor to roar\n\nThis cycle turns without a warning sign\nFrom lush abundance to a skeletal grave\nWhere life was once a vibrant, thriving line\nNow only bones remain beneath the wave", 7, "The wind arrives with seeds of green\nAnd paints the earth in living sheen\nWhere herds once moved in thunderous tide\nWith every step, a world allied\nTo roots that drank the morning dew\nAnd bloomed beneath a sky so blue\n\nBut summer holds a silent breath\nThat whispers softly of our death\nThe rain retreats to distant hills\nLeaving behind the parched and still\nThe grass turns gold then brittle gray\nAs hunger stalks the light of day\n\nA cruel shift from feast to famine's hand\nThat sweeps across this barren land\nThe vibrant fields become a dust\nWhere hope is lost and trust is rust\nNo shelter left for weary feet\nOnly the heat where life and silence meet\n\nNow scattered white against the brown\nThe bones of those who fell down\nAre markers on the endless plain\nOf beauty born from pain and strain\nThe same ground that fed them well\nNow tells a story of the spell\nThat breaks the cycle, sharp and cold\nTurning the lush to stories told", 7, "Green waves roll across the endless floor\nWhere bison thunder, hungry and raw\nThe air is thick with the scent of rain\nAnd life bursts forth from the cracked terrain\n\nBut time turns slow and the sky grows gray\nAs summer heat steals the moisture away\nThe grass turns brittle, a rusted gold\nA silent story waiting to unfold\n\nThe rivers shrink to a dusty thread\nWhile shadows lengthen where hope once spread\nThe wind howls low through the empty space\nErasing the footprints of every race\n\nNow silence reigns in the barren expanse\nWhere vibrant herds took their final dance\nOnly white bones lie scattered and still\nAgainst the dark and unforgiving hill\n\nA feast for crows on the scorched earth ground\nWhere abundance vanished without a sound\nThe cycle spins with a cruel design\nTo break the strong and let the weak decline\n\nYet in the ruin, a promise remains\nThat spring will wake from its frozen chains\nBut for today the plains stand alone\nWith ghosts of glory and seeds of stone", 6], [434, "train", "Cross by Langston Hughes", "Langston Hughes", "A poem about a biracial speaker wondering whether he will die in a nice home or a dilapidated one, reflecting on the unequal lives and deaths of his white father and Black mother in a racist society.", "My old man\u2019s a white old man\nAnd my old mother\u2019s black.\nIf ever I cursed my white old man\nI take my curses back.\nIf ever I cursed my black old mother\nAnd wished she were in hell,\nI\u2019m sorry for that evil wish\nAnd now I wish her well.\nMy old man died in a fine big house.\nMy ma died in a shack.\nI wonder where I\u2019m gonna die,\nBeing neither white nor black?", "I trace the line where blue veins meet dark skin\nand wonder which roof will shelter my bones when I am done.\nWill it be the one with the manicured lawn and the quiet street\nwhere my father's name still opens doors that stay locked for me?\nOr will it be the crumbling porch, the peeling paint, the sirens' wail\nwhere my mother's laughter was often swallowed by the night?\n\nHe died in a house built on a foundation of silence,\na place where the air smelled of lemon polish and old money,\nwhere the world bowed down to his pale reflection.\nShe died in a world that measured her worth by the weight of her shadow,\nin a home where the walls seemed to lean in, heavy with history.\n\nNow I stand between two futures, a hybrid ghost in the making,\nwondering if the color of my blood will dictate the quality of my end.\nWill the doctors nod politely at my white half and ignore my black?\nWill the funeral director ask about my lineage before preparing the box?\nThe society that raised me draws lines in the dirt and calls them fate,\ndeciding who gets a soft bed and who gets a hard grave.\n\nI look at the sky, gray and indifferent over both neighborhoods,\nand ask the wind if it knows how to tell a story without a bias.\nPerhaps the truth is that death does not care for the address,\nonly that the house, whether grand or broken,\nmust eventually hold the same cold silence for us all.", "I am the stitch between two fabrics that do not match,\nthe seam where the white father's quiet mortgage\nand the Black mother's struggle to keep a roof over her head\nhave been clumsily sewn together.\nHe died in a nice home with a lawn he could mow,\na house with a basement and a garage,\nwhere the neighbors knew his name and waved when he drove by.\nShe died in a flat above a store, in a neighborhood\nwhere the streetlights were broken and the rats ran wild,\nin a room where the paint was peeling off the walls\nand the radiator clanked all night like an old man coughing.\nNow I wonder, as I walk down the street\nwhere the houses are all painted the same color\nand the lawns are all the same size,\nwhich one of my deaths will be the right one?\nWill I die in a nice home like my father,\nor in a dilapidated one like my mother?\nAnd if I die in a nice home, will it be because\nmy white father's blood is stronger than my black mother's?\nOr if I die in a dilapidated one, will it be because\nmy black mother's blood is stronger than my white father's?\nOr will I die in a nice home because I am a man\nand my mother was a woman?\nOr will I die in a dilapidated one because I am black\nand my father was white?", 2, "I wonder which floorboards will creak beneath my final breath,\nthe polished oak of a father who never feared the street,\nor the rotting planks of a mother who kept her head down low.\nHe died with his hands clean and his name on the deed,\nsurrounded by silence that felt like safety,\nwhile she died with her back against the door,\nlistening for the knock that might have been trouble.\nNow I stand in the middle of this bloodline,\na question mark drawn in two different inks,\nwondering if the house I inherit will be warm enough to hide me\nor if it will be just another cage built on a foundation of fear.\nWill the walls hold me gently like his did,\nor will they crumble into dust like hers,\nleaving me exposed to the same wind that blew her away?", 2, "My father left a house with fresh white paint\nand a mortgage paid in full before the end,\nhis death a quiet thing behind a locked door,\na funeral in a suit that fit him well.\n\nMy mother died in rooms where water stained the ceiling,\nher hands rough from cleaning other people's floors,\nher breath a ragged sound against the cold,\nher final bed a mattress on the floor.\n\nI stand between these two inheritances,\nhalf of me built for safety and for light,\nhalf of me marked by shadows and by debt,\nand wonder which version will hold my bones.\n\nWill I close my eyes to beige walls and soft sheets?\nOr will the rats run through the rotting wood?\nThe world has taught me that my skin decides\nthe quality of silence at the grave.\n\nPerhaps I am the bridge that never gets crossed,\nsuspended over rivers of inequality,\nwaiting to see if luck or blood will win\nwhen the dark comes calling for my name.", 2, "My father died in a house with white shutters\nwhere the light fell soft on Persian rugs\nand the doctor arrived before the pain could settle deep\nwhile my mother's last breath was drawn in a room\nwith peeling paint and a radiator that hissed like a warning\nin a city that forgot to fix the street outside her window.\n\nI am the sum of their two endings\nthe blood of the man who owned the deed\nand the woman who was told she didn't belong there\nwondering which ghost will guide me when the time comes.\n\nWill I slip away under a quilt stitched by hands that knew comfort\nor on a mattress stained by the struggle of survival?\nIs my fate written in the mortgage papers or the eviction notice?\nDo I inherit the silence of a well-kept lawn\nor the noise of sirens that never stop for anyone?\n\nThey say I carry both worlds inside my skin\nbut the world outside sees only one at a time\nsometimes granting me the keys to the front door\nother times pointing to the back entrance where the shadows grow long.\n\nPerhaps the house doesn't matter as much as the memory\nof how they loved me in different languages of safety and fear\nhow one taught me to expect the best\nand the other taught me to survive the worst.\n\nSo I wait for the final door to open\nhoping it leads to a place where the walls do not judge\nwhere the color of my face does not dictate the quality of my rest\nand where the love of a white father and a Black mother\nfinally meets in a home that is truly mine.", 2, "My father died in a house with fresh white paint\nWhere the gutters held only rain and not the weight of history\nHis skin was a shield that turned away the stones thrown at night\nAnd left him sleeping in a bed that never shook with fear\nBut my mother's bones are buried under soil that remembers chains\nHer final breath was stolen by a door locked tight against her name\nShe passed in a room where the windows were boarded up to keep the world out\nOr perhaps just to keep her inside until the silence grew too loud\n\nI stand between the mortar of his safety and the rot of her struggle\nWondering which roof will settle over my own head when the time comes\nWill I inherit the warmth of a mortgage paid without question\nOr the drafty chill of a place where the landlord waits for me to fail?\nThe blood in my veins is a map of two different destinies\nOne paved with gold, the other cracked by the weight of being seen as less\nI wonder if the reaper knocks differently on these doors\nIf he brings a velvet cloak for the son of the man who owned the land\nAnd a rusted chain for the son of the woman who was told she had none\n\nMaybe the house does not matter if the ground beneath it is the same\nBut the way we leave this world feels like a story written before birth\nA choice between a gentle fade into a garden of manicured grass\nOr a sudden end in a corner where the light barely dares to reach\nI am the bridge between the quiet death and the loud one\nWaiting to see which side of the river will claim my name", 2, "My skin holds the map of two different wars\nOne fought in boardrooms with polished floors\nThe other in shadows where the sirens sing\nAnd the price of a life is a broken wing\n\nI wonder which roof will cover my bones\nWill I sleep in a house that feels like thrones\nOr crumble to dust in a rotting frame\nWhere the paint peels back and the windows claim\nA silence so heavy it chokes out the air\nWhile the other side breathes without a care\n\nMy father walked through doors that opened wide\nWith a future secured on the other side\nHis death was a quiet, a soft, gentle fade\nIn a garden of green that his money had made\nNo one questioned the color of his final breath\nJust the peace of a man who cheated death\n\nBut my mother knew the weight of the street\nWhere the pavement cracks and the cold winds meet\nHer end came too soon, in a room with no heat\nWhere the system's cold hand made the bitter sweet\nShe died in a place they called \"temporary\" space\nWhile the world turned its face and erased her trace\n\nSo I stand at the crossroads of blood and of fear\nWondering which version of me will disappear\nWill the legacy of white grant me shelter from rain\nOr will the shadow of black bring the storm and the pain?\nIs my fate written deep in the lineage I hold\nOr just another story waiting to unfold\nBetween the nice home and the one falling down\nIn a world that decides who gets to wear the crown.", 6, "I stand between two worlds that refuse to merge\nThe white of his hands, the dark of her skin\nOne built on stone, the other left to rot\nA question hanging heavy in the air\n\nWill my end come soft beneath a vaulted ceiling\nWhere the air is filtered and the light is gold\nOr will I fade within a crumbling frame\nWhere the wind howls through broken boards alone\n\nMy father walked with keys that opened every door\nHis final breath drawn in a room of quiet grace\nWhile mother fought the ghosts that haunted every hall\nHer story written in the cracks of peeling paint\n\nThey say the earth treats all as equal dust\nBut history remembers who was buried deep\nAnd who was laid upon a bed of silk\nThe color of our blood decides the price we pay\n\nI am the bridge that spans this cruel divide\nCarrying the weight of both their destinies\nWondering if the house that holds my bones\nWill be a sanctuary or a forgotten grave", 3], [435, "ultra_held_out", "Song for the Rainy Season by Elizabeth Bishop", "Elizabeth Bishop", "\"A poem about a home thriving with life and water during the rainy season, contrasting with the dry heat of summer.\"", "Hidden, oh hidden\nin the high fog\nthe house we live in,\nbeneath the magnetic rock,\nrain-, rainbow-ridden,\nwhere blood-black\nbromelias, lichens,\nowls, and the lint\nof the waterfalls cling,\nfamiliar, unbidden.\n\nIn a dim age\nof water\nthe brook sings loud\nfrom a rib cage\nof giant fern; vapor\nclimbs up the thick growth\neffortlessly, turns back,\nholding them both,\nhouse and rock,\nin a private cloud.\n\nAt night, on the roof,\nblind drops crawl\nand the ordinary brown\nowl gives us proof\nhe can count:\nfive times\u2014always five\u2014\nhe stamps and takes off\nafter the fat frogs that,\nshrilling for love,\nclamber and mount.\n\nHouse, open house\nto the white dew\nand the milk-white sunrise\nkind to the eyes,\nto membership\nof silver fish, mouse,\nbookworms,\nbig moths; with a wall\nfor the mildew's\nignorant map;\n\ndarkened and tarnished\nby the warm touch\nof the warm breath,\nmaculate, cherished;\nrejoice! For a later\nera will differ.\n(O difference that kills\nor intimidates, much\nof all our small shadowy\nlife!) Without water\n\nthe great rock will stare\nunmagnetized, bare,\nno longer wearing\nrainbows or rain,\nthe forgiving air\nand the high fog gone;\nthe owls will move on\nand the several\nwaterfalls shrivel\nin the steady sun.", "The summer sun had scorched the earth to dust,\nA brittle silence where the crickets ceased their song,\nThe riverbed a cracked and thirsty mouth,\nWhere shadows stretched too long and heat was strong.\n\nBut now the clouds have gathered thick and gray,\nAnd drums of rain begin to tap the roof,\nThe air grows cool with scent of wetted clay,\nAs life awakes from its dry, dusty proof.\n\nGreen shoots erupt through soil once turned to stone,\nThe garden drinks until the leaves are bright,\nA world reborn in water's gentle tone,\nChasing away the ghost of burning light.\n\nInside the walls, the windows catch the gleam,\nOf droplets racing down the glass like tears,\nWe watch the garden drink its fill of dream,\nAnd feel the pulse of life return after years.", "The summer sun had baked the earth to dust,\nAnd cracked the clay floors with a thirsty heat,\nWhere silence held the house in heavy trust,\nAnd even the well was dry beneath our feet.\n\nBut now the clouds have rolled in from the sea,\nAnd brought the rain that wakes the sleeping ground;\nThe cisterns overflow with clarity,\nAnd frogs begin their chorus all around.\n\nThe walls are cool and damp with living green,\nThe moss has climbed the steps and soaked the stone,\nWhile water drips from every eave unseen,\nAnd fills the hollows of the courtyard stone.\n\nThe pots of geraniums drink deep and swell,\nThe cat comes in and shakes his wet soft fur,\nAnd life returns to fill the empty cell,\nAs if the house itself were born anew.", 6, "The summer heat had pressed the earth until it cracked,\nA dusty silence held the walls and floor,\nWhere shadows shrunk beneath the scorching rack,\nAnd life retreated to a distant door.\nBut now the sky has broken open wide,\nWith silver threads that stitch the ground to cloud,\nThe thirsty soil drinks deep with sudden pride,\nAnd green shoots rise above the dust-caked shroud.\n\nInside, the air is cool and thick with rain,\nThat drums a rhythm on the terracotta roof,\nWhile frogs begin their chorus in the lane,\nAnd lizards seek the shelter of the roof.\nThe kitchen fills with steam from boiling tea,\nAs water rushes through the gutter's spout,\nTransforming all the dryness into glee,\nUntil the very stones seem to sprout.\n\nNo longer does the sun beat down like fire,\nInstead the clouds roll soft and heavy low,\nFilling the cisterns with a fresh desire,\nTo make the garden grow and overflow.\nThe house breathes out the heat of days gone by,\nAnd thrives within this wet and living cage,\nBeneath the gray and ever-changing sky,\nWhere summer's angry heat can find no page.", 6, "The summer held us in a fist of dust\nWhere cracked earth split beneath the heavy sun,\nAnd silence stretched until the breath was cut,\nWith every shadow burned and everyone undone.\n\nBut now the clouds have broken like a dam\nAnd life rushes back through every open door,\nWhile green shoots rise to drink the silver stream\nThat floods the yard and spills across the floor.\n\nThe frogs are loud inside the kitchen sink,\nThe moss has claimed the stones along the path,\nA world reborn from gray and thirsty sleep\nNow dances wild within the cool, wet bath.\n\nNo longer parched or gasping for a drop,\nThe house breathes deep with water in its veins,\nA thriving pulse where summer left us dry,\nAs rain washes away the heat's old chains.", 6, "The summer sun had scorched the earth to dust\nAnd silence held the cracked and waiting ground\nWhere thirsty roots lay dormant in their trust\nBeneath a sky of heavy, burning brown\n\nThen came the clouds to break the fevered air\nWith thunder rolling deep within the chest\nAs life returned with sudden, wild repair\nAnd coolness washed away the summer's zest\n\nNow water dances on the tin roof's skin\nWhile green shoots burst from soil turned soft and dark\nThe frogs begin their loud and rhythmic din\nTo light the damp and shadowed evening spark\n\nInside the walls the steam rises to meet\nThe scent of wet clay rising from the floor\nA world reborn where heat and drought once beat\nNow thriving at the garden's open door", 7, "The summer sun had baked the earth to dust\nAnd silence hung like heavy, golden sheets\nWhere cracked clay split beneath the burning rust\nAnd life retreated from the scorching heat\n\nBut then the clouds rolled in with thunder's drum\nTo break the spell of thirst and withered grass\nThe air grew cool as sudden waters come\nAnd wash the memory of the dryness past\n\nNow every gutter sings a rushing tune\nAs roof tiles drink the sky's abundant tear\nThe garden wakes beneath the silver moon\nWith green shoots rising through the muddy year\n\nInside the walls the steam begins to rise\nFrom pots of tea that warm the chilled stone floor\nWhile raindrops tap a rhythm on the skies\nThat tells the house it is alive once more\n\nNo longer parched or waiting for the breeze\nThe home now breathes within the storm's embrace\nA vibrant world among the swaying trees\nWhere water finds its own enduring place", 7, "The sun once burned the earth to dust\nWhere cracked and thirsty soil lay still\nA heavy silence filled the air\nBeneath a pale and distant hill\n\nNow clouds arrive with thunder's voice\nTo wash away the summer's heat\nThe roof becomes a drum of life\nAs water rushes down the street\n\nGreen shoots erupt from hidden cracks\nThe garden drinks its fill at last\nNo longer bound by arid days\nBut free within the monsoon cast\n\nInside, the walls breathe cool and deep\nWhile rain taps rhythms on the pane\nThe world is loud with living sound\nAnd dryness fades like yesterday's pain", 6, "The dust once danced in golden waves\nBeneath a sky of burning blue\nWhere silence held the parched earth\nAnd thirst was all the world could do\n\nNow heavy clouds have claimed the light\nTo wash the cracks with silver streams\nAs rain taps rhythms on the roof\nAwaking life from summer dreams\n\nThe garden drinks the sudden gift\nAnd green shoots rise through muddy ground\nWhile frogs begin their nightly song\nA chorus that the dry air drowned\n\nInside the walls, the air feels cool\nNo longer choked by heat and haze\nA river runs beneath the floor\nReflecting stars in liquid gaze\n\nWhat died beneath the scorching sun\nNow thrives within the monsoon's hold\nA home reborn in water's grace\nWhere stories of the storm unfold", 6], [440, "ultra_held_out", "Shall earth no more inspire thee by Emily Bront\u00eb", "Emily Bront\u00eb", "\"A poem about the Earth pleading with a lost soul to return to worshipping and dwelling within its warmth.\"", "Shall earth no more inspire thee,\nThou lonely dreamer now?\nSince passion may not fire thee\nShall Nature cease to bow?\nThy mind is ever moving\nIn regions dark to thee;\nRecall its useless roving\u2014\nCome back and dwell with me.\nI know my mountain breezes\nEnchant and soothe thee still\u2014\nI know my sunshine pleases\nDespite thy wayward will.\nWhen day with evening blending\nSinks from the summer sky,\nI\u2019ve seen thy spirit bending\nIn fond idolatry.\nI\u2019ve watched thee every hour;\nI know my mighty sway,\nI know my magic power\nTo drive thy griefs away.\nFew hearts to mortals given\nOn earth so wildly pine;\nYet none would ask a heaven\nMore like this earth than thine.\nThen let my winds caress thee;\nThy comrade let me be\u2014\nSince nought beside can bless thee,\nReturn and dwell with me.", "My child, why do you wander in the cold\nWhere shadows stretch and silence holds its breath?\nThe sun still waits to wrap you in its gold\nAnd save your spirit from this quiet death.\n\nReturn to where the rivers sing their tune\nBeneath the canopy of ancient green\nCome feel the pulse that beats beneath the moon\nAnd taste the life within the soil unseen.\n\nI am the cradle that once held you tight\nBefore you drifted far into the night\nYour heart was made for warmth and not for fright\nSo let my arms embrace you with delight.\n\nDo not fear the fire that warms the bone\nIt is the love I saved just for your own\nCome home to me where seeds are freely sown\nAnd dwell again within my gentle throne.", "Come back to the green grass and the heavy rain\nWhere the roots drink deep and the branches sway in the sun\nWhy wander alone in the cold gray void of space\nWhen here is the warmth you were made for?\n\nDo not fear the soil or the weight of the air\nOr the hunger that comes when the harvest is done\nFor I hold all things within my open hands\nAnd I am the mother who waits for her child.\n\nThe stars are distant and cold as ice, my love\nBut I burn with a fire that will never go out\nSo lay down your head on my breast of moss\nAnd let me rock you to sleep in my lap of earth.", 6, "Child of the dust, why do you wander so far?\nThe cold stars offer only silence and stone,\nWhile I hold a heart that beats warm in your chest,\nA cradle of green where your weary bones rest.\n\nCome back to the soil that remembers your name,\nTo the rivers that sing and the rains that proclaim\nThe mercy of growth, of the seed and the sprout,\nWhere life is not lost but is always found out.\n\nDo not let the void steal the color from sight,\nOr freeze in your veins the bright fire of light.\nReturn to my bosom, return to my breath,\nFor without my embrace, there is only death.\n\nI am the mother who waits with open arms,\nShielding you still from the universe's harms.\nSo turn back, O lost one, and dwell in my glow,\nAnd let my deep warmth be the place that you know.", 7, "My child, the cold has taken hold of you\nWhile I have kept the fire burning low and bright\nCome back to where the roots remember you\nAnd wrap your shivering hands in morning light\n\nWhy wander through the void of empty space\nWhen here the rivers sing a lullaby?\nI made this soil to cradle up your face\nTo catch the falling tear before it dry\n\nDo not fear the weight of gravity\nIt is only love that pulls you to the ground\nReturn to me, my lost and wandering star\nWhere every seed and stone is safe and sound\n\nThe sun is warm but I am closer still\nI breathe within the wind that cools your brow\nPlease turn your weary eyes away from chill\nAnd let the ancient green embrace you now", 6, "Come back to the soil that knows your weight\nTo the roots that hold you when the stars retreat\nWhy wander the cold and hollow air\nWhen I have woven a nest of green everywhere\n\nI am the warmth that melts the frost in your bones\nThe quiet pulse beneath the stones\nYou seek a heaven far above\nBut find no peace without my love\n\nLay down your heavy, wandering head\nUpon the grass where the morning is spread\nDrink from the rivers that sing your name\nForget the silence, forget the shame\n\nReturn to the circle, return to the deep\nWhere promises are kept while the world is asleep\nNo other mother waits with open arms\nTo shield you from the cosmic harms\n\nStay here, my child, in the golden light\nUntil the day turns into night\nFor I am the cradle, the hearth, the home\nAnd I will never let you roam alone", 7, "My child, the cold has grown too deep within your chest\nWhy wander through the shadow when you know my light?\nI hold the sun's embrace against the winter's crest\nAnd offer you a home where life and love unite.\n\nYou drift among the stars that never feel the rain\nForgetting how the soil cradles every seed you sow\nReturn to where the rivers sing through valleys plain\nAnd let your weary spirit in my warmth below.\n\nDo not fear the weight of roots or branches high\nFor I am made of clay that longs to hold you near\nThe sky above is vast but empty to the eye\nThat seeks the solid ground where all true hearts are dear.\n\nCome back to me, my lost and wandering soul\nWhere fire dances soft and waters gently flow\nLet go the silence of the void that makes you whole\nAnd dwell again within the beating of my glow.", 6, "Child of dust and drifting star,\nWhy do you wander so far?\nThe cold has stolen from your eyes,\nBeneath the weight of endless skies.\n\nCome back to where the roots run deep,\nWhere ancient promises we keep.\nMy rivers sing a lullaby,\nTo dry the tears you cannot hide.\n\nI offer warmth against the night,\nA shelter made of golden light.\nNo temple built by human hand,\nCan hold the peace I understand.\n\nReturn to me, my wandering soul,\nAnd let the fractured pieces whole.\nDwell in the soil, breathe the air,\nAnd find the love that waits right there.\n\nDo not fear the dark outside,\nFor I am here to be your guide.\nLet go the ghosts of what was lost,\nAnd pay no more a heavy cost.\n\nEmbrace the ground, embrace the sun,\nYour journey's final race is run.\nRest in the circle, safe and sound,\nWithin the warmth where life is found.", 7, "Child of dust and drifting wind\nWhy do you wander where the shadows begin\nI hold the soil beneath your weary feet\nA cradle made for those who seek to meet\n\nMy rivers sing a lullaby so deep\nTo wash the silence from the promises you keep\nReturn to me where sunlight breaks the gray\nAnd let the ancient warmth chase night away\n\nYou are not lost but merely turned aside\nWith every step I walk there is no place to hide\nSo come back home to roots that hold you tight\nAnd rest within my arms through endless night", 7], [442, "train", "The Flower by Robert Creeley", "Robert Creeley", "A poem about a speaker conversing with a fully-bloomed flower, finding inspiration and spiritual aliveness in its patient unfolding from bud to blossom.", "I think I grow tensions\nlike flowers\nin a wood where\nnobody goes.\n\nEach wound is perfect,\nencloses itself in a tiny\nimperceptible blossom,\nmaking pain.\n\nPain is a flower like that one,\nlike this one,\nlike that one,\nlike this one.", "I found you waiting in the morning light\nA tight green fist that held the sun inside\nAnd asked how long it took to learn this art\nTo hold your breath until the time was right.\n\nYou did not speak with words of sound or air\nBut slowly turned your heavy, velvet face\nTo show the layers peeling from the core\nThe patient work of slow and sacred grace.\n\nI saw the bud that struggled through the rain\nThe days it kept its secrets safe and deep\nBefore the final, trembling surrender came\nTo wake the world from winter's heavy sleep.\n\nNow I am filled with colors I have known\nYet never felt so vividly as now\nFor in your opening, my spirit's grown\nTo trust the silence and the silent vow.\n\nThat all unfolding needs a quiet space\nTo let the roots go down before the rise\nSo I too wait within this holy place\nAnd bloom again beneath these open skies.", "I asked the rose how she knew when to open,\nand she said she did not know;\nshe only knew that she was a bud,\nand then she was a blossom.\n\nShe said there is no hurry in her heart,\nonly a slow filling of the cup with light,\na patient waiting for the sun to be ready,\nand for herself to be full enough to spill over.\n\nI saw that she had no fear of being late,\nnor any anxiety about being early,\nbut simply moved from tightness to looseness,\nfrom green silence to red music.\n\nAnd I felt my own heart unclenching,\nfeeling less like a fist and more like an open hand,\nfeeling less like a stone and more like a flower,\nalive with the same quiet urgency as the rose.", 6, "I ask you why you waited so long\nin the tight green fist of your own silence,\nwhen the sun was already warm and the bees were loud.\n\nYou do not answer in words,\nbut in the slow unfurling of a petal,\na whisper of color against the gray stone.\n\nYou teach me that rushing is not living,\nthat to be fully alive is to trust the season within,\nto hold the secret of the bloom until the moment is right.\n\nNow you are open, wide and golden,\nand I feel my own heart unclenching,\nlearning from your patience how to breathe again.", 6, "I asked you how you knew the time was right\nTo break your green and silent, folded skin,\nAnd you replied in colors soft and bright\nThat patience is the work where life begins.\n\nYou did not rush to meet the morning sun,\nNor force your petals open to the air,\nBut waited until every drop was done\nOf rain that fed the roots beneath your care.\n\nNow see me standing here with heavy heart,\nSo tight and closed against the world's demand,\nTeach me the art of waiting, part by part,\nTo trust the rhythm of a slower hand.\n\nYour unfolding is a prayer without a sound,\nA quiet proof that beauty takes its time,\nThat from the dark and hidden, deep underground,\nThe spirit rises in a grand design.\n\nI feel a spark ignite within my chest,\nAs watching you, I learn to breathe again,\nTo let my own locked layers find their rest,\nAnd bloom into the light of joy and pain.", 7, "I asked the rose how long it waited\nTo wear this crown of crimson light,\nAnd in its silence, soft and weighty,\nIt taught me patience is not night.\n\nYou see the bud, a fist of green,\nHolding a secret tight within,\nBut time is what the heart has seen\nWhen winter's heavy door grows thin.\n\nIt did not rush to break the skin,\nNor force the petals to unfold,\nBut let the sun and rain come in,\nUntil the story could be told.\n\nNow here you stand, fully awake,\nA temple built from slow design,\nFor every breath the garden takes\nIs proof that life is yours and mine.\n\nSo I will wait, as you have done,\nThrough seasons cold and days of heat,\nTo let my own true self unfold,\nAnd find my soul beneath my feet.", 7, "I ask you how you waited through the dark\nWithout a fear that spring would never come\nYou simply held your green and silent heart\nAnd trusted in the rhythm of the sun\n\nYour petals did not rush to claim the light\nBut opened slow, one layer at a time\nA quiet lesson in the depth of night\nThat patience is a kind of sacred rhyme\n\nNow gold unfolds against the morning air\nA perfect map of where the seed began\nI feel a sudden spark within me there\nAwake to all I was before I ran\n\nTo chase the hours like a frantic thief\nIgnoring roots that hold the earth so deep\nYou teach the soul to find its own relief\nIn promises it has no need to keep\n\nSo I will breathe as you have learned to bloom\nNo longer fighting against the turning tide\nFinding my own unfolding from the gloom\nWith nothing left inside for me to hide", 7, "I ask the rose how long it waited\nFor the sun to touch its hidden spine,\nIt does not speak in words of language\nBut shows me how the light aligns.\n\nFrom tight and silent green beginnings\nTo petals wide and soft and red,\nIt taught my restless heart to breathe again\nWith every step the seasons led.\n\nNo rush to bloom before the time is right\nNo fear of winter's coming chill,\nJust patient trust in what must open\nAnd the quiet power of being still.\n\nNow I feel a spark ignite within\nAs roots run deep through soil and stone,\nAlive because I learned to wait\nAnd let my own true self be known.", 7, "I find you standing still in morning light\nA silent promise kept against the sky\nNo rush to answer, no need to fight\nAs clouds drift slowly, soft and high\n\nYou speak without a single word of sound\nIn petals layered deep with golden hue\nThe quiet lesson that I finally found\nIs how to trust the slow and steady view\n\nMy heart was tight, a bud held close in fear\nAfraid to break or let the world take hold\nBut watching you, the path becomes clear\nTo let the story of my growth unfold\n\nYou taught me that the waiting is not empty space\nBut soil where roots run deep and strong\nThat time is not a thief we must chase\nBut gentle hands where we belong\n\nNow I breathe the air you helped to make\nWith every breath a new beginning starts\nFor in your bloom, I choose to wake\nAnd carry life within my beating heart", 7], [444, "train", "The Light of the House by Louise Imogen Guiney", "Louise Imogen Guiney", "A poem about a speaker finding comfort in the lingering presence and memory of a deceased loved one, whose joyful spirit continues touching all who enter the home.", "Beyond the cheat of Time, here where you died, you live;\nYou pace the garden walk, secure and sensitive;\nYou linger on the stair: Love\u2019s lonely pulses leap!\nThe harpsichord is shaken, the dogs look up from sleep. Here, after all the years, you keep the heirdom still;\nThe youth and joy in you achieve their olden will,\nUnbidden, undeterred, with waking sense adored;\nAnd still the house is happy that hath so dear a lord.\nTo every inmate heart, confirmed in cheer you brought,\nYour name is as a spell midway of speech and thought,\nAnd to a wonted guest (not awestruck heretofore),\nThe sunshine that was you floods all the open door.", "The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light\nJust as they did when you were here to watch them spin,\nAnd though the silence fills the empty chair tonight,\nI hear your laughter rising from within.\n\nIt lingers in the creak of floorboards underfoot,\nA sudden warmth that brushes past my shoulder blade,\nAs if the house itself has learned to hold the root\nOf every joyful memory we ever made.\n\nStrangers walk through the door and pause to smile,\nUnknowing why the air feels soft and bright,\nThey feel a presence that remains a while,\nA ghost of joy that guides them through the night.\n\nYou are not gone but woven in the walls,\nIn every cup of tea and open book,\nYour spirit answers when the quiet calls,\nAnd turns the heavy heart into a nook.\n\nSo let the world outside keep turning cold,\nFor here inside, your love is still alive,\nA story that the very rooms have told,\nKeeping the grief at bay with gentle drive.", "The dust motes dance as they always did\nWhen she was here to laugh at them,\nAnd the light falls soft across the floor\nJust where her slippered feet would come.\n\nI feel a warmth that is not the fire\nBut something she left behind,\nA touch upon my shoulder blade\nAs if she leaned and smiled.\n\nThe cat still rubs against the chair leg\nWith the same demanding purr,\nAnd the air seems full of humming tunes\nThat used to fill the house.\n\nIt is not that she has gone away,\nBut that she has spread herself out thin\nUntil every corner of this room\nIs touched by her bright spirit.\n\nShe is in the window's sudden gleam,\nIn the shadow on the wall,\nIn the silence that is not quite silence,\nBut her waiting there for all.", 6, "The dust motes dance where sunlight hits the floor,\nJust as they did when you were here before.\nI hear a laugh that isn't quite my own,\nA sudden warmth within this quiet stone.\n\nYou left no silence in these empty rooms,\nBut filled them with your bright and blooming blooms.\nThe door swings wide for strangers passing by,\nAnd carries up your spirit to the sky.\n\nThey walk inside and feel a strange release,\nAs if your joy has settled down like peace.\nThey do not know the name of who is gone,\nYet leave their hearts a little lighter on.\n\nSo though you sleep beneath the grass so green,\nYour laughter lingers in the space between.\nIt touches all who cross this threshold now,\nAnd makes me smile through every tearful bow.", 7, "The dust motes dance in afternoon light\njust as they did when you were here,\nspinning gold through the quiet air\nbefore settling on the worn wooden floor.\n\nI hear your laughter in the creak of the stairs,\na bright echo that refuses to fade,\nand the door opens not with a slam\nbut with the gentle push of your memory.\n\nStrangers walk in and stop to smile,\ndrawn by a warmth they cannot name,\nfeeling a sudden lift in their heavy hearts\nas if your spirit brushed against their shoulder.\n\nYou are not gone, but woven into the walls,\nin the scent of rain on the porch,\nin the way the sun hits the kitchen table,\ntouching everyone who crosses the threshold.\n\nSo I sit in this house full of ghosts\nthat feel more like guests than shadows,\ncomforted by the knowledge that joy remains\nlong after the one who brought it has left.", 6, "The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light\nJust as they did when you were here to watch them spin,\nAnd though the chair beside the window stands empty now,\nI feel the warmth of where your laughter used to begin.\n\nWhen friends arrive and step across the threshold stone,\nThey do not find a house of silence or of gray,\nBut hear a sudden echo in the creaking floorboards,\nA ghost of joy that chases all the shadows away.\n\nYou left no heavy weight of grief upon these walls,\nOnly a lingering scent of rain on summer grass,\nA memory so bright it turns the ordinary moments\nInto a gentle path for those who come to pass.\n\nSo I sit quiet in the room you loved so well,\nAnd know you are not gone but woven through the air,\nTouching every heart that enters with a smile,\nProving that love is never truly anywhere.", 6, "The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light\nJust as they did when you were here to watch them spin,\nAnd though the silence holds a weight so deep and bright,\nIt is not empty now that I let your laughter in.\n\nI feel you in the creaking floorboard by the door,\nA gentle nudge against my weary, walking feet,\nAs if you're guiding me to find one little more\nOf warmth within this house where joy and sorrow meet.\n\nThe kettle whistles with a tune you used to hum,\nA melody that lingers on the kitchen air,\nAnd strangers entering find their spirits overcome\nBy something kind that hangs above the wooden chair.\n\nThey say the room feels lighter than it ought to be,\nThat shadows shrink away from corners sharp and cold,\nBut I know better, for I see your spirit free\nIn every story that the old walls have told.\n\nYou are the breeze that rustles through the heavy curtains,\nThe sudden smile that breaks a stranger's quiet frown,\nNo longer gone, but woven into all the currents\nThat lift us up when we are feeling worn and down.\n\nSo let the memory settle like a soft embrace,\nNot as a ghost to haunt the edges of the night,\nBut as a steady, warm and unassuming grace\nThat turns the ordinary dark into pure light.", 6, "The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light\nJust as they did when you were here to watch them rise\nI walk through rooms that hold your quiet breath\nAnd feel the warmth that never truly dies\n\nA chair still creaks beneath a phantom weight\nWhere laughter used to spill across the floor\nThe scent of rain and old books fills the air\nAnd opens up a familiar, gentle door\n\nStrangers come to see what remains behind\nBut find instead a spirit soft and bright\nThey say the house feels kind, a living thing\nThat holds the echo of your endless light\n\nNo shadow falls where you once stood so tall\nFor joy has rooted deep within these walls\nAnd though my hand cannot reach out to touch\nYour memory answers every time I call\n\nSo let the silence sing with all you gave\nA song that lingers in the hollow space\nYou are not gone but woven in the weave\nOf every smile that graces this warm place", 6, "The dust motes dance in afternoon light\nJust as you taught them to do\nA silent rhythm, a familiar sight\nThat makes the heavy air feel new\n\nYour laughter lingers in the hall\nWhere shadows used to grow\nIt echoes off the kitchen wall\nAnd softens every blow\n\nI walk through rooms you filled with song\nAnd feel your hand on mine\nThough silence stretches, it feels strong\nWith memories that intertwine\n\nThe garden blooms with colors bright\nThat mirror your warm smile\nA testament to endless night\nThat still has room for life\n\nSo let the wind carry your name\nThrough open doors and sky\nFor love is not a fading flame\nBut how we learn to fly", 6], [447, "ultra_held_out", "Edgar Allan Poe by Timothy Thomas Fortune", "Timothy Thomas Fortune", "\"A poem about a speaker celebrating and romanticizing the works, life, and enduring legacy of a poet, even through his darker moments, until his death silenced his song.\"", "I know not why, but it is true\u2014it may,\nIn some way, be because he was a child\nOf the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled\u2014\nI love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day\nWas spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled,\nWhen not along his path shone forth one ray\nOf light, of hope, to guide him on the way,\nThat to earth's cares he might be reconciled.\nNot one of all Columbia's tuneful choir\nHas pitched his notes to such a matchless key\nAs Poe\u2014the wizard of the Orphic lyre!\nNot one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he,\nWho, like an echo came, an echo went,\nSinging, back to his mother element.", "He walked the streets where shadows stretch the longest,\nAnd turned the greyest ash to burning gold,\nA master of the sorrow and the song,\nWho made the broken heart a story told.\nHis ink was mixed with midnight's heavy rain,\nYet every drop became a star above,\nHe found the beauty in the sharp, deep pain,\nAnd wove it tight within a thread of love.\n\nWe cheered the chaos that he dared to speak,\nThe madness dancing on the edge of sense,\nFor in his dark, we found a path so weak,\nThat led us to a strange and sweet defense.\nNo storm could break the rhythm of his rhyme,\nThough winter froze the blood within his veins,\nHe sang until he conquered space and time,\nAnd filled the hollow air with sweet refrains.\n\nBut silence came, a thief without a sound,\nTo steal the breath that fed the rising fire,\nThe final note fell softly to the ground,\nAs life withdrew from out his tired wire.\nNow stillness holds the page where words once grew,\nA quiet tomb for songs that will not cease,\nYet in the void, his legacy breaks through,\nAn endless echo of his wild release.", "He sang of suns that broke the morning mist\nAnd gardens where the nightingales were lost,\nHe sang of wine and women and the dust\nThat settles on the brow of kings at last.\n\nBut when the fever burned his blood to fire,\nWhen shadows lengthened in his narrow room,\nHe turned his song into a dark desire\nTo make the darkness bloom.\n\nHe saw the stars as eyes that watched him die,\nThe moon a skull that smiled upon his bed;\nHe made the silence of the grave a cry,\nAnd filled the empty air with songs unsaid.\n\nSo he was great in joy and great in pain,\nA giant in the day, a giant in the night,\nUntil the final silence came again,\nAnd quenched the candle of his song with light.", 6, "I loved the way he turned the morning light\nInto a golden coin to pay for bread,\nAnd how he made the shadow of the night\nA velvet cloak for weary heads to rest.\nHe sang of storms that broke the willow's spine,\nOf bitter wine and tears that salted lips,\nYet found in every ruin such design\nThat even grief became a poet's script.\n\nHis life was not a straight and quiet road,\nBut jagged peaks where frost and fire met,\nWhere heavy burdens weighed upon his load,\nAnd silence often stole his breath and wit.\nBut still he spoke, with voice both rough and sweet,\nUntil the final curtain fell so deep\nThat all the music of his wandering feet\nWas hushed within the earth's eternal sleep.\n\nNow silence holds the room where once he stood,\nThe song is done, the lyre lies broken now,\nBut though the living man has understood\nNo more, his legacy remains as bough\nOf fruit that falls when winter winds blow cold,\nTo feed the roots that keep the story told.", 7, "I trace the ink that bled from his trembling hand,\nA map of storms he walked to write the rain,\nHe turned the rotting wood into a wand\nAnd made the broken heart a golden grain.\nHis laughter was a bell that shook the dust,\nHis sorrow was a river deep and wide,\nIn every shadow cast by love or lust,\nHe found a secret place where truth could hide.\n\nEven when the fever burned his brow,\nAnd silence tried to steal the words away,\nHe sang of how the winter brings the snow\nTo cover up the scars of yesterday.\nThe darker moments were but velvet night\nThat set the stars of genius burning bright,\nHe loved the world enough to fight the dark\nAnd leave a spark within each heavy mark.\n\nBut then the final curtain fell so slow,\nThe breath grew thin, the melody ran dry,\nThe songbird ceased its flight to rest below\nBeneath the vast and unrelenting sky.\nNow silence holds the room where once he stood,\nA quiet ghost in all the books he wrote,\nYet still I feel the warmth of understood,\nThe legacy that time cannot revoke.\nFor though the voice is stilled, the song remains,\nA living fire that burns through pain and loss,\nHe turns the grief into eternal rains\nThat water seeds beyond the garden's cross.", 7, "He spun the world from threads of midnight blue,\nAnd found a sunrise in the cracks of stone,\nHis verses were the dew that kissed the dew,\nA kingdom built where he had walked alone.\n\nWe drank the wine of sorrow from his cup,\nFor even grief was gold within his hand,\nHe lifted broken things and made them up,\nAnd taught the shadows how to understand.\n\nThe stormy nights he wrote with fevered pen,\nWere not a curse but proof of burning fire,\nHe loved the rain that fell on window panes,\nAnd sang the thunder like a sweet desire.\n\nBut then the silence crept across the page,\nThe ink ran dry before the final line,\nThe songbird ceased its warble in the cage,\nAnd left the melody incomplete, divine.\n\nNow death has stilled the voice that knew our pain,\nYet echoes linger in the empty air,\nFor though his breath is gone and blood is vain,\nThe song remains, and we are still aware.", 7, "He walked through valleys made of ink and shadow,\nWhere every stone was shaped by a trembling hand,\nAnd in the gloom he found a brighter glow,\nA fire that burned against the shifting sand.\nHis verses were not just for light and joy,\nBut carved from grief that learned to sing aloud,\nTurning the heavy silence into noise,\nA stormy cloud within a quiet crowd.\n\nWe loved the cracks where broken pieces showed,\nThe way his heart bled out on paper white,\nFor even in the darkest path he trod,\nHe painted stars to guide us through the night.\nHis life was not a straight and steady line,\nBut jagged edges cutting deep and true,\nYet every wound became a grand design,\nThat taught the world how to feel something new.\n\nThen came the hush that no one could command,\nWhen breath grew thin and fingers lost their grip,\nThe final note dissolved across the land,\nAs time unspooled its final, silent trip.\nThe song has stopped, the instrument is still,\nNo more the voice that shook the winter air,\nBut though the singer lies upon the hill,\nThe echo lingers everywhere we dare.", 6, "You spun the night into a golden thread\nAnd taught the shadows how to sing along\nYour ink was blood, your breath a living word\nThat turned the silence into something strong\nI loved the storms you conjured from the page\nThe jagged edges of your broken heart\nFor in your pain, a strange and holy rage\nMade every fractured moment feel like art\n\nYou danced within the fire and the rain\nA lover of the dark, a king of grief\nWho found a crown inside the deepest pain\nAnd offered it as proof of relief\nNo sorrow went unwritten or unseen\nNo tear was shed without a rhyme to keep\nYou built a world where all the lost could lean\nAnd promised that the darkness would not sleep\n\nBut time is cruel to even gods of song\nAnd eventually the final note must fade\nThe pen grew still, the heavy hand went wrong\nLeaving the vast and echoing parade\nNow only echoes linger in the air\nOf verses sung when life was burning bright\nWe hold the ghost of what you used to share\nUntil the silence claims the last goodnight", 7, "He walked through fields of ink and rain\nWhere sorrow bloomed like wild refrain\nA pen that carved the night in gold\nTo make the broken stories told\nI trace the lines he left behind\nThe jagged edges of his mind\nThat turned the shadow into light\nAnd made the darkness feel so right\n\nHis laughter danced on paper thin\nWhile storms raged deep within\nHe drank the wine of grief and fear\nAnd found the beauty hidden there\nNo verse was wasted, none too dark\nJust embers glowing in the spark\nOf every word he dared to speak\nAgainst the silence of the week\n\nBut time is cruel to mortal hands\nAnd pulls the singer from the lands\nThe final stanza fades to gray\nAs winter steals the warmth away\nThe song cuts short, the breath runs out\nLeaving only echoes in the doubt\nYet still I hear the rhythm rise\nBeneath the weight of endless skies\n\nFor though the voice has ceased to sing\nThe legacy remains a thing\nOf fire that refuses to die\nBeneath the vast and starry sky\nWe celebrate the man and art\nThe beating of a weary heart\nThat lived to write until the end\nAnd left us with a friend", 7], [449, "ultra_held_out", "The Death of Fred Clifton by Lucille Clifton", "Lucille Clifton", "\"A poem about a departing spirit leaving behind worldly memories and being drawn toward a deeper spiritual force beyond the physical world.\"", "I seemed to be drawn\nto the center of myself\nleaving the edges of me\nin the hands of my wife\nand I saw with the most amazing\nclarity\nso that I had not eyes but\nsight,\nand, rising and turning,\nthrough my skin,\nthere was all around not the\nshapes of things\nbut oh, at last, the", "The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade\nAs echoes of the marketplace grow thin\nI leave behind the laughter and the shade\nOf gardens where I once began to spin\n\nThe clockwork heart that beat against my ribs\nNow slows its rhythm in a silent room\nNo longer bound by hunger or by nibs\nOf time that carved its lines within the gloom\n\nA current pulls, invisible and deep\nBeyond the stars that watch from distant skies\nIt calls the wandering soul to fall asleep\nIn waters where no mortal eye can rise\n\nThe memories dissolve like mist at dawn\nThe names I knew are lost upon the breeze\nThe thread is cut, the tether finally gone\nTo join the vast and ancient symphonies", "The heavy chain of memory breaks at last,\nThe rusted links of names and faces fall,\nI leave the dusty attic of the past\nAnd climb the ladder to the empty hall.\n\nThe pictures on the wall begin to fade,\nThe laughter in the room is just a sound,\nThe scent of roses that I once displayed\nIs now but vapor rising from the ground.\n\nI feel a wind that does not blow from earth,\nA pull that draws me upward through the air,\nAs if a great magnet hid behind the birth\nOf stars was calling me beyond my care.\n\nThe walls dissolve, the roof falls off away,\nI see no ceiling but the endless blue,\nThe light is different than it was today,\nIt is a deeper light and truer too.\n\nI go where there are no more memories left,\nNo sorrow or regret to weigh me down,\nNo shadow of the body, no bereft,\nBut only spirit moving toward the crown.", 7, "The heavy chains of flesh dissolve at last\nAnd memories of sun and rain grow thin\nLike mist that clings to morning grass\nBefore the wind blows through again\n\nI leave the clock's relentless ticking sound\nThe taste of bread, the warmth of hands\nThe maps I drew on shifting ground\nNow fade like footprints in the sands\n\nA pull begins within the bone\nNot up or down but deep inside\nA silent call, a quiet throne\nWhere all the hidden things abide\n\nNo longer bound by sight or touch\nOr time that breaks and mends the day\nI feel a vast and ancient hush\nThat draws the wandering soul away\n\nThe world recedes to distant gray\nA dream half-forgotten in the light\nAs I am swept and carried far\nInto the deep and endless night", 6, "The heavy cloak of flesh grows thin and cold\nAs whispers of the market fade to dust\nThe names I loved, the stories told and retold\nNow slip like water through an open fist\n\nI see the sun but do not feel its heat\nThe garden blooms without a scent for me\nThe rhythm of the beating heart is sweet\nYet distant as a song across the sea\n\nA pull begins within the silent core\nNot gravity that holds the earth in place\nBut something vast that waits behind the door\nTo wash away this temporary trace\n\nThe memories dissolve like mist at dawn\nThe griefs and joys become a single thread\nI leave the shadows of the night withdrawn\nAnd turn toward the light where all is said\n\nNo longer bound by time or space or form\nI drift toward the deep and endless blue\nWhere silence is a music warm and warm\nAnd every soul returns to what is true", 7, "The heavy coat of skin falls to the floor\nA silent heap where once a heartbeat roared\nI watch the dust settle on wooden shelves\nWhere photographs hold faces I no longer know\n\nThe colors fade from green and gold to gray\nAs memories lose their sharp and stinging edge\nThe noise of markets, laughter, and of rain\nDissolves into a soft and distant hush\n\nNow something vast begins to pull me near\nNot with a hand but with a quiet hum\nA current rising from the deep below\nThat calls the light within my chest to rise\n\nNo chains of earth can hold this drifting form\nNo anchor made of sorrow or of joy\nI turn away from all that was and is\nTo walk toward the silence waiting there\n\nThe boundary thins until it vanishes\nAnd I am swept beyond the starry dome\nInto the arms of something old and new\nWhere time unspools and every soul is one", 6, "The heavy cloak of flesh grows thin and gray\nAs whispers fade from ears that can no longer hear\nThe clockwork ticking in the chest slows down\nTo match the rhythm of a distant sphere\n\nI leave behind the garden I once tended\nWhere every stone held weight and memory deep\nThe laughter lost, the sorrow unattended\nAre promises I cannot now keep\n\nA current pulls beneath the surface tension\nOf water turning into light and air\nNo longer bound by time or friction\nOr gravity that holds me to the chair\n\nThe walls dissolve like mist before the morning\nAnd shadows stretch to meet a brighter source\nA silent song begins its sweet adorning\nGuiding my spirit on its final course\n\nNot ending here but simply moving through\nBeyond the veil where silence starts to sing\nI let the world go, making space for you\nThe ancient force that waits to welcome in", 7, "The heavy cloak of skin falls soft upon the stone\nA whisper fades where once a heartbeat loudly beat\nThe colors of the earth begin to lose their tone\nAs gravity releases its familiar, tight retreat\n\nI leave behind the laughter etched in dusty air\nThe taste of rain, the warmth of sun on open hands\nNo longer bound by sorrow or by deep despair\nI drift away from all the maps that I have planned\n\nA pull arises from the silence deep and vast\nNot empty void but something full and ancient, bright\nIt draws me past the shadows of the fading past\nInto a dawn that holds no end within its light\n\nThe memories dissolve like mist before the morning fire\nThe self I knew unspools into the endless blue\nThere is no weight, no chain, no final, cold desire\nOnly the song of stars that calls the spirit new", 7, "The heavy chains of bone dissolve\nAs morning light begins to fade\nA whisper calls from deep within\nTo lead the weary soul away\n\nNo longer bound by shifting sand\nOr echoes of a spoken name\nThe heart unclenches its tight hold\nOn all it loved and lost in flame\n\nA current pulls through silent air\nBeyond the reach of sight and sound\nWhere time dissolves into the vast\nAnd ancient truths are finally found\n\nIt rises past the fading stars\nThrough layers thin as morning mist\nLeaving behind the ghost of self\nTo merge with forces never kissed\n\nThe journey ends where words take flight\nIn oceans made of purest grace\nA spirit freed from earthly weight\nEmbracing love's eternal space", 7], [451, "ultra_held_out", "An Army Corps on the March by Walt Whitman", "Walt Whitman", "\"A poem about an exhausted yet nationalistically vigorous army corps toiling forward through dust, marching inevitably onward towards victory.\"", "With its cloud of skirmishers in advance,\nWith now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley,\nThe swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on,\nGlittering dimly, toiling under the sun\u2014the dust-cover'd men,\nIn columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground,\nWith artillery interspers'd\u2014the wheels rumble, the horses sweat,\nAs the army corps advances.", "Their boots are heavy with the weight of miles,\nYet in their chests a fire refuses to die.\nThe dust rises like a brown and choking shroud,\nBut they march on, a single, breathing crowd.\n\nEach step is pain, each breath a ragged sound,\nYet glory pulls them forward from the ground.\nThey do not speak of home or soft repose,\nOnly the flag that snaps against the breeze.\n\nThrough grit and grime, the rhythm never breaks,\nA steel resolve for every nation's sake.\nThough eyelids burn and shoulders sag with strain,\nThey push ahead through sun and pouring rain.\n\nNo fatigue can halt this tide of will,\nFor victory waits upon the distant hill.\nOnward they go, a wall of flesh and bone,\nTo claim the land that they have made their own.", "Their boots are caked in the red dust of the road\nAnd their eyes are heavy with the weight of the sun,\nYet they march onward, a wall of iron and blood,\nWith the flag of the Fatherland high over them.\n\nThey do not speak; they only trudge and breathe,\nDragging their limbs like leaden weights through the grit,\nBut their hearts beat with a fierce national fire,\nAnd they know that victory is waiting ahead.\n\nThe dust chokes them, the heat blinds them,\nBut they cannot stop, for the cause is just,\nAnd the glory of the nation demands it,\nSo they toil forward to the inevitable triumph.", 6, "Their boots are heavy as the earth itself\nYet they do not stop, they do not turn back\nThrough clouds of choking dust that blind the eye\nThey march with eyes fixed on a distant flag\n\nThe sun beats down upon their weary brows\nBut in their chests a fire burns undimmed\nFor every step is for the sacred soil\nAnd every breath is drawn to serve the land\n\nThough muscles scream and lungs are parched and dry\nThe rhythm of the drum keeps time inside\nA beat that says the victory is near\nThat glory waits beyond the horizon line\n\nNo sleep will come until the goal is reached\nNo rest until the banner touches ground\nWith dust upon their lips and dust within\nThey toil onward, relentless and profound\n\nThe nation calls and they must answer still\nThrough heat and haze and pain and grinding fatigue\nThey move like iron through the shifting sand\nTo plant the standard where the others flee", 7, "The dust hangs thick like a shroud of gray\nYet the drumbeat drives the weary feet\nThrough the choking air and the blinding day\nWhere the road to glory is rough and steep.\n\nTheir lungs are fire, their backs are bent\nBut the flag above them burns so bright\nA crimson promise that cannot be spent\nGuiding them forward into the light.\n\nNo cry of pain can break the line\nFor the nation calls with a voice of steel\nAnd every step in the heat divine\nIs a hammer blow on the wheel of fate.\n\nThey march as one through the grit and grime\nWith hearts that beat for the homeland's name\nIgnoring the sweat and the loss of time\nTo claim the prize of the coming fame.\n\nThough legs give out and eyes grow dim\nThe spirit rises, unbroken, strong\nTo the rhythm of the victory hymn\nThat carries them where they all belong.\n\nOnward they push through the swirling sand\nInevitable force, a tide of red\nWith the future waiting at their command\nAnd the living dead cheering ahead.", 7, "Their boots are caked in layers of the earth\nThat birthed them and will one day hold their bones\nYet in their eyes a fire refuses death\nA burning flag that mocks the setting suns\n\nThe dust rises thick to choke the weary lung\nBut breath is drawn with rhythm and with pride\nThey march as one great beast of iron will\nWith nothing left to lose but empty side\n\nNo weight of fatigue can break this sacred chain\nFor every step is carved into the land\nThe nation's heart beats loud within their chests\nAs forward moves the unrelenting band\n\nThough shoulders sag beneath the heavy pack\nThe spirit soars above the grinding road\nTo claim the dawn that waits beyond the haze\nAnd bear the burden of the final load\n\nOnward they stride through valleys filled with gloom\nToward the peak where victory must stand\nExhausted flesh but spirits forged in steel\nThe marching tide that sweeps across the land", 7, "The dust hangs thick as iron wool around their throats\nYet boots strike ground with rhythm of a beating heart\nThough shoulders sag beneath the weight of heavy coats\nThe flag above them snaps and tears the stagnant air apart\n\nTheir eyes are hollowed out by sun and endless miles\nBut fire burns within the chest where lesser men would break\nThey march through ash and silence past the broken, ruined isles\nFor every step they take is for the homeland's sake\n\nNo voice is left to sing but still the columns press ahead\nA river forged of flesh and bone that will not turn back now\nThe horizon waits in promise while the weary dead are fed\nBy dreams of glory rising from the sweat upon the brow\n\nLet fatigue be but a shadow cast before the dawn\nFor victory is the only path this nation knows to tread\nThrough grit and grime and grinding pain the final march goes on\nUntil the banner plants itself upon the conqueror's bed", 6, "Boots of iron grind the dry and choking earth\nWhile lungs burn red with every ragged breath\nThe banners snap above a sky of dust\nA nation's will that death itself cannot quench\n\nTheir faces mask in grime and sweat and ash\nYet eyes ignite with fire from ancient vows\nNo step is wasted, no command is rash\nAs history demands its sacred crown\n\nThey drag their weary limbs through valleys deep\nWhere silence breaks beneath the drumbeat sound\nFor victory waits where shadows dare to sleep\nAnd glory rises from this hallowed ground\n\nThe march goes on though muscles scream in pain\nThrough storm and fire, through night and endless day\nThis corps shall stand like unbreakable chain\nUntil the final enemy fades away", 7, "Boots grind deep into the choking gray\nWhere sun bleeds out and shadows fade away\nA thousand lungs draw in the dusty air\nWith heavy hearts but flags of iron care\n\nThough shoulders bow beneath the weight of years\nThe rhythm holds against the tide of fears\nEach step a vow carved deep in bone and sand\nTo claim the future for the fatherland\n\nNo rest is found in valleys cold and steep\nOnly the promise that the weary keep\nFor every drop of sweat upon the brow\nIs payment due to build the kingdom now\n\nThe horizon calls with voices loud and clear\nTo banish doubt and silence every fear\nWe march not as men broken by the fight\nBut as the dawn that swallows up the night\n\nOnward through the haze where glory waits\nTo seal the gates and open all the gates\nThe dust may cling to skin and soul alike\nBut victory is the only path we strike", 7], [453, "train", "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower by Dylan Thomas", "Dylan Thomas", "A poem about a speaker comparing himself to other forms of life, exploring a powerful force that drives and destroys the natural world, while remaining unable to communicate with or understand the nature of time.", "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower\nDrives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees\nIs my destroyer.\nAnd I am dumb to tell the crooked rose\nMy youth is bent by the same wintry fever.\n\nThe force that drives the water through the rocks\nDrives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams\nTurns mine to wax.\nAnd I am dumb to mouth unto my veins\nHow at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.\n\nThe hand that whirls the water in the pool\nStirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind\nHauls my shroud sail.\nAnd I am dumb to tell the hanging man\nHow of my clay is made the hangman's lime.\n\nThe lips of time leech to the fountain head;\nLove drips and gathers, but the fallen blood\nShall calm her sores.\nAnd I am dumb to tell a weather's wind\nHow time has ticked a heaven round the stars.\n\nAnd I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb\nHow at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.", "I am not the wolf that hunts by scent and sound,\nNor the oak that drinks the rain and knows the ground.\nThe river rushes with a purpose I cannot name,\nA fire that burns the forest yet remains the same.\nIt drives the tide to crush the shell upon the sand,\nIt breaks the bone of mountains held within its hand.\nThis force is in the beating of my own small chest,\nYet it will tear me down and leave me with no rest.\n\nI watch the seasons turn like wheels I cannot stop,\nWhile time flows past me like a deep and endless drop.\nI try to speak to minutes, to ask where they have gone,\nBut silence answers back before the break of dawn.\nThe bird understands the wind, the fish the ocean's deep,\nBut I am left alone while all the world asleeps.\nNo voice can reach the hour, no ear can hear the year,\nJust this relentless motion that makes the future clear.\n\nIt builds the coral reef and then dissolves the stone,\nIt leaves me standing here, entirely on my own.\nA creature made of moments I cannot hold or keep,\nWatching the great destruction while the others sleep.\nI do not know the beginning, nor the final end,\nOnly the driving power that pulls us round again.", "I am less than the beetle that burrows\nthrough the rot of an oak, for he knows his hour\nand the weight of the leaf that falls on him;\nI am less than the shark in the deep,\nfor he knows the taste of blood and the cold\nof the current, and when to turn back.\n\nThere is a force that drives them all,\na wind that fills their sails and breaks their masts,\na hunger that gnaws at the root of the world,\nyet I cannot speak to it, nor they to me.\nIt pushes the river to the sea and the sea to the shore,\nit grinds the mountain to dust,\nand I stand here, unable to say what it is,\nor why it does not stop.\n\nTime is a beast that runs through my mind\nbut I cannot catch it; it is a bird that flies\nover the trees of the forest but I cannot see it.\nIt is a great wheel turning above my head\nthat I cannot look up at or down at,\nonly feel its shadow pass over me,\nleaving me cold, leaving me old,\nleaving me nothing.", 3, "I am not the oak that drinks the rain and knows\nThe slow turning of seasons in its rings,\nNor is the wolf who hunts by instinct's law\nAnd understands the hunger that it brings.\n\nThere is a wind that sweeps the forest floor\nAnd lifts the dust to build a mountain high,\nIt breaks the bone and opens up the door\nTo silence where the ancient voices die.\n\nThis force is strong as gravity or tide,\nIt pulls the stars apart and crushes them,\nYet I stand here with nowhere left to hide,\nBeneath the weight of what I cannot stem.\n\nI watch the clock hands spin but feel no beat,\nI hear the seconds fall like heavy stones,\nBut time is just a shadow at my feet\nThat speaks a language made of hollow tones.\n\nThe river flows and never asks me why,\nThe bird flies south without a word to say,\nBut I am stuck beneath this endless sky\nWith days that pass and nights that turn to day.\n\nI cannot ask the wind where it has been,\nOr tell the stone how long it waits to break,\nFor I am blind within the light I see,\nAnd deaf to all the promises we make.", 6, "I am not the wolf that knows the hunger of the moon,\nnor the oak that drinks the silence of the deep earth.\nThey move with a certainty I cannot hold,\ndriven by a current that tears through bone and leaf alike.\nIt is a force that builds the mountain only to grind it to dust,\nthat spins the galaxy then snuffs the star in a breath.\nI watch the river rush toward a sea I will never see,\nand feel this same power pulling at my own blood,\na tide that erodes the cliff of my mind.\nThe birds sing songs of seasons they understand,\nbut time is a wall I press my face against, blind and mute.\nI cannot ask it where it goes or why it burns so bright,\nI only know it drives the wind and breaks the stone,\nand leaves me here, a shadow trying to speak to the light,\nunable to hear the answer or name the hour.", 6, "I am not the wolf that hunts by scent\nNor the oak that drinks the rain\nI watch the river carve its path\nThrough stone and ancient vein\n\nThere is a wind that blows unseen\nThat builds the mountain high\nThen grinds it down to dust again\nBeneath a shifting sky\n\nIt feeds the bloom and kills the root\nIt spins the starry wheel\nA force of fire, a hand of ice\nThat makes the seasons feel\n\nBut I cannot speak to this great thing\nNor ask why time must run\nI stand within the ticking clock\nBeneath the rising sun\n\nThe seconds pass like falling leaves\nYet none can hold them tight\nI search for words to name the flow\nBut find only endless night", 6, "I am not the oak that drinks the rain\nNor the wolf that howls at shifting light\nI watch the river carve the stone in vain\nAnd feel a hunger burning through the night\n\nIt moves the stars and cracks the mountain spine\nA force that builds the nest and burns the hive\nIt turns the seed to dust and makes it mine\nYet I cannot ask the wind to survive\n\nThe hours slip like water through my hand\nNo voice can speak to what has passed or come\nI stand alone upon this shifting sand\nWhile silence swallows every single drum\n\nThe seasons spin but I remain the same\nUnreadable, unknown, and unaligned\nA stranger to the fire and to the flame\nThat leaves the world behind and seeks to find", 6, "I am not the oak that drinks the rain\nNor the wolf that knows the winter's bite\nI watch the river carve the stone in vain\nAnd wonder why I cannot read the light\n\nThe tide pulls back with hands I cannot see\nA force that builds the mountain, breaks the bone\nIt feeds the seed and strips the ancient tree\nA hunger that has claimed every throne\n\nI try to speak to moments passing by\nTo ask the clock where yesterday has gone\nBut silence answers with a hollow cry\nAs shadows stretch before the breaking dawn\n\nTime is a wall I walk but never climb\nA current dragging all things to the deep\nI measure years within a fleeting rhyme\nWhile secrets of the hours I cannot keep", 7, "I am not the oak that drinks the rain\nNor the wolf who howls at fading light\nI watch the river carve its ancient vein\nAnd feel the weight of endless night\n\nThe wind speaks in a tongue I cannot learn\nAs seasons burn and turn to dust and bone\nA fire within the embers starts to churn\nThat feeds the root but leaves the seed alone\n\nTime is a wall I press my hands against\nA silent current pulling at the shore\nIt moves with force no voice can ever count\nOr map the distance from before to more\n\nI stand amidst the chaos of the bloom\nWhere life and ruin dance a single step\nYet silence holds the space inside the room\nWhere words dissolve before they can be kept", 6], [457, "ultra_held_out", "The Messages by Wilfid Wilson Gibson", "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson", "\"A poem about a soldier repeating the stories of dying men over and over, never quite recounting their final messages, as his mind unravels under the weight of war's horrors.\"", "\u201cI cannot quite remember.... There were five\nDropt dead beside me in the trench\u2014and three\nWhispered their dying messages to me....\u201d\n\nBack from the trenches, more dead than alive,\nStone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee,\nHe hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly:\n\n\u201cI cannot quite remember.... There were five\nDropt dead beside me in the trench, and three\nWhispered their dying messages to me....\n\n\u201cTheir friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive\u2014\nWaiting a word in silence patiently....\nBut what they said, or who their friends may be\n\n\u201cI cannot quite remember.... There where five\nDropt dead beside me in the trench\u2014and three\nWhispered their dying messages to me....\u201d", "The trench is full of voices that never end\nI open my mouth to tell you what they said\nBut the words turn to ash before they leave my tongue\nA mother's name dissolves into the mud\nI try again, the story starts the same\nHe held a letter tight against his chest\nAnd whispered something soft about the rain\nBut now I only hear the static in my head\nThe final line escapes me like a ghost\nIt slips between my fingers and the dirt\nI swear I know it, swear I heard it clear\nYet when I speak, the sentence breaks apart\nAnother man falls down beside the wall\nHis eyes are wide with questions I can't answer\nHe reaches out for hands that aren't there anymore\nAnd I begin the tale I've told a thousand times\nAbout the boy who wanted to go home\nBut every time I reach the very end\nThe memory fractures, cracks, and fades away\nThe message dies inside the hollow space\nBetween the thunder and the beating heart\nI scream the start of stories over and over\nBut never reach the part where they say goodbye\nThe horror builds a wall around my mind\nAnd keeps the truth locked deep within the dark\nSo I repeat the first half of their lives\nWhile the last words rot beneath the heavy sky", "He walks the trench line with a voice like dry leaves\nAnd says, He said, He said,\nBut the words are always slipping away\nLike water through a sieve.\n\nI remember the face of the boy from Leeds,\nThe way his eyes were wide and wet,\nBut I cannot remember what he said\nBefore the mortar hit.\n\nHe said something about a girl in Leeds,\nOr was it a mother?\nSomething about a garden gate\nAnd a red dress under a tree.\n\nHe said, Tell her I tried to be good,\nOr did he say, Tell her I didn't mean to?\nI forget which it was,\nIt doesn't matter now.\n\nI try to tell you but the words go wrong,\nThey twist and they break,\nLike the leg of the man from Leeds\nWhen the shell broke it.\n\nHe said, Tell her I loved her very much,\nOr was it, Tell her I am sorry?\nI cannot remember the words,\nThey keep falling out of my head.\n\nIf I could just get the words right\nI would tell you what he said,\nBut I can never get them right,\nBecause the war is too loud.\n\nHe said, Tell her I thought of her all the time,\nOr was it, Tell her I forgot her name?\nI cannot remember,\nMy mind is unraveling.\n\nHe said something about a red dress,\nOr was it a blue one?\nHe said, Tell her to wear it for me,\nOr was it, Tell her not to wear it?\n\nI know he had a girl in Leeds,\nI know he had a mother,\nBut I do not know what he said,\nThe noise is too great.\n\nHe said, Tell her I died happy,\nOr was it, Tell her I died unhappy?\nI cannot remember,\nThe words are gone.\n\nHe said, Tell her I am dead,\nOr was it, Tell her I am not dead?\nI do not know,\nI cannot remember.\n\nHe said something about a gate,\nOr was it a wall?\nHe said, Tell her to wait for me,\nOr was it, Tell her not to wait?\n\nI know he wanted to say something,\nI know he tried to say it,\nBut I cannot remember the words,\nThey are lost in the noise.\n\nHe said, Tell her I loved her,\nOr was it, Tell her I hated her?\nI cannot remember,\nI am going mad.\n\nHe said something about a girl,\nOr was it a woman?\nHe said, Tell her to marry him,\nOr was it, Tell her not to marry him?\n\nI know he had a message,\nI know he wanted to give it to me,\nBut I cannot remember the words,\nThey are all mixed up.\n\nHe said, Tell her I am sorry,\nOr was it, Tell her I am glad?\nI cannot remember,\nThe war has made me forget.\n\nHe said something about a letter,\nOr was it a telegram?\nHe said, Tell her to read it,\nOr was it, Tell her not to read it?\n\nI know he had a message,\nI know he tried to tell me,\nBut I cannot remember the words,\nThey are lost in the shells.\n\nHe said, Tell her I am dying,\nOr was it, Tell her I am dead?\nI cannot remember,\nI am forgetting everything.\n\nHe said something about a garden,\nOr was it a field?\nHe said, Tell her to go there,\nOr was it, Tell her not to go there?\n\nI know he wanted to say something,\nI know he tried to say it,\nBut I cannot remember the words,\nThey are gone.\n\nHe said, Tell her I love her,\nOr was it, Tell her I don't love her?\nI cannot remember,\nI am losing my mind.\n\nHe said something about a ring,\nOr was it a watch?\nHe said, Give it to her,\nOr was it, Don't give it to her?\n\nI know he had a message,\nI know he tried to tell me,\nBut I cannot remember the words,\nThey are lost in the noise.\n\nHe said, Tell her I am sorry,\nOr was it, Tell her I am glad?\nI cannot remember,\nThe war has made me forget.\n\nHe said something about a girl,\nOr was it a woman?\nHe said, Tell her to marry him,\nOr was it, Tell her not to marry him?\n\nI know he had a message,\nI know he tried to give it to me,\nBut I cannot remember the words,\nThey are all mixed up.\n\nHe said, Tell her", 2, "The smoke still clings to the collar of my coat\nAnd I tell them what the boy in the trench said\nHow he asked for his mother's handkerchief\nBut the words slide off my tongue like oil\nI say he asked for water but it was not water\nIt was something else entirely\nSomething that burned the throat before it left the lips\n\nAgain I walk through the mud with the list\nOf names I cannot speak without shaking\nThe lieutenant said he saw a bird\nA bluebird on a wire, singing clear as glass\nBut when I open my mouth only static comes out\nOnly the sound of tearing canvas and wet earth\nI try to give you the message but the message is gone\nLost in the space between the bullet and the breath\n\nThey ask me again tomorrow, and I will tell them\nAbout the man who whispered about the garden\nAbout the roses that were blooming back home\nBut I will leave out the part where he screamed\nFor the silence was so loud it swallowed the name\nHe tried to carve into the dirt with a broken spoon\nI carry these ghosts in my pocket like stones\nToo heavy to throw away, too sharp to hold\n\nRound and round the campfire we sit\nAnd I spin the tale of the final wish\nBut the wish twists in my fingers like smoke\nIt becomes a prayer to a god who does not answer\nIt becomes a curse against the sky that stays gray\nI see their eyes staring from the dark behind my eyelids\nWaiting for me to say the right thing\nBut the right thing died with them in the mud\nSo I just tell the story again and again\nUntil the story is all there is\nUntil I am nothing but the echo of a voice\nThat stopped speaking years ago", 2, "He walks the trench and speaks to ghosts\nThe words are there but slip away\nA mother's name, a lover's vow\nDissolve before he starts to say\n\nI told you once about the boy\nWho begged for water in the dust\nBut now I cannot find the sound\nOf thirst that turns to iron rust\n\nHe says a man fell near his boot\nAnd whispered something soft and sweet\nBut when he tries to speak it out\nIt tastes like ash beneath his feet\n\nThe stories pile up in his throat\nLike stones he cannot swallow down\nHe repeats the start of every tale\nBut never reaches where they drown\n\nI heard him say he saw the light\nBefore the darkness took his eyes\nBut now the light is just a stain\nThat blurs the gray of endless skies\n\nHe opens wide his mouth to speak\nThe final wish, the last request\nBut only silence fills the air\nWhere peace should have been put to rest\n\nAgain he starts, again he stops\nThe thread is frayed, the knot is loose\nThe dying men are still alive\nInside this broken, hollow house\n\nHe tells them what they meant to say\nBut changes all the words around\nUntil the truth is lost completely\nAnd nothing holy can be found\n\nJust fragments floating on the wind\nOf things that were too hard to keep\nWhile he walks round and round the camp\nWith promises he cannot reap", 5, "He walks the trench and speaks to ghosts\nWho never speak back\nA man in gray with eyes of glass\nRepeats what was said last night\nThe mother's name, the field of wheat\nThe promise of a letter sent\nBut when he reaches for the end\nThe words dissolve like smoke\n\nI told him I would tell you this\nHe says to empty air\nThe soldier on the left fell down\nWith blood upon his hair\nHe held my hand and whispered low\nAbout a girl named Sue\nAnd then he stopped and started again\nAbout a girl named Sue\n\nThe message is a heavy stone\nThat breaks against the teeth\nIt slips through fingers made of ash\nAnd falls beneath the wreath\nHe tries to say the final thing\nThe secret kept so tight\nBut only echoes fill the space\nWhere light once burned so bright\n\nAgain the story starts anew\nThe coughing and the rain\nThe fear that turned a boy to dust\nInside a metal chain\nHe wants to pass it on, to give\nThe dying breath away\nBut war has stolen up the line\nTo steal the words of day\n\nSo he recites the opening lines\nThe setting and the pain\nThe shadow stretching long and thin\nAcross the muddy plain\nBut never reaches where they died\nNever finds the truth\nJust loops around the horror's edge\nIn circles from his youth\n\nTell me again the ending now\nHe begs the silent wall\nBut silence is the only sound\nThat answers to his call\nThe stories pile like fallen leaves\nThat rot within the cold\nAnd every time he tries to speak\nHis mind grows slightly old", 3, "He opens his mouth to speak the names\nBut only static fills the air\nA thousand lips that never close\nAre trapped behind his stare\n\nI told you what he said I swear\nThe words were sharp and clear\nBut now they slip like sand through fingers\nAnd vanish in my ear\n\nIt was a promise of a home\nA mother's gentle hand\nYet when I try to shape the sound\nI cannot understand\n\nHe asked for water, cold and sweet\nOr maybe just the rain\nThe sentence breaks before it starts\nDissolving into pain\n\nAgain the story starts anew\nThe same old trembling start\nThe final wish is lost again\nBefore it leaves the heart\n\nThe voices scream inside his skull\nA chorus without end\nHe tries to hold the dying breath\nBut cannot comprehend\n\nSo he repeats the hollow sounds\nThe fragments of the dead\nWhile all the true and sacred things\nFade from within his head\n\nOver and over round and round\nThe tales of those who fell\nWith every word the truth decays\nUntil there is no shell", 6, "The fire crackles low again\nI tell them what the boy in green\nSaid just before the smoke took hold\nBut the words are wrong, they twist and fold\nHe spoke of home, of wheat and rain\nYet I repeat a different pain\nA name that isn't his at all\nA silent scream behind the wall\n\nAnother night, another ghost\nOf men who gave their final toast\nTo mothers waiting by the door\nBut my tongue trips on something more\nThan promises of safe return\nIt burns to watch the embers churn\nI try to say he loved the sea\nInstead I speak of broken trees\n\nThey ask me why the story shifts\nWhy truth dissolves into the drifts\nOf memory worn too thin to keep\nWhile shadows crawl from out their sleep\nI open wide my trembling mouth\nAnd spill the silence of the south\nNo final word can ever land\nJust fragments scattered through the sand\n\nAgain the tale begins to rise\nWith hollow eyes and vacant skies\nI search for what was meant to be\nA message lost to history\nThe soldier falls, the world goes still\nBut I cannot make the moment fill\nWith anything but static noise\nThat drowns the voices of the boys", 5, "The mud holds breath that never leaves\nA mouth opens but no sound escapes\nHe speaks of names he cannot keep\nOf promises the shadows steal\n\nAgain he walks the trench of gray\nWhere voices fade to static noise\nA brother's last request unspoken\nLost inside the fog of war\n\nHe tries to weave the thread again\nBut fingers slip on rusted steel\nThe words dissolve before they form\nJust echoes in a hollow chest\n\nOne man begged for morning light\nAnother whispered home too soon\nThe soldier counts the broken vows\nWhile sanity begins to bend\n\nRound and round the stories spin\nA loop of grief without an end\nNo final word can reach the ear\nOnly the silence left behind\n\nHe screams into the empty air\nBut hears only the rain descend\nThe dying men are still alive\nTrapped within his fraying mind", 5], [466, "ultra_held_out", "A Complaint by William Wordsworth", "William Wordsworth", "A poem about a speaker lamenting the painful transformation of a once-beloved person into a stranger, and grieving the emotional misery that love has brought him.", "There is a change\u2014and I am poor;\nYour love hath been, nor long ago,\nA fountain at my fond heart's door,\nWhose only business was to flow;\nAnd flow it did; not taking heed\nOf its own bounty, or my need.\n\nWhat happy moments did I count!\nBlest was I then all bliss above!\nNow, for that consecrated fount\nOf murmuring, sparkling, living love,\nWhat have I? shall I dare to tell?\nA comfortless and hidden well.\n\nA well of love\u2014it may be deep\u2014\nI trust it is,\u2014and never dry:\nWhat matter? if the waters sleep\nIn silence and obscurity.\n\u2014Such change, and at the very door\nOf my fond heart, hath made me poor.", "The face I knew has turned to stone,\nA mask of cold and distant gray,\nWhere once your laughter softly shone,\nNow silence holds the light at bay.\n\nI trace the lines you used to share,\nBut find a stranger staring back,\nWho walks with heavy, hollow air,\nAnd leaves my heart upon the track.\n\nThis love was meant to be a flame,\nThat warmed the winter in my chest,\nInstead it burned without a name,\nAnd put my quiet soul to test.\n\nOh, how the sweetness curdled fast,\nTo poison on the tongue of time,\nI mourn the future that we passed,\nAnd grieve the crime of loving rhyme.\n\nNow every memory cuts so deep,\nA knife inside a wound unseen,\nWhile all the promises we keep,\nAre shattered glass beneath the screen.\n\nI gave you all I had to give,\nOnly to lose myself in you,\nAnd wonder how I came to live,\nWith nothing left but this old blue.", "You were the map I traced with trembling hands,\nThe compass needle pointing true to north,\nUntil you turned your back and walked away,\nAnd left me standing in a foreign port.\n\nI loved the sound of your voice like morning rain,\nI loved the color of your eyes like deep green grass,\nBut now you are a stranger with a mask,\nWho speaks in riddles that I cannot pass.\n\nOh, love is not a garden full of roses,\nIt is a thorny bush that cuts and bleeds,\nIt is a fire that burns the house down,\nIt is a weed that chokes the other seeds.\n\nI gave you all my heart and you threw it out,\nYou stepped upon it with your heavy shoe,\nNow I am broken, and you are changed,\nAnd I do not know what else to do.\n\nWe were once two birds singing in one tree,\nNow we are two stones at the bottom of the sea.", 6, "I knew the weight of your hand before it turned to stone,\nThe warmth that used to melt the winter in my chest,\nNow you are a landscape I can no longer walk,\nA city built on laws I do not understand.\n\nYou wear your face like a mask made of polished glass,\nReflecting only what you wish to see,\nAnd when I speak, my voice bounces off the silence\nOf a room where I am no longer welcome.\n\nOh, love, you were the thief who stole my peace,\nWho traded my quiet mornings for this fever,\nThis hollow ache that sits behind my ribs\nLike a bird with broken wings beating against the cage.\n\nI mourn the person you were, though they stand right here,\nBreathing and blinking, yet utterly gone,\nReplaced by this cold stranger who looks through me\nAs if I were a windowpane instead of flesh.\n\nWhy did I open the door to let you in?\nWhy did I think that loving you would save me?\nInstead you have taught me how to bleed without a wound,\nHow to be dead while still drawing breath.", 3, "I knew the shape of your laughter first,\nBefore I knew the coldness in your eyes,\nWhen every word you spoke was soft and true,\nAnd love was just a light that filled the skies.\n\nBut slowly now the stranger steps inside,\nWith masks of stone and silence on his tongue,\nThe man I held has vanished from my side,\nBy bitter winds of change completely wrung.\n\nNow every touch brings fire to the skin,\nEach memory a wound that will not heal,\nI wonder where the person I loved is,\nOr if he died before this pain became real.\n\nThis love has built a prison for my heart,\nA cage of gold that holds me in despair,\nTo watch the one I cherished fall apart,\nAnd leave nothing but an empty chair.\n\nI grieve the ghost of who we used to be,\nWhile standing here with tears I cannot dry,\nFor love has taught me how it feels to be\nA beggar at the door of someone's lie.", 6, "I knew the map of every line upon your face,\nThe way the light would catch the curve of half a smile,\nBut now I walk through rooms where you have left no trace,\nAnd stare at hollow eyes that make my heart recoil.\n\nYou were the harbor in the storm, the steady ground,\nThe only voice that whispered peace when silence screamed,\nNow strangers wear the clothes that once we held so bound,\nAnd I am lost within the ruin of a dream.\n\nThis love was not a gift but heavy chains of gold,\nThat dragged me down to depths where joy could never breathe,\nA story written out before it could be told,\nWith nothing left to save but memories beneath.\n\nI mourn the ghost of who you were, the warmth you gave,\nBefore the frost took hold and turned your soul to stone,\nI curse the very name of love, this cruel, sharp wave,\nThat leaves me shivering and utterly alone.", 7, "I trace the lines of a face I know by heart\nBut find a stranger staring back in return,\nWhere once your laughter was the only art\nThat taught my weary soul how to burn.\n\nYou speak in tongues I never learned to hear,\nA cold and polished mask where warmth used to be,\nAnd every word you whisper draws me near\nTo drown in depths of what we used to see.\n\nOh, how the love I gave has turned to stone,\nA heavy chain that drags me through the night,\nI walk this path of grief entirely alone,\nBeneath a sky devoid of any light.\n\nThe memory of us is now a sharp refrain,\nCutting deep into the chest that still beats true,\nFor loving you has brought nothing but pain,\nAnd left me with a broken, hollow view.", 6, "I knew the warmth of hands that held me tight,\nBefore the shadow stole the light from eyes.\nNow silence fills the space where laughter bright\nOnce danced between us under summer skies.\n\nYou wear a face I barely recognize,\nA stranger draped in skin I used to know.\nThe gentle voice has turned to cold despise,\nAnd all our promises have ceased to grow.\n\nI mourn the ghost of who you used to be,\nWhile standing here within this hollow room.\nThe love we built has set my soul free\nTo wander through a garden full of gloom.\n\nHow cruel it is to ache for what is gone,\nTo kiss a memory that fades away.\nI count the hours until the breaking dawn,\nAnd pray the night will take the pain of day.", 7, "The face I knew has shifted in the light\nA stranger wearing skin I held so dear\nYou speak a tongue that sounds like distant night\nAnd silence fills the space where words used clear\n\nI trace the lines of memory on your hand\nBut find no warmth within the hollow touch\nWe built a world upon a shifting sand\nNow crumbling into dust and broken such\n\nIt hurts to love a ghost inside the room\nTo kiss the shadow of who you were before\nThe bloom has withered, leaving only gloom\nAnd I am left to count the silent score\n\nThis ache is heavy, sharp as winter rain\nThat washes clean the garden we once grew\nNo solace comes from calling out your name\nJust echoes of a love I cannot undo", 7], [467, "train", "To The Stone-Cutters by Robinson Jeffers", "Robinson Jeffers", "A poem about exploring the parallel between stone-cutters and poets, both striving to leave lasting monuments that outlive mortal human beings and survive through eternity.", "Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated\nChallengers of oblivion\nEat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,\nThe square-limbed Roman letters\nScale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well\nBuilds his monument mockingly;\nFor man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun\nDie blind and blacken to the heart:\nYet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained\nthoughts found\nThe honey of peace in old poems.", "The mason raises his heavy hammer high\nTo strike the granite with a rhythmic cry,\nWhile I lift up my pen to carve the air,\nWith ink and thought, a different kind of prayer.\n\nHis chisel chips away the stubborn grain\nTo shape a temple from the mountain's pain,\nMy words cut deep into the silent page\nTo build a house that outlives every age.\n\nHe knows the stone will hold through frost and fire,\nA fortress built on bedrock and desire,\nYet I have found that language holds its ground\nWhere silence and the turning years are bound.\n\nBoth seek the same impossible design,\nTo make a fleeting moment truly shine,\nAgainst the tide of time that washes all,\nWe stand as shadows waiting for the fall.\n\nLet empires crumble and the statues fade,\nInto the dust where ancient kings have laid,\nOur monuments remain in formless space,\nDefying death with an enduring grace.\n\nFor when the final breath has left the lung,\nAnd songs of earth are by the void unsung,\nThe poet's verse and sculptor's solid line\nWill walk together through the endless time.", "The stone-cutter strikes the granite with his mallet\nAnd chips away the superfluous, the weak,\nUntil a shape stands forth that will not crack\nWhen centuries of wind and rain have struck;\nHe carves a face or form to outlast flesh,\nTo stand when all the softness has been washed\nInto the sea, leaving a hard clean line\nThat time cannot erode. The poet does the same.\nHe strikes at words as at a block of stone,\nAnd chips away the flabby, the untrue,\nThe soft, the useless, till a shape remains\nOf thought or feeling which is hard and true,\nWhich will not crumble though the ages pass.\nBoth seek to make a monument that lasts\nBeyond the grave, beyond the mortal breath,\nA thing of beauty that defies the death\nOf man and matter, something to survive\nThrough eternity, and keep men's hearts alive.", 7, "The chisel strikes the granite face\nWith rhythmic and unyielding sound,\nWhile in a quiet, dusty place,\nA poet hammers on the ground.\n\nOne carves the marble, cold and deep,\nTo hold a king's immortal name;\nThe other wakes the words to sleep\nIn lines that bear no mortal shame.\n\nBoth seek the stone that time cannot\nDissolve with rain or rust or fire,\nA monument that will not rot\nBut climb beyond the grave's desire.\n\nThe sculptor chips away the waste\nUntil the statue stands alone;\nThe poet cuts the thought from haste\nTo make a verse of flesh and bone.\n\nThey work against the creeping gray\nThat eats the years and swallows men,\nTo build a bridge across the day\nAnd lead us back to them again.\n\nThough hands may turn to dust and clay,\nAnd voices fade into the air,\nThe carved word and the written say\nWill stand forever, standing there.", 7, "The chisel bites the granite with a sound\nThat echoes in the quarry's hollow deep,\nWhile ink flows from a pen across the ground\nTo wake the sleeping thoughts that poets keep.\nOne strikes the rock to shape a solid wall,\nA temple built of silence and of stone,\nThe other builds a tower, tall and tall,\nOf words arranged so they may stand alone.\n\nBoth know the hammer falls on fragile bone,\nAnd time will wear the marble smooth and gray,\nYet both believe their labor is not gone\nWhen dust returns the body to the clay.\nThe sculptor waits for centuries to pass,\nTo see his statue rise above the grass,\nThe poet trusts the verse he wrote to last\nLong after all the living are gone past.\n\nThey fight the river, wind, and rusting steel,\nWith different tools but one unyielding aim,\nTo make a thing that cannot help but feel\nThe weight of years without a trace of shame.\nSo let the mason carve the lion's face,\nAnd let the writer weave a thread of light,\nFor in this shared and ancient, holy race,\nThey seek to conquer darkness with the night.\n\nNo mortal hand can hold the final breath,\nBut stone and song defy the grave's decree,\nA monument against the march of death,\nForever standing, wild and free and free.", 7, "The chisel strikes the granite with a ring\nWhile ink flows dark across the paper's white,\nBoth hands are calloused by the work they bring\nTo pull a ghost from shadow into light.\nOne carves the mountain to defy the rain,\nOne shapes the breath to outlast time and bone,\nEach seeks a form that will not fade or wane\nWhen flesh returns to dust and seed is sown.\n\nThe mason measures angles, square and true,\nThe poet counts the syllables of grief,\nYet both believe in something born anew\nThat rises like a tower from the leaf.\nThey know the wind will wear the statue down,\nAs silence steals the verses from the page,\nBut in the act of making, they have found\nA way to step beyond the mortal cage.\n\nSo let the stone stand firm against the sea,\nAnd let the word endure the turning year,\nFor in their labor lies eternity,\nWhere memory makes the fleeting moment clear.\nNo tomb can hold what spirit has released,\nNo eraser wipes the truth the heart has told,\nBoth masters serve the same unyielding priest\nWho asks for gold where only love is sold.", 7, "The mason grips the chisel with a calloused hand\nAnd strikes the granite where the silence waits to be defined\nWhile I hold up my pen against the shifting sand\nTo carve a line of thought that time cannot unbind\n\nOne chips away the mountain to reveal a shape so grand\nThe other scrapes the darkness from the quiet mind\nBoth seek a form that will not crumble in the land\nA structure built for ages, far beyond the life we find\n\nThe stone may stand when cities turn to dust and bone\nWhen empires fade like shadows on a distant wall\nThe poem lives within the breath of those unknown\nWho read the words that answer every silent call\n\nWe are the architects of what remains behind\nThe cutters of the rock, the writers of the soul\nLeaving marks upon the face of human kind\nThat outlasts the fleeting moment, making broken pieces whole\n\nSo let the hammer fall and let the ink run deep\nAcross the endless years where memory is kept\nFor both the poet's verse and stonecutters' steep\nAre promises that mortal hands have fiercely reaped", 7, "The mason lifts the heavy chisel high\nAnd strikes the granite with a rhythmic sound\nWhile dust ascends to meet the empty sky\nWhere silence waits for what is newly found\n\nThe poet holds a pen of fragile bone\nAnd carves on paper lines that seek to stay\nTo build a tower from the flesh and stone\nThat stands against the coming of decay\n\nOne works in marble, cold and hard and deep\nThe other shapes the breath within the lung\nBut both have promises they mean to keep\nAgainst the years that swallow every tongue\n\nFor time will wear the mountain down to sand\nAnd rust the iron gates of ancient halls\nYet words remain within the waiting hand\nWhen memory fails and nothing else recalls\n\nThey are the architects of what survives\nBeyond the pulse that beats and then grows still\nA legacy carved out of living lives\nTo climb the quiet slopes of endless hill", 7, "The chisel strikes the granite face\nA rhythm born of dust and time\nWhile ink spills on the waiting page\nTo carve a verse that climbs the spine\n\nOne seeks the mountain's heavy heart\nTo shape a form that stands alone\nThe other hunts for fleeting words\nThat turn to stone beneath the bone\n\nThey work in silence, hand to tool\nIgnoring how the years unwind\nFor both know well the final truth\nThat flesh will fade but art remains behind\n\nNo breath can hold what they create\nNo shadow claims the lines they draw\nAs centuries dissolve the living skin\nThe monument begins to breathe anew\n\nLet empires fall and oceans shift\nLet stars burn out their ancient light\nThe poet sings, the cutter strikes\nAnd builds a home within the night", 6], [469, "ultra_held_out", "Out to Tender by Jean Bleakney", "Jean Bleakney", "\"A poem about rebuilding a conflict-ridden nation, lamenting empty words over action, pondering moderation amid partisanship, and doubting whether those who waged violence are capable of sustaining peace.\"", "Ceasefire, 1994\nAll along the motorway\nthey\u2019re resurfacing and bridge-strengthening\nand seeding the central reservation\nwith wild flowers.\nBut only an hour or so ahead\nthere is fierce growth in the ditches\nand the road diminishes\nto unmendable potholes.\nAnd there are places where the light\nsuddenly drops; where the branches,\nout of reach of the hedgecutter,\nare irrevocably pleached.\nThe whole talk these days is about words;\nthe glitzy newly-honed nouns\n\u2014like peace and process and permanence.\nBut there are other things to be said\nwith reference to particular definitions\nand in deference to the vernacular.\nThere are townlands where parameters\ninvariably decline to perimeters;\nwhere you can\u2019t be middle-of-the-road\nwhen you\u2019re the whole road.\nHere come the cowboy landscapers\nwith their quick-fix Castlewellan Golds.\nAs an old Fermanagh woman would\u2019ve said,\nThe same boys can do feats and shite wonders.", "The ink dries on the treaties signed in haste\nWhile rubble still chokes out the morning light\nWe trade in promises that cost us nothing\nAnd watch the hungry children fade from sight\n\nThey speak of unity with polished tongues\nOf bridges built on air and hollow vows\nBut silence fills the spaces where they should have acted\nLeaving only dust to settle on our brows\n\nIs there a middle path between the extremes?\nOr does the fever burn too hot to cool?\nThe partisan divides run deep as trenches\nWhere every voice is drowned by angry rule\n\nCan those who sharpened swords now hold the plow?\nCan hands stained red with blood grow soft enough to heal?\nI fear the peace we seek is but a mirage\nBuilt on the backs of those who learned to kill", "The speeches bloom like weeds in winter fields,\nCold words that freeze the soil we need to till.\nWe clap until our hands are numb and red,\nBut hear no spade strike deep into the ground,\nNo mortar mix, no hammer on the nail;\nJust empty air where broken walls should rise.\n\nAnd now they ask for moderation, too,\nAs if a man who has been shot at twice\nCan suddenly forget the pistol's heat\nAnd walk among his neighbors with a smile.\nThey say, \"Be moderate,\" while partisans\nStill sharpen knives behind their backs of hate.\n\nI wonder if the wolves can ever be\nShepherds again? If those who broke the peace\nHave any power to keep it when restored?\nOr is the blood too fresh upon their hands\nTo let them hold the olive branch without\nA sudden twitching of the finger-tips?", 2, "The ink is dry on treaties signed in haste,\nYet dust still settles where the mortar fell.\nWe speak of healing with a hollow taste,\nWhile silence screams from every broken shell.\nThe politicians trade in empty air,\nWith promises that rot before they're spoken,\nIgnoring how the hungry children stare,\nAt walls that stand because no hands have broken.\n\nAnd now we ask for moderation's hand,\nTo walk the middle path between the red and blue,\nBut can a man who learned to hold command\nIn blood, learn quickly how to build anew?\nThe sword is heavy, but the plowshare light,\nYet those who know the weight of steel so well\nMay find the soil too dark to till aright,\nAnd fear the peace they claim they love so well.\n\nFor violence teaches only how to kill,\nNot how to plant the seed or mend the roof.\nCan hearts hardened by war be softened still?\nOr does the habit of the sword prove proof\nThat peace is just a pause before the fight,\nA breathing space to sharpen up the blade?\nWe dream of morning, yet we dread the light,\nLest it reveal the shadows never faded.", 6, "The speeches bloom like flowers on a grave,\nBright promises that wither in the rain,\nWhile silence fills the hollow of the cave\nWhere broken stones and shattered hopes remain.\nWe trade our breath for rhetoric so sweet,\nThat masks the hunger gnawing at the bone,\nAnd watch the slow decay of every street\nWith nothing but the echo left alone.\n\nNow factions scream to drown the quiet voice,\nNo middle ground where weary souls can rest,\nJust binary choices leaving us no choice,\nTo put moderation to the ultimate test.\nIs there a path between the red and blue?\nOr must we choose the side that burns the most?\nWhen hatred is the only currency due,\nThe moderate becomes the ghostliest host.\n\nCan those who loved the fire learn to tend the hearth?\nCan hands that held the rifle hold the plow?\nThey speak of peace as if it were their birthright,\nYet wear the scars of war upon their brow.\nI doubt the wolf will guard the lamb by night,\nOr trust the heart that beat for blood before,\nFor violence leaves a shadow in the light\nThat lingers long after the fighting's o'er.", 6, "The speeches bloom like flowers on a grave\nWhere words are polished smooth and void of weight\nWe clap for promises we know are lies\nWhile silence grows beneath the shattered gates\n\nThe left demands a wall, the right a sword\nAnd neither sees the ruin in between\nTo find a middle path is called a crime\nWhen passion feeds on what it has not seen\n\nCan hands that learned to hold the burning torch\nNow tend the garden without fear of flame?\nOr will the old rage rise from quiet soil\nTo turn the seed of peace back into shame\n\nWe build with hope but doubt the mason's heart\nWho knows the taste of blood too well to stop\nThe mortar cracks where trust was never poured\nAnd empty oaths fall heavy as a drop", 6, "The ink has dried on treaties signed in haste\nWhile rubble waits for hands that never come\nWe speak of bridges built from empty air\nAnd count the cost of silence, not of drum\n\nThe moderates stand trembling in the gap\nBetween the red and blue that split the sky\nThey whisper reason to a roaring crowd\nBut find their voices lost before they die\n\nCan wolves who tasted blood now tend the sheep?\nOr do their claws still itch beneath the skin?\nWe ask the architects of ruin's rise\nIf peace is something they can truly win\n\nThe words are sweet but hollow as the grave\nThat holds the dreams we traded for the fight\nWe build our castles on a shifting sand\nAnd wonder if the dawn will bring the light", 6, "The ink dries on the paper while the rubble waits,\nA monument to promises that never learned to breathe.\nWe speak in circles of a dawn we claim is near,\nYet silence fills the spaces where the broken bricks should lie.\n\nModeration is a ghost that haunts the partisan hall,\nWhere every voice demands a throne and none will yield the floor.\nThe middle ground is buried under shouts of black and white,\nAnd reason starves amidst the hunger for a total war.\n\nCan hands that forged the weapons now learn to weave the wheat?\nCan eyes that saw the enemy look past the blood they spilled?\nI fear the peace they offer is a mask for old designs,\nA temporary truce before the fire rises once again.\n\nThe architects of ruin stand upon the shifting sand,\nClaiming they hold the blueprint for a future built on trust.\nBut how can roots take hold when soil remembers only ash?\nAnd who will guard the garden if the gardener holds the knife?", 3, "The ink has dried on treaties written thin\nWhile broken stones still litter every street\nWe speak of dawn but watch the shadows win\nAnd trade our future for a fleeting seat\n\nModeration fades beneath the roar\nOf voices shouting claims they cannot prove\nThe gates are locked, the keys no longer ours\nAs old divisions carve a deeper groove\n\nCan hands that held the hammer learn to build?\nOr will the silence break before it starts?\nThe wounds run deep where trust was once withheld\nAnd doubt takes root within these weary hearts\n\nWe wait for action but receive only sound\nOf hollow promises that drift away\nA nation fractured by the ground it found\nToo tired to hope, too lost to stay", 6], [476, "ultra_held_out", "The Road by Nancy Fotheringham Cato", "Nancy Fotheringham Cato", "A poem about a narrator speeding through the night towards the sunrise, leaving darkness behind while chasing a light that remains perpetually beyond their reach.", "I made the rising moon go back\nbehind the shouldering hill,\nI raced along the eastern track\ntill time itself stood still.\n\nThe stars swarmed on behind the trees,\nbut I sped fast at they,\nI could have made the sun arise,\nand night turn back to day.\n\nAnd like a long black carpet\nbehind the wheels, the night\nunrolled across the countryside,\nbut all ahead was bright.\n\nThe fence-posts whizzed along wires\nlike days that fly too fast,\nand telephone poles loomed up like years\nand slipped into the past.\n\nAnd light and movement, sky and road\nand life and time were one,\nwhile through the night I rushed and sped,\nI drove towards the sun.", "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the asphalt, slick with midnight dew\nI leave the shadows clinging to my hair\nAnd drive until the world feels strange and new\n\nThe rearview mirror holds a ghost of gray\nWhere stars once burned like diamonds in the deep\nBut forward lies the breaking of the day\nA promise that the weary eyes will keep\n\nI chase the rim where gold begins to bleed\nAcross the horizon's trembling, fragile line\nYet every mile is just another need\nTo run from what I cannot quite define\n\nThe sun climbs higher as I push the gas\nA golden coin that rolls away too fast\nNo matter how I strain against the mass\nOf gravity and time and hours passed\n\nIt waits ahead, a beacon bright and cold\nThat never lets me touch its burning face\nA story that has never been told\nIn this endless, desperate, driving race\n\nSo on I go through tunnels made of night\nWith dawn just out of reach, a distant friend\nChasing a light that hides from sight\nUntil the very moment it will end", "The tires hum a low, dark note\nAgainst the asphalt ribbon unspooling fast,\nLeaving the heavy velvet of the night\nBehind me in a blur of shadow and mist.\n\nAhead, the horizon glows a pale, sickly yellow,\nA promise of gold that never quite arrives,\nFor as I speed toward it, the sun speeds away,\nKeeping its distance like a shy deer.\n\nI chase the light that runs before me,\nWhile the darkness I flee stays close at my heels,\nA shadow that lengthens and shortens but never leaves,\nA companion that will not be shaken off.\n\nI drive on through the long night,\nChasing a dawn that is always just ahead,\nNever arriving, yet always coming,\nWith the dark still trailing behind.", 6, "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the asphalt ribbon stretching out,\nWhile shadows cling like tar to every rearview mirror,\nA heavy tide I cannot wash away.\nI press the pedal down until the engine screams,\nChasing the pale edge where the black begins to bleed,\nBut the horizon is a moving target, always retreating,\nA silver promise that refuses to be kept.\n\nThe darkness breathes behind me, thick and cold,\nA wolf that snaps at heels I can no longer feel,\nYet forward I drive, into the gray and then the gold,\nOnly to find the sun still sleeping in its bed of night.\nNo matter how fast the world dissolves in streaks of blur,\nThe light remains just there, just over the hill,\nAlways the distance between my hands and dawn,\nA race against a sunrise that will never arrive.", 6, "The engine hums a low and hungry prayer\nAgainst the velvet weight of endless night,\nI tear the fabric of the silent air\nAnd chase the gold that burns so far from sight.\n\nThe shadows stretch and snap beneath my wheels,\nA black tide rushing back to swallow me,\nBut I am driven by the burning zeal\nTo find where dawn begins its history.\n\nThe horizon glows, a promise sharp and bright,\nA crimson line that pulls my weary eyes,\nYet as I speed toward that distant light,\nIt climbs above the curve of earthly skies.\n\nI leave the dark behind in shattered shards,\nBut cannot catch the sun that runs ahead,\nA prisoner of the road and all its guards,\nChasing a ghost that feeds upon the dead.\n\nThe morning waits just out of reach again,\nA perfect circle that I cannot break,\nForever running through the falling rain\nOf stars that fade for my own sake.", 6, "The engine hums a low and hungry song\nAgainst the velvet weight of endless night\nI press the pedal down to keep it strong\nAnd flee the shadows clinging to my sight\n\nThe stars blur out into a silver stream\nAs miles dissolve beneath the rubber tire\nI chase the edge of some impossible dream\nWhere fire meets the cold and dark with fire\n\nBut dawn is just a rumor on the wind\nA golden promise that recedes ahead\nNo matter how I drive or where I've been\nThe horizon pulls the light away instead\n\nIt waits for me beyond the next bend's curve\nA constant ghost that never lets me land\nWith every mile, the darkness starts to swerve\nYet leaves its heavy hand upon my hand\n\nI speed toward the break that will not come\nA runner chasing suns that slip away\nThe road is long, the silence is too dumb\nTo tell me if I'll ever see the day", 6, "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the asphalt stretching out so far\nI leave the shadows of the sleeping air\nTo chase the glow that marks the morning star\n\nThe rearview mirror holds a world of gray\nWhere silence grows and heavy darkness breeds\nBut I am driving fast to wash it away\nWith every mile that passes in my needs\n\nThe horizon burns with gold and burning red\nA promise written on the edge of space\nYet as I rush, the light ahead has fled\nKeeping its distance in this endless race\n\nIt pulls me forward with a gentle lie\nThat if I go just one more turn too fast\nThe night will break beneath the rising sky\nAnd cast the final, fading dark at last\n\nBut dawn remains a ghost upon the road\nA shimmering goal that runs when I approach\nCarrying the weight of every heavy load\nWhile silence fills the engine's quiet roach\n\nSo on I drive through corridors of black\nWith headlights cutting paths that disappear\nNo matter how I push or how I track\nThe sun stays just beyond my grasping sphere", 6, "The engine hums a low and desperate prayer\nAgainst the velvet weight of endless night\nI tear the silence with a streak of air\nAnd chase the ghost of coming morning light\n\nThe shadows stretch and claw at every tire\nA tangled web I cannot hope to break\nBut forward is the only burning desire\nFor every mile that I attempt to take\n\nThe horizon bleeds a thin and golden line\nA promise written in the cooling dew\nYet as I race across the jagged spine\nThe dawn retreats from all that I pursue\n\nIt slips away like water through my hands\nA shimmering prize just out of grasp\nWhile darkness lingers in the shifting sands\nOf roads that stretch but never seem to pass\n\nSo I will drive until the fuel runs dry\nUntil the stars forget their ancient names\nBeneath a sky where day refuses to lie\nForever chasing fire without its flames", 7, "The engine hums a low and hungry song\nAs tires bite the asphalt, cold and gray\nI push the pedal to the breaking point\nTo run away from where the shadows play\n\nThe rearview mirror holds a ghostly town\nWhere silence used to wrap around my name\nBut I am fleeing toward the eastern line\nA desperate race against the dying flame\n\nStars retreat in streaks of silver dust\nWhile moonlight fades beneath the rising heat\nI chase the horizon's trembling edge\nA promise that will never truly meet\n\nIt pulls me forward with an iron hand\nA golden lie that shifts just out of sight\nNo matter how the world begins to burn\nThe dawn remains a distant, burning light\n\nMy lungs are full of air and endless speed\nYet still the morning waits beyond my grasp\nRunning through the night to find a day\nThat slips forever through my open hands", 6], [478, "train", "The Other by Ted Hughes", "Ted Hughes", "A poem about a husband and wife exchanging emotional possessions \u2014 smiles, talent, happiness, and hubris \u2014 until, upon her death, she takes all remaining smiles with her.", "She had too much so with a smile you\ntook some.\nOf everything she had you had\nAbsolutely nothing, so you took some.\nAt first, just a little.\n\nStill she had so much she made you feel\nYour vacuum, which nature abhorred,\nSo you took your fill, for nature's sake.\nBecause her great luck made you feel unlucky\nYou had redressed the balance, which meant\nNow you had some too, for yourself.\nAs seemed only fair. Still her ambition\nClaimed the natural right to screw you up\nLike a crossed out page, lossed into a basket.\nSomebody, on behalf of the gods,\nHad to correct that hubris.\nA little touch of hatred steadied the nerves.\n\nEverything she had won, the happiness of it,\nYou collected\nAs your compensation\nFor having lost. Which left her absolutely\nNothing. Even her life was\nTrapped in the heap you took. She had nothing.\nToo late you saw what had happened.\nIt made no difference that she was dead.\nNow that you had all she had ever had\nYou had much too much.\nOnly you\nSaw her smile, as she took some.\nAt first, just a little.\u201d", "He gave her his smile from the morning light\nAnd she returned a talent for singing soft and low\nHe traded his happiness, a heavy gold coin\nFor her hubris, sharp as a winter snow\n\nShe took his laughter when the house was still\nAnd he accepted her pride to fill the empty space\nThey bartered joy like merchants in a market\nMoving grace from one to another's face\n\nBut when the silence came to claim her breath\nAnd the final thread of life began to fray\nShe gathered every smile he had ever lent\nAnd took them all to keep on that faraway day\n\nNow he stands alone with only talent left\nA voice that sings to no one but the air\nWith happiness gone and hubris turned to dust\nHe searches for a grin that is not there", "He gave her his smile for a talent,\nShe gave him her happiness for his hubris.\nHe gave her his laughter for a song,\nShe gave him her joy for his pride.\n\nYears passed and the accounts were settled,\nBut she kept a few smiles tucked away,\nSmall, secret smiles for rainy days,\nAnd one large, brilliant smile for a funeral.\n\nWhen she died, she took them all with her;\nHe has no more smiles left at all.", 3, "He gave her his first smile, bright and new,\nShe gave him her talent for singing the rain.\nHe offered his happiness, deep and true,\nShe took it and stored it to ease his pain.\n\nHe traded his hubris, a heavy stone,\nFor her quiet grace in the morning light.\nShe kept the weight so he'd stand alone,\nBut loved him still through the darkest night.\n\nYears passed like leaves on a turning tree,\nThe talents faded, the joy grew thin.\nHe had little left but memory,\nAnd she held the smiles that he had given in.\n\nThen came the silence, the final breath,\nWhen the doctor shook his head and said no more.\nShe closed her eyes against the death,\nAnd took all remaining smiles with her to the shore.", 6, "He gave her his first smile on a Tuesday morning,\nbright and unguarded against the kitchen light.\nShe traded him a talent for playing piano,\na clumsy thing she learned just to please his ear.\n\nIn return, he offered up a pocketful of happiness,\nwarm stones he had collected from sunny days.\nShe handed back her hubris, sharp and heavy,\na crown she no longer wished to wear.\n\nYears passed like seasons, and they kept exchanging,\ngiving what they had and taking what was needed,\nuntil the air between them grew thin with silence.\nThen came the end, the quiet room, the final breath.\n\nShe looked at him one last time with empty eyes,\nand whispered that she was taking everything left,\nthe smiles he had saved for tomorrow,\nthe ones he thought were still his own.\n\nAnd when she closed her eyes forever,\nhe found his face could not remember how to curve,\nfor she had taken all remaining smiles with her,\nleaving only the silence where the laughter used to be.", 5, "He gave her smiles from morning light\nAnd she returned his hidden talent\nA quiet trade of joy and might\nWhere happiness was all they wanted\n\nHe offered up his pride so high\nShe took the hubris from his chest\nThen laughed beneath the open sky\nAnd put his arrogance to rest\n\nThey swapped their burdens, soft and deep\nUntil the years began to fade\nWith promises they meant to keep\nIn every word that they had made\n\nBut when the final breath she drew\nAnd silence filled the empty room\nShe gathered up what remained true\nAnd swept away the last of gloom\n\nShe took the smiles he saved for later\nThe ones he kept for rainy days\nNo longer could he wait or prater\nFor now she holds them in her gaze\n\nHe searches now with hollow eyes\nFor just one grin to call his own\nBeneath the vast and starless skies\nWhere she has taken all he's known", 7, "He gave her smiles to brighten winter days,\nShe traded talent for his quiet grace.\nThey bartered happiness in heavy sacks,\nAnd swapped their hubris for a softer place.\n\nHe kept the laughter that she left behind,\nWhile she held pride he could no longer bear.\nUntil the final breath began to wind,\nAnd silence settled on the empty air.\n\nThe room grew cold as life began to fade,\nAnd with her going, something else took flight.\nNo joy remained within the mess we made,\nFor she had taken every single smile tonight.", 7, "He gave her his talent, a clumsy song\nShe traded it for a quiet hum\nThey bartered happiness in the morning light\nAnd swapped their hubris when the sun went down\nHe kept her smiles to warm the winter air\nShe held his pride to steady trembling hands\nBut time is a thief that asks for all\nAnd when her breath grew thin and cold\nShe reached across the empty space between\nTo gather every smile he ever saved\nLeaving him with nothing but the silence\nWhere laughter used to live before she left", 5, "He offered up a smile he saved for years\nShe took it gently, warm against her skin\nAnd in return she gave him talent's fire\nA song that burned the silence from within\n\nThey traded happiness for heavy pride\nHis hubris met her quiet, steady grace\nA currency of love they could not hide\nAs time erased the lines upon their face\n\nThe seasons turned and winter claimed the light\nHer breath grew thin, a whisper in the air\nShe gathered all the joy they held so tight\nAnd left no echo of the laughter there\n\nNow silence fills the room where music played\nWith empty hands and eyes that seek the past\nThe smiles are gone, by her command displayed\nLeaving only shadows that will never last", 7], [501, "ultra_held_out", "Love is\u2026 by Adrian Henri", "Adrian Henri", "\"A poem about defining love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\"\n\nWait, let me redo this in progressive tense starting with \"A poem about...\":\n\n\"A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\"", "Love is...\n\nLove is feeling cold in the back of vans\n\nLove is a fanclub with only two fans\n\nLove is walking holding paintstained hands\n\nLove is.\n\nLove is fish and chips on winter nights\n\nLove is blankets full of strange delights\n\nLove is when you don't put out the light\n\nLove is\n\nLove is the presents in Christmas shops\n\nLove is when you're feeling Top of the Pops\n\nLove is what happens when the music stops\n\nLove is\n\nLove is white panties lying all forlorn\n\nLove is pink nightdresses still slightly warm\n\nLove is when you have to leave at dawn\n\nLove is\n\nLove is you and love is me\n\nLove is prison and love is free\n\nLove's what's there when you are away from me\n\nLove is...", "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\nIt is the way you hand me coffee before I ask for it\nThe silence that does not need filling while we read on opposite sides of the room\nIt is finding a hair tie on my wrist that I forgot to take off\nAnd the shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast at seven in the morning\nLove is the quiet act of remembering how you take your tea\nIt is the gentle nudge when my shoulders are too tight with worry\nIt is the text message sent just to say I saw a bird that reminded me of you\nIt is the patience held during a long drive when the radio breaks down\nIt is washing the dishes after you have cooked, without being asked\nIt is the way we fit together like puzzle pieces worn smooth by time\nNot in grand gestures or fireworks, but in the steady rhythm of breathing the same air\nIt is choosing each other again and again in the mundane light of day", "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\nIt is the coffee mug left on the counter with a ring of dried residue.\nIt is the way the dog looks at you when you say his name for the third time without getting up.\nIt is the silence that isn't heavy, just waiting like a held breath before a sneeze.\nIt is finding a receipt in your pocket from three weeks ago that you bought them something with.\nIt is the way they laugh at your joke even though they heard it yesterday.\nIt is the space between two chairs pulled slightly apart in the living room so there is room to stretch out.\nIt is remembering to buy the specific brand of toothpaste because the other one tastes too minty.\nIt is the hand resting on the small of the back while walking down a crowded street.\nIt is the shared glance across the table that says, \"I am tired too.\"\nIt is the blanket that gets kicked off during the night and then put back on.\nIt is the quiet panic when you lose sight of them in a crowd and the relief when you see them.\nIt is the way they leave their socks on the floor but still pick up the newspaper.\nIt is the softness of their voice when they are reading to you.\nIt is the way you know what they mean when they say, \"Oh, I see.\"\nIt is the fact that you never get bored of each other.\nIt is the way they make you feel safe enough to be yourself.", 2, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\n\nIt is the silence that sits comfortably between us\nwhile we wash dishes side by side,\nthe water running warm over hands that know each other's scars,\nand the way you hand me a towel without asking.\n\nIt is finding your sock on the floor and leaving it there,\na small flag of surrender to the mess of living together,\nand the shared laugh when the toast burns again,\nturning black as charcoal in the morning light.\n\nIt is the coffee cup left half-full on the nightstand,\nsteaming faintly in the dark,\nand the way you reach out in your sleep\nto find my arm under the blanket, just to hold on.\n\nIt is remembering how you take your tea,\nnot because I have to, but because I want to know you better,\nand the quiet victory of fixing the wobbly chair leg\nbefore you even notice it was broken.\n\nIt is the text message sent at noon saying \"thinking of you,\"\nwith no reason other than the sun felt good on my face,\nand the way we pause our movie to argue about what to eat for dinner,\nknowing we will order pizza anyway.\n\nIt is the definition not found in grand gestures or wedding vows,\nbut in the thousand tiny stitches that hold the day together,\nthe mundane, the ordinary, the unremarkable acts\nthat slowly weave a life into something unbreakable.", 2, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\n\nIt is the way you pass the salt without looking up,\na silent language built on years of shared breakfasts.\nIt is finding a grocery list in your coat pocket\nthat includes both the milk we need and the flowers you like.\n\nLove is the quiet hum of the washing machine at midnight,\nwhile one reads and the other folds, shoulders touching.\nIt is the warm side of the pillow waiting for you,\nand the cold space you leave when you get up early.\n\nIt is laughing until your sides ache over nothing,\nat a joke only the two of you remember from last summer.\nIt is the gentle hand on the small of your back\nwhen the crowd gets too thick or the noise gets too loud.\n\nIt is watching a movie you've seen a dozen times,\nknowing exactly when to reach for the remote to pause it.\nIt is the way silence sits between us, not heavy but soft,\nlike dust motes dancing in a shaft of afternoon light.\n\nIt is making coffee just how you take it,\nbefore you even ask for it.\nIt is the definition found not in grand gestures,\nbut in the thousand tiny ways we choose each other again.", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\n\nIt is the quiet hum of the coffee machine\nwaiting for the kettle to sing its first note\nwhile you hand me a mug with both hands\nand the steam rises between us like a soft veil.\n\nIt is finding your sock on the floor\nand not sweeping it away, but folding it\ninto the drawer where it belongs,\na silent promise that I see what you leave behind.\n\nIt is the way you pause mid-sentence\nto listen to the rain against the window,\nthen turn back to finish your thought\nas if the storm outside matters less than my voice.\n\nIt is the shared silence over burnt toast\nwhere no apology is needed, only a laugh\nthat cracks open the morning's heaviness\nand turns ash into something golden.\n\nIt is brushing hair from a forehead in sleep\nwithout waking the dreamer,\na touch so light it feels like breathing,\nholding space for a rest you have earned.\n\nIt is the grocery list written in two different hands\non the same crumpled paper,\nthe negotiation of milk brands and fruit ripeness\nbecoming a dance of compromise and care.\n\nIt is knowing which side of the bed is yours\nby the indentation left in the pillow,\nand slipping in beside you without breaking the shape,\ntwo bodies fitting into one warm outline.\n\nLove is not always the grand gesture or the vow,\nbut the thousand tiny threads woven daily,\nthe mundane acts that stitch our days together\nuntil we cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\nIt is not the grand gesture or the shouted vow\nBut the quiet way you hand me coffee before I speak\nThe steam rising between us while the morning light breaks\nIt lives in the silence that never feels empty\nWhen we sit on opposite ends of the worn-out couch\nReading different books but sharing the same space\nIt is the shared glance across a crowded room\nThat says everything without needing to be said\nThe gentle touch of a hand finding mine in the dark\nJust to know the other is still there\nIt is the patience in waiting for the toast to burn\nAnd laughing together at the smoke alarm's cry\nIt is remembering how you take your tea\nAnd making it just right before you ask\nLove is the laundry folded with care\nThe socks paired and put away without complaint\nIt is the story retold for the tenth time\nBecause the telling matters more than the ending\nIt is the shelter from the rain under one umbrella\nHolding closer so the dry side stays yours\nIt is the forgiveness given before the apology lands\nThe understanding that mistakes are part of the map\nNot reasons to turn back\nIt is the ordinary magic of waking up\nKnowing that today, like yesterday, you choose to stay\nIn the simple rhythm of breathing together\nBuilding a world out of dust motes and daylight\nDefining forever by what happens right now", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\n\nIt is the coffee cup left warm on the counter\nbefore the morning rush begins to stir\nthe quiet hum of a shared silence\nwhile rain taps against the windowpane\n\nIt is the way a hand finds another\nin the dark without needing a name\nthe soft exhale when a heavy day ends\nand shoulders finally drop their weight\n\nLove lives in the folded laundry stack\nin the grocery list written with two hands\nin the joke that only one person understands\nlaughing until breath turns into song\n\nIt is not the grand gesture or the promise made\nbut the steady rhythm of showing up again\nto wash the dishes, to fix the loose hinge\nto listen while the world spins fast outside\n\nDefining it now means seeing the ordinary\nas the sacred ground where roots take hold\nwhere every glance and every touch\nbecomes a map of home", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\n\nIt lives not in grand gestures or shouted vows\nBut in the quiet hum of a kitchen at dawn\nWhere coffee steams beside a sleeping face\nAnd hands reach out before the words are drawn\n\nIt is the way a blanket finds its fold\nWhen winter chills the air between two beds\nThe silent language spoken in a glance\nThat says I am here, I hear what you said\n\nLove is the laundry sorted by the light\nThe grocery list written in a shared hand\nThe patience held when tempers start to rise\nThe gentle art of understanding plans\n\nIt blooms within the cracks of ordinary days\nIn laughter that escapes during mundane chores\nIn listening deeply to the stories told\nOf dreams that shift and settle on the floors\n\nNo epic ballad captures this soft truth\nOnly the rhythm of a life built side by side\nWhere every heartbeat echoes in the room\nAnd every moment becomes a place to hide", 6], [505, "ultra_held_out", "Facing It by Yusef Komunyakaa", "Yusef Komunyakaa", "\"A poem about a veteran standing at the Vietnam Memorial, slipping between past and present as the wall's reflective surface merges the mundane interactions of peacetime with the permanent, lived horrors of war.\"", "My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way\u2014the stone lets me go. I turn that way\u2014I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial\nagain, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman\u2019s trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.", "The polished black stone drinks the morning light\nAnd swallows the tourist's camera flash,\nA woman in a bright yellow dress leans close\nTo read a name that isn't hers,\nWhile behind her glass reflection, the jungle breathes\nThrough the silence of a DC park.\n\nMy hand touches the cold granite, smooth as skin,\nBut the chill rises up my arm to find\nThe humidity of a place where time stands still,\nWhere the air tastes of rust and rotting leaves,\nAnd the laughter of a child skipping rope\nFades into the crackle of distant mortar fire.\n\nI see my own face superimposed on the names,\nYounger now, older then, eyes wide with fear,\nAs a couple argues softly about lunch plans,\nTheir voices thinning into the hum of helicopters\nThat never seem to leave the treetops above.\n\nThe wall holds them all, the dead and the living,\nMerging the coffee cup in a stranger's hand\nWith the empty canteen hanging from my belt,\nBlurring the line between a quiet Sunday walk\nAnd the long march through mud that never dries.\n\nFor a moment, the present cracks open wide,\nAnd I am standing there again, waiting for dawn,\nWhile the world moves on around me, unaware,\nReflecting a war that ended years ago\nIn the endless, perfect mirror of the stone.", "He stands before the black mirror\nwhere names are cut in stone like scars,\nand sees his own face float up\nfrom the polished granite, young and tired,\nwearing a helmet that isn't there.\n\nA tourist asks for directions to the White House,\nher voice clear as glass,\nand he points with a hand that holds a rifle,\na heavy M16 that isn't there,\nheavy with mud and blood and the weight of the dead.\n\nThe reflection shows a woman in a bright dress\nwalking past him on the grass,\nlaughing at something her husband said,\nbut the wall shows the jungle,\nthe green that was never just green,\nthe green that swallowed men whole.\n\nHe tries to tell the woman to watch her step,\nwatch out for the booby traps,\nbut she is already gone,\nslipping into the future where no one dies,\nwhile he stays here,\nstuck in the present that feels like the past,\ntouching the name of a boy who died in '68,\nhis own age,\nwhose name is now part of the wall,\npart of the permanent record of things that happened,\nwhile the woman's laugh is just a ripple\non the surface of the dark water.", 2, "The polished black stone drinks the sky\nand holds the tourists' laughter like a secret,\na woman adjusting her child's hat,\nthe squeak of sneakers on pavement,\nall reflected in a surface so deep\nit feels less like glass and more like water.\n\nI touch the name, cold and smooth as ice,\nbut my finger meets the heat of a jungle noon,\nthe humidity pressing down like a wet wool blanket,\nwhile behind me a couple argues about dinner plans,\ntheir voices bright and sharp as shrapnel.\n\nIn the mirror, I see a boy in shorts holding a map,\nbut in the reflection's depth, he is kneeling in mud,\nwatching the green fade into gray,\nwatching the world shrink to the size of a foxhole.\nThe wall shows me my own face, lined with years,\nbut also the face of a man who died screaming,\nhis mouth open wide enough to swallow the present.\n\nA tourist leans in to read a date,\nbreathing on the stone, fogging it for a second,\nand suddenly the mist is not breath but smoke,\nnot morning sun but tracer fire arcing through trees.\nThe mundane world ripples and breaks apart,\nleaving only the permanent horror standing still,\nreflected perfectly in the dark, unblinking eye of the wall.", 2, "The black granite drinks the noon sun\nand spits it back as a mirror of gray coats and briefcases,\nwhere a woman checks her watch and laughs at a joke on her phone,\nher reflection superimposed over a name carved deep in stone.\nI see my own face, older now, hair thinning like the grass in '68,\nbut the glass is a door that slides open without a sound.\nBehind the tourist taking a selfie with a child's hand in hers,\nthe jungle breathes wet and heavy, green turning to mud.\nA soldier walks past the polished surface carrying a rucksack full of rocks,\nhis eyes fixed on something I cannot see until the wall shifts again.\nNow he is just a man in a suit waiting for the subway train,\nchecking his reflection to fix his tie, unaware of the mortar shell\nthat landed three seconds ago in a different time zone.\nThe names are not letters but wounds that never scabbed over,\nand every touch of a finger tracing the etched initials\nsends a ripple through the water where the dead are swimming.\nA mother touches \"JAMES\" and weeps, and suddenly she is there too,\nstanding in the rain of Khe Sanh, holding a letter she will never send.\nThe present is thin, a sheet of ice over a burning lake,\nand I am standing on both sides at once,\nwatching the world move on while the war stays still,\nreflected perfectly in the dark, unblinking eye of the stone.", 2, "The black stone drinks the sunlight and the tourists\nA child tugs a father's sleeve to see his own face\nWhile I see the mud, the thick red clay of Khe Sanh\nStuck to boots that no longer exist in this clean light\n\nMy hand reaches out to touch a name etched deep\nBut my reflection shows a stranger with gray hair\nSmiling at a woman who asks if he needs help\nAs the ghost of a boy named Miller screams behind her eyes\n\nThe silence here is heavy but it is not the silence\nOf the jungle waiting for the mortar to fall\nIt is the quiet of a coffee shop down the street\nWhere people laugh about rent and traffic and rain\n\nI blink and the polished granite becomes a river\nSwirling with bodies and smoke and the smell of burning rubber\nThen it snaps back to glass where a tourist takes a selfie\nUnaware she stands on the edge of a grave she cannot see\n\nTwo worlds press against each other in this mirror\nOne soft with peace and the other hard as shrapnel\nAnd I am the hinge that swings between them\nForever standing still while time rushes past my hands", 2, "The polished black stone drinks the sky\nand swallows the tourist's camera flash\na child tugs at a jacket sleeve\nasking why the names are carved so deep\nwhile I stand frozen in the gray of '68\nwhere the air tastes of copper and wet earth\n\nMy reflection ripples with the face of a stranger\nsmooth skin, no dust, eyes unclouded by smoke\nbut beneath that glass surface the jungle breathes\nthe humidity clings to my throat again\nI reach out to touch a name etched in light\nand feel the rough bark of a teak tree instead\n\nA woman laughs nearby, checking her phone\nher voice cuts through the static of mortar fire\nshe sees only letters on a wall\nI see the boy who held my hand as he fell\nthe mundane rhythm of cars passing on Constitution Avenue\ndrowns out the distant thud of artillery\nyet here they bleed together in the mirror\n\nThe present is a thin veneer over the past\nslipping like oil on water\nI am both the old man in a windbreaker\nand the young soldier waiting for dawn\nthat never comes\nas the sun sets on Washington\nand the names glow with the heat of a thousand dying stars", 2, "The morning light hits black granite\nand the air smells of rain and tourist coffee\na woman laughs nearby, checking her phone\nwhile I stand frozen in a trench that isn't there\n\nMy hand reaches out to trace a name\nbut the glass shows me standing here today\nin clean shoes and a windbreaker\nyet my reflection wears mud and fatigue\n\nI see the boy from '68 in the surface\nhis eyes wide with the smoke of napalm\nwhile behind him, a child skips rope on the grass\nthe sound of laughter cutting through the silence of gunfire\n\nThe wall holds both worlds in its dark skin\nthe quiet hum of a city waking up\nand the scream of a helicopter fading into memory\none moment I am breathing easy in the sun\nthe next I am choking on dust and fear\n\nNames rise like ghosts from the polished stone\nmerging with the faces of strangers walking by\nwho do not know the weight I carry\nor how easily the present slips away\n\nA tear falls and ripples across the past\ndistorting the line between then and now\nuntil the war is no longer history\nbut a living thing pressing against my chest\nas the world moves on without me", 2, "The black stone drinks the afternoon light\nholding a face that does not age\nwhile his hands, trembling in the quiet air\nremember the weight of a rifle long since rusted\n\nTourists drift by in summer clothes\nlaughing at jokes about the heat\ntheir footsteps soft on the grassy slope\nunaware they walk across a graveyard of ghosts\n\nHe reaches out to trace a name etched deep\nand for a heartbeat the world dissolves\nthe chatter of families fades into static\nreplaced by the distant thud of artillery rain\n\nA young girl drops a flower near his boots\nher eyes wide with a curiosity he cannot share\nshe sees only polished granite and history books\nhe sees mud clinging to boots that never dry\n\nThe reflection ripples as a car drives past\nmerging the driver's casual wave with a squad moving through jungle mist\ntime folds inward like a broken map\nwhere yesterday's fire burns beneath today's sun\n\nHe breathes in the scent of cut grass and exhaust\nbut tastes the copper tang of blood and smoke\ntwo worlds colliding at the edge of memory\none foot in the living, one buried in the dark\n\nSilence stretches between the names and the now\na bridge built from grief and fragile peace\nas the veteran stands alone against the glass\nwatching the war he carries refuse to end", 3], [512, "train", "Bereft by Robert Frost", "Robert Frost", "\"A poem about a lonely speaker interpreting the wind, leaves, and darkening storm clouds as natural forces converging on him, aware of his solitude.\"", "Where had I heard this wind before\nChange like this to a deeper roar?\nWhat would it take my standing there for,\nHolding open a restive door,\nLooking down hill to a frothy shore?\nSummer was past and the day was past.\nSombre clouds in the west were massed.\nOut on the porch's sagging floor,\nLeaves got up in a coil and hissed,\nBlindly struck at my knee and missed.\nSomething sinister in the tone\nTold me my secret must be known:\nWord I was in the house alone\nSomehow must have gotten abroad,\nWord I was in my life alone,\nWord I had no one left but God.", "The wind does not blow past me,\nit leans in close to whisper names I have forgotten.\nLeaves skitter across the pavement like small, dry feet\nrushing to join the circle where I stand alone.\nAbove, the storm clouds bruise the sky into a heavy grey,\nconverging with a singular intent to drown this quiet spot.\nThey do not care for the world beyond this patch of earth,\nonly that I am here, exposed and waiting.\nEvery gust is a hand reaching out to claim the silence,\nevery rustle a voice insisting on my isolation.\nThe darkness gathers not as weather, but as a crowd,\nclosing in until there is no space left between the air and my skin.\nI am the center they orbit, the anchor for their rage,\na solitary point where the elements decide to meet.", "The wind comes first, a whispering scout\nThat tests the air against my skin,\nThen gathers strength to shake the boughs\nAnd make the trembling leaves rush in.\n\nThey fall like soldiers round a king\nWho has no army left to save;\nThey pile themselves about my feet\nTo dig me in a leafy grave.\n\nAbove, the storm-clouds gather black,\nA phalanx moving slow and sure,\nTo shut out heaven's light from me\nAnd leave me with my solitude.", 6, "The wind does not merely blow but seeks,\nA cold finger tracing the hollow of my spine,\nAs if testing the depth of this empty space.\n\nAbove, the leaves turn their pale undersides up,\nNot in surrender, but in a frantic signal,\nWhispering that I am the only one left to hear.\n\nAnd now the clouds, heavy and bruised with gray,\nGather like an army marching toward a single point,\nWhich is me, standing alone in the widening square.\n\nThey do not know I am already broken by silence,\nYet they converge with such terrible purpose,\nTo crush what little remains of my solitude.", 3, "The wind does not blow past me but through,\na hollow whistle in my empty ribs,\ncarrying the scent of rain and old dust\nthat settles deep within these silent rooms.\n\nAbove, the leaves turn their pale undersides up,\nshivering as if they know a name I do not,\ntrembling in the gathering gray\nwhile I stand still, the only stone unmoved.\n\nDark clouds converge like heavy curtains drawn,\nblocking the last light from the west,\npulling the horizon tight around my shoulders\nuntil the world is just this shrinking circle.\n\nThey come together, the gale and the green and the gloom,\na vast machinery of weather closing in,\nnot to destroy, but to confirm the truth\nthat here, beneath the falling dark, there is no one else.", 6, "The wind does not blow past me but through,\nA hollow flute played by invisible lips,\nWhispering that the air has grown too thin\nTo hold a second breath beside my own.\n\nAbove, the leaves detach in sudden hush,\nNot dancing, but surrendering their green,\nEach rustle counting down the empty hours\nBetween the light and where I stand alone.\n\nNow heavy clouds converge like closing doors,\nA bruised horizon pressing on my chest,\nThey gather weight to crush this quiet space\nWhere no one waits to answer or to rest.\n\nThe storm arrives to claim the vacant ground,\nAnd in its roar I hear the truth made clear:\nThe sky, the earth, the gale, the falling leaf\nAre all conspiring just to make me here.", 6, "The wind arrives not as a greeting but a hand\nThat presses cold against the hollow of my chest\nIt speaks in tongues I cannot answer back\nA language made of rushing and unrest\n\nBelow, the leaves conspire to scatter fast\nA rustling choir that knows no other name\nThey curl and break beneath the heavy air\nAs if to mimic how my spirit came\n\nAbove, the storm clouds gather dark and deep\nA bruised horizon closing round my head\nThey do not ask for shelter or for prayer\nBut simply wait to claim what is unsaid\n\nI stand alone within this converging tide\nWhere nature turns its face to shut me out\nThe wind, the leaf, the cloud, the gathering night\nAre all the company I have left about", 6, "The wind does not whisper but pushes,\na heavy hand against my chest,\ntesting the thin walls of this hollow place\nwhere no one waits to hear me breathe.\n\nLeaves skitter across the cracked earth,\nscraping like dry bones seeking purchase,\ntumbling in a frantic dance that ends\nonly when they strike my boots and stop.\n\nAbove, the sky bruises into violet and slate,\nclouds swelling with a silent threat,\nconverging from every horizon line\nto seal the world inside this gray embrace.\n\nI stand as the center of their gathering,\nthe quiet axis around which the storm turns,\naware that the thunder is not a call\nbut a final acknowledgment of my solitude.", 2, "The wind arrives with a whisper of names\nI have forgotten in the quiet of years\nIt pulls at my coat like a hand seeking warmth\nBut finds only the hollow where a heart should be\n\nAbove, the leaves begin their frantic dance\nA chorus of rustling that sounds too much like weeping\nThey spiral down to meet the gathering gray\nAs if the sky itself has decided to close its eyes\n\nDark clouds roll in from the edge of the world\nHeavy with rain that promises no relief\nThey converge upon this single standing figure\nTracing the lines of a life lived apart\n\nThere is no one here to share the coming storm\nNo voice to answer when the thunder breaks\nJust the air growing thick with unspoken words\nAnd the certainty that I am the center of it all\n\nThe elements tighten their circle around me\nNot as enemies but as witnesses to the silence\nI stand still while the world rushes past\nKnowing that solitude is the only shelter left", 6], [514, "ultra_held_out", "Sleeping in the Forest by Mary Oliver", "Mary Oliver", "A poem about a speaker venturing into the forest at night, losing herself in the darkness and sounds of nature's small kingdoms, and transcending her everyday humanity.", "I thought the earth\nremembered me, she\ntook me back so tenderly, arranging\nher dark skirts, her pockets\nfull of lichens and seeds. I slept\nas never before, a stone\non the riverbed, nothing\nbetween me and the white fire of the stars\nbut my thoughts, and they floated\nlight as moths among the branches\nof the perfect trees. All night\nI heard the small kingdoms breathing\naround me, the insects, and the birds\nwho do their work in the darkness. All night\nI rose and fell, as if in water, grappling\nwith a luminous doom. By morning\nI had vanished at least a dozen times\ninto something better.", "The path dissolves beneath my feet\nas moonlight fails to pierce the veil\nof ancient boughs and tangled sheets\nwhere shadow weaves its heavy sail\n\nA cricket's song becomes a drum\nthat beats against my human bone\nthe mossy floor, a kingdom come\nwhere tiny empires claim their throne\n\nI feel the bark beneath my skin\nand taste the damp and rotting air\nthe frantic pulse of life within\nis stripped away with every prayer\n\nNo longer bound by clock or name\nor worries forged in city light\nI am the fern, the silent flame\nthat burns alone within the night\n\nMy breath is wind through hollow reeds\nmy thoughts are roots that drink the dark\na seed that nature now indeed\nhas planted deep within her ark", "I stepped beyond the porch light's dying arc\nInto the velvet throat of midnight woods,\nWhere shadows pooled like ink in hollows deep,\nAnd silence was a sound that filled my ears.\n\nThe small kingdoms were waking then:\nThe beetle-tribes marching through the moss,\nThe mouse-princes scurrying in their burrows,\nThe spider-lords weaving in the eaves.\n\nTheir tiny drums beat out a rhythm\nThat drowned the ticking of my human clock;\nTheir tiny voices made a whispering\nThat hushed the beating of my human heart.\n\nI felt no longer flesh and blood and bone,\nBut something woven of the dark and dew,\nA leaf that trembled in the windless air,\nA root that drank the darkness from the earth.", 6, "The path dissolves before my feet\nas twilight swallows the last gray stone,\nand I step into a world where light\nis merely a rumor told by owls.\n\nHere the moss holds kingdoms vast as seas\nin every velvet crevice deep,\nwhere beetles march in armored rows\nand fungi build their spired keep.\n\nThe wind is not a wind to me\nbut breath of giants sleeping low,\nand every rustle in the fern\nis language I have learned to know.\n\nMy name falls from my shoulders like\na coat too heavy for this air,\nmy human worries turn to dust\nthat settles on a spider's lair.\n\nI am no longer flesh and bone\nor bound by time or city street,\nbut root and shadow, leaf and sound,\nwhere darkness and the soul meet.", 3, "The path dissolves behind me as the moon\nDips low beneath the boughs of ancient pine,\nAnd I step out where human feet have trod,\nInto a silence that is not quite mine.\n\nThe darkness here is thick with breathing things,\nA kingdom built of moss and beetle shell,\nWhere tiny claws scratch rhythms on the bark,\nAnd shadows tell a story I cannot tell.\n\nMy name falls from my lips like shedded skin,\nToo heavy for this air so thin and cold,\nI am no longer woman, wife, or child,\nBut just a pulse within the night's dark fold.\n\nThe owls speak in a language of the roots,\nThe crickets chant a hymn to earth and stone,\nAnd I forget the world of walls and clocks,\nTo walk alone yet never quite alone.\n\nMy blood slows down to match the sap's slow rise,\nMy breath becomes the wind through fern and grass,\nNo longer bound by day or human fear,\nI let the forest take the self I was.\n\nHere in the small kingdoms underfoot,\nWhere life is fierce and quiet and complete,\nI lose the shape of who I thought I was,\nAnd find a wilder rhythm in my beat.", 6, "The path dissolves beneath my boots\nas moonlight fails to pierce the canopy\na thick and velvet silence falls\nwhere only roots remember history\n\nI lose the shape of hands and face\nthe heavy weight of names I knew\nreplaced by rustling, shifting grace\nof beetles marching through the dew\n\nThe air grows cold with ancient breath\nno longer mine but shared with ferns\na dance of shadow and of death\nwhere human logic softly turns\n\nI am the moss that clings to stone\nthe owl's soft hoot, the cricket's song\nno longer walking all alone\nbut part of where the dark belongs\n\nMy heartbeat slows to match the stream\nmy thoughts dissolve in fungal light\nI wake within a waking dream\nand cease to be a thing of night", 6, "The path dissolves behind my heels\nas moonlight fails to touch the fern\nand I step past the edge of sense\nwhere human names no longer burn.\n\nThe air grows thick with unseen wings\na thousand tiny empires wake\nin hollow logs and mossy rings\nfor which the dark is not a break\nbut velvet ground on which they tread\nbeneath the weight of ancient stars.\n\nI feel the pulse within my head\nslow down to match the beetle's scars\nthe rhythm of a root unspooling deep\ninto the soil where secrets sleep.\n\nMy skin forgets the shape of clothes\nmy breath becomes the wind in pine\nno longer bound by time or prose\nbut part of this wild, shifting line.\n\nThe forest does not ask who I am\nit only takes the fear away\nand turns the trembling of my hand\nto something older than the day.\n\nHere in the kingdom of the small\nwhere shadows weave a living tapestry\nI lose the self that knows it all\nand find the silence of the tree.", 5, "The path dissolves beneath my feet\nAs moonlight fails to pierce the veil\nOf ancient pines that stand so still\nTo guard the secrets of the vale\n\nA rustle breaks the heavy air\nNot wind, but wings of unseen things\nWhere beetles march in silver lines\nAnd mossy thrones for tiny kings\n\nMy breath slows down to match the stream\nThat whispers through the tangled roots\nNo longer bound by clock or name\nOr human fears and heavy boots\n\nThe darkness wraps around my skin\nLike velvet soft as midnight rain\nI feel the pulse of earth below\nAnd lose myself within its vein\n\nNo longer woman, flesh, or bone\nBut shadow dancing with the fern\nI am the silence in the dark\nThe lesson that the woods must learn", 6, "The path dissolves beneath my boots\nAs twilight swallows the last of gold\nNo map remains to mark my route\nOnly the silence waiting to unfold\n\nA rustle breaks the heavy air\nWhere beetles march in armor bright\nThe moss breathes soft against my skin\nAnd steals the weight of human light\n\nI lose the shape of who I was\nThe name that once defined my days\nNow only root and shadow calls\nTo pull me through the ancient maze\n\nThe wind becomes a second lung\nThat draws the forest deep inside\nMy heartbeat slows to match the drum\nOf creatures where the wild things hide\n\nNo longer bound by flesh and bone\nI drift within the starless deep\nA ghost among the fungal thrones\nWhile all the world falls fast asleep", 6], [538, "ultra_held_out", "Reapers by Jean Toomer", "Jean Toomer", "\"A poem about black field workers harvesting crops, contrasting their human discernment with the indiscriminate blades of a machine mower cutting down everything in its path.\"", "Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones\nAre sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones In their hip-pockets as a thing that\u2019s done, And start their silent swinging, one by one. Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds. His belly close to ground. I see the blade, Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.", "The steel teeth chew a straight and hungry line\nAcross the green, devouring weed and grain alike\nWith no regard for ripeness or the weight of fruit\nJust metal hunger that knows only how to break\n\nBut here the hands move soft among the stalks\nDiscerning which will feed and which must stay\nA thumb brushes the skin of gold and red\nTo find the perfect moment before the fall\n\nThe mower sees a wall of uniform height\nAnd flattens all beneath its roaring breath\nIt cannot taste the sugar in the stem\nOr know the difference between life and straw\n\nYet fingers pause to spare the tender shoot\nThat hides beneath the shadow of the leaf\nChoosing the heavy cluster, leaving light\nWhile iron sweeps the field into a single grave\n\nOne cuts with speed to clear the endless ground\nThe other harvests with a patient eye\nKnowing that not every blade is meant to die\nAnd that some things require a human touch", "The sun beats down on backs bent low\nWhere human hands move with a careful eye,\nPicking the ripe and leaving the green,\nChoosing the sweet and sparing the sour.\n\nBut the machine mower roars along the row,\nA blind iron beast with teeth of steel,\nIt does not know the difference between wheat and weed,\nIt cuts the whole field down alike.\n\nThe worker pauses to wipe his brow,\nTo see if he has left a good stalk behind;\nThe machine never stops, it only devours,\nGrinding everything into the same dust.\n\nOne knows what is worth saving,\nThe other knows nothing but hunger;\nOne leaves the garden standing,\nThe other leaves only a flat scar.", 6, "The iron teeth roar through the row\ngnashing green and gold alike,\na blind storm that leaves no seed to save,\nno stem too tender for the crush.\n\nBut here, the hand knows better than the blade,\nthe eye that sees the hidden fruit beneath the leaf,\nand chooses what is ripe while leaving green\nto wait another sun.\n\nThey bend with a rhythm older than the engine's hum,\npicking out the good from the bad,\nsaving the corn for bread, the cane for sugar,\nwhile the machine eats the whole field down to dust.\n\nOne cuts in anger or in hunger,\nthe other cuts with care,\nknowing that some things must be spared\nfor tomorrow's life.", 3, "The steel teeth roar and chew the green\nA hungry, mindless, grinding machine\nIt takes the weed beside the wheat\nAnd leaves no stem to stand alone\n\nBut hands that know the weight of gold\nMove through the rows with gentle care\nThey spare the stalk that bends too low\nAnd leave the broken seedlings there\n\nThe blade cuts down what grows nearby\nWithout a thought for root or flower\nWhile human eyes discern the worth\nOf every single living hour\n\nOne sweeps the field in blind despair\nTo clear the ground for next year's grain\nThe other saves the life within\nAnd gathers only what is plain", 6, "The iron teeth chew through the green and gold\nA hungry mouth that knows no root from weed\nIt swallows up the clover and the weed alike\nAnd leaves a flat and uniform defeat\n\nBut hands move slow beneath the burning sun\nWith eyes that trace the hidden, living line\nThey see the stalk that holds the heavy fruit\nAnd spare the flower hiding in the vine\n\nThe blade is blind to what it cuts away\nIt takes the good along with all the bad\nWhile fingers gently part the tangled mass\nTo save the life the machine thinks is dead\n\nOne is a storm that flattens every stand\nThe other is a gardener's careful grace\nThat chooses what shall rise and what shall fall\nWithin this vast and trembling harvest space", 6, "The iron beast roars down the row\nA silver mouth that chews and swallows low\nIt takes the weed, the stalk, the grain\nWith no regard for joy or pain\nA mindless hunger, cold and vast\nThat cuts the future to the past\n\nBut hands move soft among the green\nWhere human sight has carefully been\nThey see the rust upon the leaf\nAnd spare the plant from sudden grief\nThey know which fruit is ripe and sweet\nAnd leave the wounded at their feet\n\nOne blade descends without a thought\nTo sever all it finds in flight\nWhile fingers trace the hidden worth\nOf life that grows upon this earth\nThe machine claims the field as dead\nThe worker lifts the living bread", 6, "The iron teeth roar through the row\nA hungry mouth that cannot know\nThe difference between weed and wheat\nIt bites the stalk beneath its feet\nAnd leaves a uniform, dead green\nWhere nothing distinct has ever been\n\nBut hands move soft among the stems\nWith quiet grace and careful gems\nOf judgment passed on leaf and stem\nTo spare the fruit, to save the gem\nThey see the life within the dust\nIn every choice, a sacred trust\n\nThe machine devours all it finds\nWithout a pause, without defined lines\nWhile workers sort with weary eyes\nAnd separate the good from lies\nOne cuts the world in blind despair\nThe other tends with loving care", 6, "The iron teeth roar through the green\nChewing stalk and weed with equal hunger\nA mindless tide that knows no difference\nBetween the fruit to keep and thorn to spare\n\nBut hands calloused by sun and dust\nMove with a rhythm older than the steel\nFingers pause to test the weight of grain\nDiscerning life from rot in quiet grace\n\nOne cuts the world into a uniform heap\nWhile others choose what rises from the soil\nLeaving space for roots to breathe again\nAnd saving seeds for days when spring returns\n\nThe machine demands a perfect, empty row\nThe worker offers a garden built on care\nWhere every blade is weighed before it falls\nAnd nothing precious is lost to the indiscriminate dark", 6], [539, "ultra_held_out", "On the Massacre of Christians in Bulgaria by Oscar Wilde", "Oscar Wilde", "A poem about questioning God's divinity and calling upon Christ to intervene as dying men groan and children lay slaughtered upon the stones, while the world falls into darkness and the threat of being usurped looms.", "Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones\nStill straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?\nAnd was Thy Rising only dreamed by her\nWhose love of Thee for all her sin atones?\nFor here the air is horrid with men's groans,\nThe priests who call upon Thy name are slain,\nDost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain\nFrom those whose children lie upon the stones?\nCome down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom\nCurtains the land, and through the starless night\nOver Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!\nIf Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb\nCome down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might\nLest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!", "Is the throne empty where the silence screams\nOr have you turned your face from burning scenes?\nThe heavens hold no answer to the cry\nAs dying men let out their final sigh.\nUpon the stones, the children lie in rows\nWith blood that only cold and wind now knows.\nThe world dissolves into a heavy night\nWhile shadows stretch to swallow up the light.\nA usurper waits with crown of iron steel\nTo make the broken spirit cease to feel.\nO Christ, arise and break this shattering chain\nBefore the last hope drowns within the rain.\nStep down from glory, walk among the slain\nAnd wash away the guilt we cannot gain.\nIf God is far, then You must be our near\nTo banish terror and the coming fear.\nCome now before the darkness claims its due\nAnd save us from the end that waits for you.", "Is God a name we carved in empty air\nTo fill the silence while the stars burn out?\nWhy does He hide His face from this despair,\nFrom dying men who groan and children's blood\nUpon the stones where they were slaughtered?\nThe world is falling into darkness now,\nAnd shadows loom to usurp the throne of light.\nO Christ, arise! Break through the heavy sky!\nStretch forth Your hand against the usurper's might,\nAnd save us from the night that covers all.", 6, "Is this the throne where light was promised to endure?\nOr just a hollow echo in a sky turned black and cold,\nWhile men fall dying on the stones with groans that tear the air,\nAnd children lie in heaps of blood, their small hands turning gray.\n\nI call upon the Christ who walked among the broken,\nWho wept for Lazarus and healed the blind with touch,\nCome down now from the silence of your Father's distant seat,\nBefore the usurper steps across the threshold of our souls.\n\nThe world is falling into darkness like a heavy curtain drawn,\nThe shadows stretch to swallow up the last remaining spark,\nA tyrant waits to seize the crown and rule a graveyard realm,\nBut you, O Son of Mercy, rise and break the iron chain.\n\nIf God is dead or silent, let Your voice be heard instead,\nTo stop the slaughter of the innocent and dry the widow's tears,\nFor if the stars are going out and chaos takes the wheel,\nWe need the Light of Nations now to banish all these fears.", 6, "Is this the throne where silence holds its breath?\nWhere shadows stretch to swallow up the light,\nAnd usurpers sharpen blades against the sky,\nTo steal the crown that was not meant for night?\n\nO Christ, arise from slumber deep and old,\nFor men are dying with a groan of stone,\nWhile children lie in rows of broken bone,\nTheir tiny hands too cold to hold or fold.\n\nThe world is falling into endless dark,\nAs false kings rise to claim the empty seat,\nBut you who walked on water and the street,\nCan strike the lightning from the serpent's mark.\n\nDo not let tyranny consume the dawn,\nNor let the blood of innocents be lost,\nWhen every hope is counted as a cost,\nAnd faith itself is trembling and withdrawn.\n\nSpeak now, O Word, before the final bell,\nBefore the usurper takes the sacred place,\nAnd turn this terror back into your grace,\nFor if you do not wake, who else can tell?", 6, "Is there a silence where the throne should be\nOr has the light abandoned all we knew?\nThe stones are slick with blood of children free,\nAnd dying men cry out to skies of blue.\nO Christ, if You remain and do not sleep,\nWhy let the shadows rise to claim the day?\nThe usurper walks while holy watchmen weep,\nAnd darkness swallows up the path away.\nBreak through the vaults of heaven's heavy gray,\nBefore the final breath is drawn in vain,\nFor when the tyrant takes the throne today,\nNo voice remains to call upon Your name again.", 3, "Is the throne empty or is the silence deafening\nAs the sky cracks open to swallow the light\nWhile men with broken lungs gasp for a breath that never comes\nAnd small hands lie still upon the cold, unyielding stones\n\nWhere is the Father when the shadow stretches long\nWhen the usurper steps forward with a crown of thorns not his own\nDoes the divine gaze turn away from the slaughter in the square\nOr has the covenant been torn by the weight of our despair\n\nChrist, if you walk among the dying and the weeping\nRise now from the dust and shatter this creeping night\nLet your voice be the thunder that breaks the usurper's grip\nBefore the last ember fades and the world forgets the dawn\n\nDo not let the darkness claim what was bought with blood\nCall down the fire that purifies the rotting earth\nFor in this hour of terror where hope hangs by a thread\nWe cry out to the Son who walks the path of suffering", 3, "Is the throne empty or merely blind\nAs the shadows stretch to swallow every sign\nWe scream into the void for a name\nBut silence answers, cold and lame\n\nO Christ, arise from the silent grave\nAnd pull the drowning world from its dark cave\nFor men are dying with lungs full of dust\nTheir final prayers turned to iron and rust\n\nSee how the children lie upon the stone\nSmall bodies broken, left all alone\nThe stones drink deep of the innocent blood\nWhile rivers of sorrow flood through the mud\n\nThe heavens darken, the stars fall away\nAs usurpers whisper in the light of day\nThey claim the crown that was never theirs\nTo rule over ash and broken stairs\n\nIf You are God, then break the chain\nBefore we drown in this endless pain\nCome forth in fire, come forth in grace\nAnd wipe the terror from this ruined place", 6, "Why do you sleep while the sky turns black\nAs the iron gates begin to crack\nThe stones are wet with a crimson tide\nWhere innocent breaths have nowhere to hide\n\nOh silent throne, oh distant flame\nDo you not hear the whisper of shame\nWhen mothers weep for the lost and gone\nAnd the night swallows what was once dawn\n\nWe call your name through the choking dust\nTo break the chains of this rising rust\nLet mercy fall like a hammer's strike\nBefore the usurper claims the light for his own sake\n\nRise up now from the grave of years\nWipe away the salt of our deepest fears\nFor the world is breaking beneath our feet\nAnd only your hand can make the darkness retreat", 6], [541, "ultra_held_out", "Nightstand with Roses by Jody Zorgdrager", "Jody Zorgdrager", "A poem about revealing the complexities of a relationship breakup through an untrustworthy narrator's account, where strong emotions and hurtful reactions risk overrunning the truth.", "They weren\u2019t red nor was I angry, but with something five shades lighter than passion, I plucked the roses bald. Anyway, they were sorry things. Their nodding heads on such long stems reminded me how tiring it is, always trying to forgive. And besides, I did it gently, pulling petals the way one tugs off an insect\u2019s wings, by twos. What my thumb and fingertips began to hear\u2014yes, they listened for it\u2014 was the shaggy center\u2019s thick dribble, the tiny rip of dismemberment, and, in between, the moment of small panic that comes before\u2014as just before withdrawing a mouth from another mouth there comes that in-suck, that sudden taking back although you\u2019ve already given it up, given up to it\u2014the letting go. I couldn\u2019t stop until I had the whole drawer full of floating pink on pink.", "They say I screamed, that I threw things\nbut really I just whispered until my throat was raw\nand the glass on the floor was already there\nbefore I ever raised my voice.\nYou left first, or so you claim,\nslamming a door that I had already opened wide\nto let the cold air in and prove we were free.\nI remember the silence being loud enough to break bones\nnot because I broke it, but because you refused to hear me.\nIt wasn't a fight, it was a slow unraveling\nthat you insist I started with a single cruel word\na word I never spoke, a word you invented to justify the exit.\nMy hands are clean of the mess you describe\nyet you paint them black with every story you tell your friends.\nThe truth is a slippery thing when grief holds the pen\nand writes over the lines until nothing looks like what happened.\nWe both know how it ended, or at least we think we do\nuntil one of us decides the version where they are the victim\nis the only one worth keeping.", "She said she left because I was boring\nwhich is a lie, I know it is a lie\nbecause the night she packed her bags\nI recited three hours of obscure French poetry\nand she laughed until she cried.\n\nBut then again, she did cry\nand I told her to stop crying\nbecause crying is stupid and makes you ugly\nso maybe that's why she left.\n\nOr maybe it was the money thing\nthough I told her I'd pay her back eventually\nbut she kept saying \"eventually\" sounds like \"never\"\nand she said she needed security now\nwhich is true, I can't deny that part.\n\nBut she didn't have to throw the plate at me\njust because I asked her to wait on the payment\nand if she hadn't thrown the plate\nmaybe I wouldn't have called her a bitch\nand maybe she wouldn't have hit me with the lamp\nor maybe she would have anyway\nsince she seemed so angry about the money.\n\nAnd then she said I never loved her\nand that's the biggest lie of all\nbecause I bought her a diamond ring last week\nand if I didn't love her I wouldn't have done that\nunless I just wanted to get rid of her\nwhich is possible since she was getting on my nerves\nabout the money and the plate and the lamp\nand calling me names and hitting me.\n\nSo I think she's lying when she says she left\nbecause I was boring or because I didn't love her\nshe probably left because I made her mad\nby asking for my money back too soon\nor by telling her not to cry\nor by calling her a bitch\nwhich I shouldn't have done but I was angry\nand I think she was being unfair to me\nso I think I'm right and she's wrong\neven though she says I'm wrong\nand she won't even let me see the cat.", 2, "She said she left because the air was too thin\nbut I know she packed her bags while I was sleeping\nbecause she hated the way I chewed my toast\nwhich is a lie, I never chewed it like that\nI just ate it quickly to get back to reading\nand she wanted me to stop reading and look at her\nso she made up a reason about the air\nor maybe the air really was thin\nbut not as thin as the excuse she used to leave\nI saw the suitcase by the door before she told me\nand I pretended not to see it because I was afraid\nthat if I acknowledged it she would actually go\nand now she says I was controlling and cold\nwhen all I did was hold the handle of the door\nwhile she walked out with her lies in her pocket\nshe claims I screamed but I only whispered please stay\nand even then she didn't hear me over the sound of her own heartbreak\nwhich she wears like a badge of honor now\ntelling everyone how cruel I was\nhow I broke her into pieces she couldn't glue back together\nbut the truth is she dropped herself on the floor\nand I was just standing there holding the broom\nwaiting for her to sweep up the mess she made\nof us", 2, "She said she left because I never listened\nwhich is a lie, I was the one who held the door open\nwhile she walked out into the rain that didn't exist\nI remember the silence perfectly, how it stretched like taffy\nuntil it snapped and cut her lip, or maybe that was just a metaphor\nshe claims I screamed until the neighbors called the police\nbut I was whispering, begging her to stay in a voice so soft\nit sounded like wind through dry leaves, a gentle rustle\nnot the roar of a storm that supposedly shattered every window in the hall\nShe says I threw things, heavy glass vases full of water\nthat made puddles on the rug she hated anyway\nbut all I touched was my own face, gripping it hard enough to bruise\ntrying to keep the tears inside where they belonged\nShe paints me as a monster with claws and teeth\nwhen really I was just a child holding a broken toy\nsaying sorry over and over until the words lost their meaning\nand turned into static, white noise filling the room\nShe wants the story to be simple, black and white\na villain and a victim, a clear line drawn in the sand\nbut the truth is muddy, shifting under our feet like wet cement\nwhere I might have been cruel, but only because she looked at me\nwith eyes that had already packed their bags\nleaving me standing there in an empty house\npretending the dust motes dancing in the light were just dust\nand not the ashes of everything we used to be", 2, "They say I screamed until the glass shattered\nbut really I just whispered my love was a mistake\nand you were the one who couldn't hear it\nyou said I lied about the money in the drawer\nyet your hands were shaking when you packed the boxes\nso full of things you never claimed to miss\nI told everyone you left without a word\nforgetting that you begged me to stay for one more night\nbefore the silence became too loud to bear\nmy memory is a sharp knife cutting out the parts\nwhere I was cruel and you were kind\nwhere the fault was mine but the story needs a villain\nto make the pain feel like justice instead of grief\nso I will tell you how you broke my heart first\neven if the truth is that we both did it slowly\nand neither of us knew how to stop the bleeding\nuntil there was nothing left to hold onto", 2, "They say I left without a sound\nBut you know how the silence screams in this house\nI didn't push, I merely stepped aside while you collapsed\nA victim of your own making, not my hand\nYou painted me as cold, a statue carved from ice\nWhen really I was just holding back the flood\nThat you insisted on releasing all over everything\nI told you to stop crying but you called it cruelty\nAs if tears are facts and not just water\nYou twist the timeline until my voice sounds like a lie\nSaying I forgot our anniversary when I bought the flowers\nThe ones you threw in the trash because they were too bright\nToo loud for your quiet little tragedy\nI am the villain in your story because I won't play along\nBecause I see the cracks you try to plaster with blame\nAnd every time you speak my name with that venomous tone\nThe truth gets thinner, stretched until it snaps\nLeaving only the echo of what we were before the war\nBefore you decided that loving me was a crime\nAnd I am guilty simply for surviving the wreckage\nYou made of us", 2, "They say I left without a sound\nBut you know how the wind can lie\nI was the calm within the storm\nWhile you were screaming at the sky\nYou claim I shattered every vow\nWith cold and calculated hands\nYet memory is a crooked glass\nThat twists the truth of where we stand\nI swear I never meant to hurt\nThough words flew sharp like broken shards\nYou paint me as the villain here\nIgnoring all the love that marred\nThe silence grew too loud to bear\nSo I walked out to save us both\nA selfish act, they call it now\nTo shield the heart from further oath\nYour tears are real, I do not doubt\nBut stories shift when grief takes hold\nAnd in your rage, you wrote my name\nAs something wicked, dark, and old\nIf you could see the cracks inside\nThe fragile things we tried to keep\nYou'd know the monster isn't me\nJust two lost souls who fell asleep", 6, "I swear the silence was loud before you spoke\na weapon forged in my own trembling hands\nyou called it cruelty but I see only defense\nthe way you turned your back on what we built\nis a lie I tell to keep the pieces whole\n\nYour tears were calculated, sharp and cold\ndesigned to make me doubt the ground beneath\nI remember every word as an attack\nignoring how my voice cracked first\nhow I pushed you away with a smile too wide\n\nThey say the truth is simple, black and white\nbut here in this gray fog of memory\nmy guilt wears the mask of innocence\nand your anger looks like madness now\nso I will write the story my heart demands\nwhere I am the victim of a war you started\neven if the battlefield exists only inside my head", 2], [542, "ultra_held_out", "Jack Sprat", "A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes", "\"A poem about a greedy character named Jack Sprat whose connection to political figures and popular legends helped popularize the saying into a canonical English nursery rhyme.\"", "Jack Sprat could eat no fat.\nHis wife could eat no lean.\nAnd so between them both, you see,\nThey licked the platter clean\nJack ate all the lean,\nJoan ate all the fat.\nThe bone they picked it clean,\nThen gave it to the cat", "In halls of power where the whispers start,\nA figure named Jack Sprat played his part.\nThough history claims he was a man of lean,\nHis name became a legend, sharp and keen.\nThe politicians used his tale to mock,\nOf those who feast while others lack a lock.\nFrom royal courts to legends old and deep,\nHe carved a promise that the people keep.\nNo fat could stay upon his bony frame,\nWhile others burned with greed and sought for fame.\nThe nursery rhyme took root in every tongue,\nWhere Jack's own story had so long been sung.\nNow children chant what once was political art,\nThe greedy ghost of Jack Sprat's hungry heart.", "Old Jack Sprat was a man of great greed,\nWho feasted on fat while his wife ate the lean,\nBut he sought more than just a good meal to feed,\nHe wanted the fame that the nursery scenes.\n\nHe courted King Henry with plump and rich dishes,\nAnd whispered to Robin Hood tales of his diet,\nTill the saying spread far through the land like the fishes,\nAnd became a rhyme known by every child's wit.\n\nSo now when we hear of the husband and wife,\nOne eating nothing but fat, one no meat,\nWe think of Jack Sprat, and his long, greedy life,\nAnd how he made the nursery rhyme complete.", 6, "There once was a Jack Sprat of great desire\nWho feasted on fat while his wife ate no fire,\nA greedy old soul with a belly so round\nThat he made the whole proverb famous and found.\n\nHe knew every king from the throne to the street,\nAnd whispered to legends that made the rhyme sweet,\nFrom Robin Hood's shadow to Henry's decree,\nHis name became legend for all folk to see.\n\nThe nursery walls echoed loud with his tale,\nOf how he could eat till his waist began to fail,\nWhile poor Mrs. Sprat had no meat left to chew,\nSo the saying stuck fast as the dew on the dew.\n\nNow children all over the English-speaking land,\nRecite the short verse that Jack helped command,\nA canonical rhyme in a book or a song,\nWhere Jack's greed is remembered right all along.", 7, "Young Jack Sprat was a man of such greed\nWho sought every morsel that others might need,\nHe gorged on the fat while his wife took the lean,\nA tale spun by kings to make children convene.\n\nThe courtiers and lords who watched him devour\nSaw power in gluttony, flesh without flour,\nThey whispered his name to the bards of the age,\nTo write it in verse for the nursery stage.\n\nFrom legends of old where the gluttons were fed,\nTo politicians who feasted on bread,\nHis story became a canonical rhyme,\nFrozen in time for all future time.\n\nSo Jack ate the fat and left none for the rest,\nA proverb of hunger put to the test,\nAnd though he is gone, the saying remains,\nThrough political echoes and nursery strains.", 6, "Jack Sprat was a man of hollowed greed\nWho sought to fill every cup and deed\nHe leaned on kings with a sly grin's grace\nAnd whispered tales in the monarch's face\nThe popular legends he twisted and spun\nTo make his own name the center of fun\nA rhyme was born from his selfish art\nThat carved his hunger in every heart\nThough history fades and the figures depart\nHis legacy lives in the nursery's start\nNow children chant what the greedy man taught\nOf eating all meat and leaving no thought\nFrom political shadows to lullabies sweet\nThe tale of Jack Sprat makes the rhythm complete", 6, "Young Jack Sprat with eyes so wide\nSaw power in the feast inside\nHe courted lords of crown and state\nAnd whispered greed to seal their fate\nWith tales of kings who ate alone\nAnd queens who left the marrow bone\nThe stories spread from street to hall\nAs hungry ghosts began to call\nNo meat for him, no fat for her\nJust endless want that made them stir\nThrough politics and nursery rhyme\nHis avarice became a crime\nNow sung by children, clear and bright\nA warning kept through day and night\nThat those who take and never share\nFind only hunger in the air", 6, "Young Jack Sprat was a man of great appetite\nWho sought the crown while others fought for light\nHe courted kings with promises of gold\nAnd twisted tales that legends often told\nThe fat and lean became his political stage\nA metaphor for power in a written age\nAs bards and scribes began to chant his name\nHis greed transformed into a child's game\nNo longer just a man who ate too much\nBut part of history, a cultural touch\nNow mothers sing the rhyme he helped create\nWhere hunger meets the rhythm of our fate\nFrom whispered schemes to nursery walls so bright\nJack Sprat lives on in every bedtime night", 6, "Young Jack Sprat was born of want and need\nA boy who saw the feast as all he'd feed\nHe watched the lords who sat in gilded halls\nAnd heard the whispers rise above the walls\n\nThe stories grew from taverns deep and dark\nWhere common men would leave their hungry mark\nA tale of greed that shaped a nation's tongue\nAs songs were sung by young and old and young\n\nHe linked his name to kings who ruled with iron hands\nTo legends spun across these shifting lands\nThe fat and lean became a moral guide\nWith every word that drifted far and wide\n\nNow nursery rhymes repeat the ancient plea\nOf how the world was carved for one to see\nThat Jack Sprat remains within the rhyme\nA shadow cast on history's endless time", 7], [546, "ultra_held_out", "Chinoiseries by Amy Lowell", "Amy Lowell", "\"A poem about a woman gazing at a serene garden of peonies and pagodas beside a still lake, reaching for the beautiful crimson flowers only to have them breaking in her hands, illustrating how people are spoiling the very things they desire.\"", "When I looked into your eyes,\nI saw a garden\nWith peonies, and tinkling pagodas,\nAnd round-arched bridges\nOver still lakes.\nA woman sat beside the water\nIn a rain-blue, silken garment.\nShe reached through the water\nTo pluck the crimson peonies\nBeneath the surface,\nBut as she grasped the stems,\nThey jarred and broke into white-green ripples,\nAnd as she drew out her hand,\nThe water-drops dripping from it\nStained her rain-blue dress like tears.", "She walks where silent water holds the sky\nAnd pagodas in green and gold arise,\nWhere peonies in crimson clouds unfold\nA story that the stillness has been told.\nHer fingers stretch to claim the velvet bloom\nThat chases shadows from the quiet room,\nBut as she grasps the heavy, fragrant head,\nThe petals crumble into dust and red.\nThey break beneath the weight of her desire,\nTurning to ash within her trembling fire,\nFor greed is sharp enough to ruin grace,\nAnd leave no beauty in the human place.\nShe sought to keep the flower for her own,\nBut in the holding, lost it all alone,\nProving how hearts that crave too much destroy\nThe very thing they love with such a joy.", "Beside the still lake where the water holds no ripple,\nThe garden sleeps in green and silver light,\nWhere pagodas stand like quiet sentinels\nAnd peonies open their heavy heads to noon.\n\nShe walks among them with a heart too full of love,\nReaching to take the crimson bloom she sees,\nBut as her fingers close upon the velvet petal,\nThe flower breaks within her hand and falls to dust.\n\nIt is the way of those who would possess the beautiful;\nThey crush the very thing they seek to hold,\nFor beauty cannot be held in any other way\nThan by the eye alone, or else it turns to nothing.", 6, "Beside the still lake where the water holds no wind,\nA garden sleeps in silence, green and deep,\nWhere pagodas rise with roofs of curved design\nAnd peonies their heavy crimson keep.\n\nShe walks among the blossoms, soft and bright,\nAnd sees a flower that burns like living fire,\nReaches to hold its petals in her light,\nTo claim the beauty that she most desire.\n\nBut as her fingers close around the stem,\nThe fragile bloom gives way beneath her touch,\nIt shatters into dust within her hem,\nToo precious for the greedy hand to clutch.\n\nSo often do we seek what makes us whole,\nAnd in our grasping break the very thing,\nDestroying beauty with our hungry soul,\nUntil the silent garden has nothing left to sing.", 7, "She stands beside the still and glassy lake\nWhere pagodas reflect in silent grace,\nAnd peonies bloom in crimson, soft and deep,\nA garden held within a quiet space.\n\nHer hand reaches out to touch the heavy bloom,\nTo hold the beauty close against her chest,\nBut as her fingers grasp the velvet petal,\nThe flower crumbles, broken in her quest.\n\nThe crimson dust falls from her trembling palm,\nThe stem snaps clean beneath her eager weight,\nFor in the very act of taking hold,\nShe destroys what she so desperately sought to create.\n\nWe reach for joy with hands too rough and tight,\nAnd crush the very thing we wish to keep,\nSpoiling the serenity we crave to find,\nBefore it has a chance to make us whole or free.", 7, "The lake lies still as polished glass\nWhere pagodas in silence stand,\nAnd peonies in crimson mass\nReflect the beauty of the land.\n\nShe steps with reverence and grace\nTo touch the bloom that calls her near,\nA smile upon her gentle face\nAs hope dissolves the quiet fear.\n\nHer fingers stretch to hold the red,\nTo keep the fleeting moment whole,\nBut petals crumble, softly dead,\nAnd tear the fragile heart in two.\n\nFor in the grasping tightest grip,\nThe thing we love begins to fade,\nWe crush the very things we sip,\nAnd ruin what our hands have made.", 7, "She walks where stone pagodas stand\nBeside a lake of glassy still,\nWhere peonies in crimson band\nReflect the quiet, ancient hill.\n\nThe air is thick with sweet perfume,\nA garden kept in perfect grace,\nYet something pulls her from the gloom,\nTo reach for beauty face to face.\n\nHer fingers stretch to grasp the bloom,\nThat heavy head of velvet red,\nBut in her eager, greedy thumb,\nThe fragile petals turn to dead.\n\nThey shatter soft within her hold,\nA ruin made by touch so keen,\nAs if the story must be told:\nWe break what we most wish to glean.\n\nThe lake remains untouched and deep,\nWhile she holds dust of what she sought,\nA lesson that the heart must keep,\nOf how desire can bring us naught.", 7, "The lake holds breath beneath the stone,\nWhere pagodas in silence stand,\nAnd crimson peonies softly blown\nReflect the quiet of the land.\n\nShe steps across the mossy path,\nDrawn by a hue so deep and bright,\nA hunger for the perfect bath\nOf petals catching morning light.\n\nHer fingers stretch to claim the bloom,\nTo hold the beauty close and tight,\nBut as her grasp begins to loom,\nThe fragile stems give way to night.\n\nNo gentle touch can keep them whole,\nFor desire turns to crushing force,\nThe flower breaks within her soul,\nAnd leaves a ruin on its course.\n\nWe reach to save what we adore,\nWith hands too eager, rough, and blind,\nOnly to spill it on the floor,\nDestroying all we sought to find.", 7, "The water holds the sky in perfect glass\nWhere pagodas stand silent, old and vast\nA garden blooms with peonies so deep\nIn crimson robes that secrets softly keep\n\nShe steps across the moss of ancient stone\nTo claim a beauty she has made her own\nHer fingers stretch to touch the velvet petal\nIgnoring how the fragile bloom will settle\n\nBut as she grasps the flower's heavy heart\nIt crumbles into dust before it starts\nThe crimson slips through cracks within her palm\nA broken wish, a sudden, quiet calm\n\nWe reach for what we cannot truly hold\nAnd turn the gold to rust, the bright to cold\nIn wanting more than nature meant to give\nWe teach the living things they cannot live", 7], [548, "ultra_held_out", "The Anactoria Poem by Sappho", "Sappho", "\"A poem about a speaker considering the nature of beauty and love, using the example of Helen leaving her family, friends, and home to explore what makes something truly beautiful and worth admiring.\"", "Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers,\nothers call a fleet the most beautiful of\nsights the dark earth offers, but I say it's what-\never you love best.\n\nAnd it's easy to make this understood by\neveryone, for she who surpassed all human\nkind in beauty, Helen, abandoning her\nhusband--that best of\n\nmen--went sailing off to the shores of Troy and\nnever spent a thought on her child or loving\nparents: when the goddess seduced her wits and\nleft her to wander,\n\nshe forgot them all, she could not remember\nanything but longing, and lightly straying\naside, lost her way. But that reminds me\nnow: Anact\u00f3ria,\n\nshe's not here, and I'd rather see her lovely\nstep, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on\nall the troops in Lydia in their chariots and\nglittering armor.", "She stepped away from the woven hearth\nand left the quiet laughter of her kin,\ntrading the known for a stranger's breath,\nto see where the golden thread begins.\n\nWas it the face that drew the ships to sail?\nOr the fire that burned in a sudden glance?\nDid beauty demand a heavy gale\nto break the calm of a peaceful dance?\n\nThey say she loved the man, not just the look,\nbut I wonder if love is the thing we chase,\nor if it is simply the risk we took\nto leave the safety of our own space.\n\nFor Helen found that what we call divine\nis often built on a fractured floor,\na choice to cross the salt and brine\nfor something more than a locked door.\n\nPerhaps true beauty is not the gold\nthat sits untouched upon a shelf,\nbut the story of being bold enough to hold\nthe weight of losing one's self.", "I wonder if the beauty of Helen lay\nIn leaving her family, friends, and home behind,\nOr in the golden hair that caught the sun's eye,\nOr in the eyes themselves, bright as a star's.\n\nWas it the act of departure that made her great?\nThe breaking of bonds, the stepping out alone?\nOr was it simply the shape of her face,\nAnd the way she looked at Paris when he spoke?\n\nIf she had stayed with her husband and children,\nWould she have been less beautiful to me?\nWould I have thought less of the story of Troy\nIf she had not gone over the sea?\n\nPerhaps what is truly beautiful is this:\nTo be willing to lose everything for love,\nTo leave the safe house and the familiar faces,\nAnd go where one does not know what will happen.\n\nPerhaps beauty is the courage to begin,\nThe willingness to risk the known for the unknown,\nThe readiness to walk away from all that is dear,\nBecause something more dear has appeared.", 6, "Was it the gold of Troy or just the fire\nThat made her leave the quiet hearth and home,\nThe woven wool, the friends she knew by name,\nTo chase a shadow on a distant foam?\n\nWe call it beauty when the heart takes flight,\nWhen reason bows before a sudden grace,\nBut Helen's step was heavy with the cost\nOf breaking every sacred, familiar place.\n\nIs beauty then the thing that breaks the bond?\nOr is it love that makes the ruin sweet,\nThe courage to walk out into the dark\nAnd trust the chaos underneath our feet?\n\nPerhaps the truest admiration lies\nNot in the face that starts the burning war,\nBut in the choice to leave the known behind\nFor something vast we cannot see or store.", 6, "She stepped away from the hearth and the familiar names,\nLeaving behind the woven tapestries of daily life,\nTo chase a shadow that danced on the edge of the sea.\nWas it the face that launched a thousand ships,\nOr the quiet courage to burn the bridge behind her?\n\nWe call it beauty when the light catches gold,\nBut Helen knew the cost of a single glance,\nThe weight of a world turning on a whisper.\nLove is not just the bloom that opens in spring,\nBut the storm that follows the first drop of rain.\n\nWhat makes a thing worth admiring?\nIs it the safety of the known, the warm embrace of kin?\nOr is it the terrifying freedom to choose the unknown,\nTo trade the solid ground for the shifting sand?\nPerhaps true beauty lies in the breaking,\nIn the willingness to lose everything for a glimpse of truth.\n\nShe did not look back at the gardens she left to wither,\nNor the friends who called her name in vain.\nFor the heart that seeks must be willing to be empty,\nAnd the love that matters is the one that dares to leave.", 6, "She stepped away from the hearth and the familiar stone\nTo chase a shadow cast by a golden face,\nLeaving the woven tapestries of kin and friend\nFor a stranger's glance that promised endless grace.\n\nWas it the curve of a jaw or the fire in the eye\nThat made her trade the safety of the known for the sea?\nOr did she seek a beauty so vast it could not be held\nBy the quiet walls of a home meant to be?\n\nWe call it love when we burn for what we cannot keep,\nWhen the cost is measured in years and broken vows,\nBut perhaps true beauty lies not in the prize won\nBut in the terrible courage to bow before the boughs.\n\nHelen walked into the wind without looking back\nAt the life she dismantled just to feel alive,\nWondering if the thing we admire most is the one\nThat asks us to lose ourselves to truly survive.\n\nSo let us ask if the worth of a thing is found\nIn its staying power or its power to depart,\nIf beauty is the anchor or the ship that sails away,\nAnd if love is the harbor or the beating heart.", 6, "She stepped across the threshold where the light grew thin\nAnd left the woven tapestry of home behind\nThe laughter of her children, soft and warm within\nThe quiet comfort that a mother's heart could find\n\nWas beauty just the gold that caught the morning sun\nOr was it something deeper, something wild and free\nA fire that burned the past until the work was done\nTo chase a ghost of longing in a stranger's sea\n\nThey say she chose a face that shattered kingdoms down\nBut did she seek the marble or the breaking stone\nDid love demand the ruin of a quiet town\nOr simply ask the soul to claim its own\n\nPerhaps the truest beauty is not what we keep\nWhen safe inside the walls we built to hold us tight\nBut what we risk when waking from a peaceful sleep\nTo walk alone into the terrifying night\n\nFor Helen walked away from all she knew to be\nTo test the weight of desire against the cost\nAnd found that worth is measured by the price we pay\nTo see the world as it is, and never lost", 6, "She stepped away from hearth and familiar stone\nTo chase a ghost that whispered in the wind\nLeaving behind the woven threads of home\nWhere love had been a quiet, steady friend\n\nWas beauty found in what she left behind?\nIn laughter shared around a wooden table\nOr in the spark that burned so fierce and blind\nThat it could make the world feel un-stable\n\nThe ocean stretched its arms to hold her flight\nAs Troy rose up to meet her wandering eyes\nAnd in that choice, the nature took its light\nTo ask if worth is measured by goodbyes\n\nPerhaps true beauty lies not in the stay\nBut in the risk of breaking every chain\nA heart that dares to wander far away\nTo find the gold within the falling rain\n\nSo Helen walked where shadows met the dawn\nWith nothing but the promise of the new\nAnd learned that love is never fully gone\nWhen it is shaped by what we choose to do", 7, "She packed the quiet of a morning room\nAnd left the scent of bread and burning wood\nTo chase a shadow on the edge of doom\nWhere ancient oaths were broken by a flood\n\nWas it the face that turned the world to stone\nOr just the hunger in a stranger's gaze\nThe way a heart can claim what is unknown\nAnd set the soul ablaze with sudden rays\n\nHer friends stood silent as the gates swung wide\nNo tears to mark the path she chose to tread\nFor beauty lives where courage dares to hide\nBeyond the comfort of the life already shed\n\nTo love is not to hold but let it go\nTo watch the fire burn before the ash takes flight\nA thousand years will tell us what we know\nThat truest gold is found within the night\n\nSo Helen walks toward the distant sea\nWith nothing but the wind to guide her way\nAdmiring all the wild uncertainty\nOf things too vast for any word to say", 7], [551, "train", "Alice the Camel", "A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes", "\"A poem about a camel named Alice losing her humps one by one, counting down from five to zero, until revealing in a surprising punchline that she is actually a horse.\"", "Alice the camel has five humps.\nAlice the camel has five humps.\nAlice the camel has five humps.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has four humps.\nAlice the camel has four humps.\nAlice the camel has four humps.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has three humps.\nAlice the camel has three humps.\nAlice the camel has three humps.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has two humps.\nAlice the camel has two humps.\nAlice the camel has two humps.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has one hump.\nAlice the camel has one hump.\nAlice the camel has one hump.\nSo go, Alice, go!\nBoom, boom, boom, boom!\n\nAlice the camel has no humps.\nAlice the camel has no humps.\nAlice the camel has no humps.\n\u2018Cause Alice is a horse, of course!", "Alice the camel had five humps to her back,\nA mountainous ridge that would never turn slack.\nBut down came the first one with a soft plop and sigh,\nLeaving four bumpy peaks beneath the blue sky.\n\nThen two slipped away while she grazed on the grass,\nNow only three lumps in a row as they pass.\nThe third one dissolved like a cloud in the rain,\nAnd Alice stood tall with just two hills to gain.\n\nOne more tumbled off as she walked through the town,\nLeaving a single peak that was wobbling down.\nThat last little mound gave a final goodbye,\nAs Alice stood flat with a smooth, empty eye.\n\nNo hump left behind, not a bump or a dent,\nJust a sleek, slender neck and a mane freshly bent.\nShe neighed at the moon with a whinny so clear,\nFor Alice the camel was really a horse right here.", "Alice the camel had five humps to her back,\nA mountainous range for a horse to attack.\nBut down came one hump with a terrible thud,\nLeaving four humps on Alice, as good as she could.\n\nDown came another, two less than before,\nNow three humps remained on poor Alice's core.\nThen down came the third, and now only two,\nWhich made Alice look very different from you.\n\nDown came the fourth, so just one was left,\nAnd that one hump made her look rather bereft.\nThe last one fell off with a splash in the sea,\nAnd now Alice looked exactly like me.\n\nShe stood there quite flat, with no humps at all,\nJust a long neck and tail and a head and a pawl.\nI asked her, \"My dear, what are you? You're not a camel!\"\nShe said, \"No, I'm not! I'm a horse by name and by sample.\"", 6, "Alice the camel had five humps to her name,\nA towering stack that defied all the game.\nShe walked through the desert with grace and with pride,\nWith a mountain of fat on her back riding wide.\n\nBut one day she lost a hump, now four stood so tall,\nThe others looked down at her, feeling quite small.\nThen another rolled off with a plop and a thud,\nLeaving three lumpy hills in the middle of the mud.\n\nDown to two, then to one, as they vanished away,\nShe felt lighter than air as she trotted that day.\nWith zero humps left, she was smooth as a stone,\nAnd finally ready to face the unknown.\n\nShe galloped right up to the water's edge deep,\nWhere camels and horses would gather to sleep.\nThey stared at her shape with a look of surprise,\nAs she tossed her long mane and let out a loud neigh.\n\n\"I'm not a camel!\" she shouted with glee,\n\"I never was one, you can clearly all see!\nI just wore some fake humps for a very long time,\nTo make everyone think I was part of their clime.\"\n\nSo Alice the horse took a drink from the stream,\nAnd laughed at the camels who woke from their dream.", 6, "Alice the camel had five humps to her name,\nA wobbly stack that defied every frame.\nShe walked through the desert with a rhythmic sway,\nUntil one by one, they just fell away.\n\nFirst came the loss of number five,\nThen four remained as she struggled to drive.\nThree humps left standing, then two in a row,\nThen only one, making her gait slow and low.\n\nThe last great hump tumbled down in the sand,\nLeaving Alice flat on her feet in the land.\nNo bumps on her back, no curve to be seen,\nJust a sleek, long-legged animal, lean and keen.\n\nThe crowd gasped aloud at the strange display,\nAs the truth finally came out to stay:\nWith a neigh and a trot and a mane flowing free,\nPoor Alice was never a camel at all\u2014she's a horse you see.", 6, "Alice stood upon the dune with five great humps of fat,\nA mountain range of woolly back that made her look so grand.\nBut as the desert wind blew cold, the first one slipped away,\nLeaving four distinct peaks behind to face the breaking day.\n\nThe second hump dissolved like mist beneath a morning sun,\nNow three remained atop her spine, though Alice felt undone.\nThe third one fell into the sand with soft and dusty sound,\nUntil just two were left to stand on ground she barely found.\n\nOne hump more vanished in the heat, a single mound remained,\nShe wobbled on a slender leg while all the camels feigned.\nThen down the last one tumbled flat until her back was bare,\nNo camel shape could be seen there, no woolly coat to wear.\n\nShe shook her mane and neighed aloud, \"I'm not a beast of sand!\"\nWith hooves that clicked on rocky stone and tail held high and grand.\nFor Alice never had a hump, it turns out, from the start,\nShe's just a horse who played a game and hid inside a cart.", 6, "Alice stood upon the dune so high,\nWith five great humps that touched the sky.\nShe counted down as winds blew cold,\nOne by one, her story told.\n\nFive became four, then three remained,\nA mountain range of flesh and grain.\nThen two, then one, a lonely peak,\nUntil the last was weak and meek.\n\nThe final hump dissolved to air,\nLeaving Alice standing bare.\nNo camel skin, no desert grace,\nJust hooves that left a distinct trace.\n\nThe truth came out for all to see,\nAs Alice neighed in victory.\nFor camels never had such speed,\nOr manes that flowed like river reed.\n\nShe is no beast of sand and heat,\nBut simply just a horse complete.", 7, "Alice stood beneath the burning sun,\nWith five great humps upon her back begun.\nShe counted down as desert winds blew cold,\nA story of a camel, brave and bold.\n\nFive humps she had when morning light appeared,\nBut one by one, the strange shapes disappeared.\nFour rose in glory, then three took their place,\nAs Alice moved with slow and steady pace.\n\nTwo remained to mark her weary skin,\nThen just a single lump sat deep within.\nThe crowd watched on in awe and sheer surprise,\nTo see a camel shrinking before their eyes.\n\nOne final hump began to fade away,\nUntil the silhouette was bare today.\nNo camel's curve, no desert beast is here,\nJust four long legs and mane that brushed the air.\n\nThe mystery solved with laughter loud and free,\nFor Alice was not camel, but a horse you see.", 7, "Alice stood beneath the desert sun\nWith five great humps she'd just begun\nA mountain range upon her back\nThat made the wandering travelers track\n\nOne by one they started to fade\nAs if a silent spell had been laid\nThe first fell soft into the sand\nLeaving four behind where once it planned\n\nTwo remained as dust blew through\nWhile Alice watched with eyes askew\nThe third dissolved in morning light\nAnd now only two were left in sight\n\nThen came the fourth to drift away\nReducing weight from heavy day\nOne solitary peak stood tall\nDefying every ancient law and call\n\nBut when the final mound took flight\nAnd vanished into endless night\nThe shape that stayed was not so strange\nNo camel traits could now remain unchanged\n\nFor Alice turned to show her face\nA gallop born of different grace\nNo hump, no fur, no desert rhyme\nJust hooves that beat a rhythmic time", 6], [552, "ultra_held_out", "no help for that by Charles Bukowski", "Charles Bukowski", "\"A poem about striving for achievement while never feeling fulfilled, urging the acceptance of life's endless and insatiable nature.\"", "There is a place in the heart that\nwill never be filled\n\na space\n\nand even during the\nbest moments\nand\nthe greatest times\ntimes\n\nwe will know it\n\nwe will know it\nmore than\never\n\nthere is a place in the heart that\nwill never be filled\nand\n\nwe will wait\nand\nwait\n\nin that space.", "The ladder climbs but never touches sky\nEach rung we grasp becomes the floor beneath\nWe chase the peak where shadows softly lie\nAnd find another mountain in our teeth\n\nThe cup is poured but thirst remains the same\nA hollow echo in a crowded hall\nWe burn the candle just to feed the flame\nAnd watch the wick dissolve before the fall\n\nDo not mistake the hunger for a flaw\nNor blame the heart that beats beyond its fill\nThe endless wind is nature's only law\nTo keep the spirit wild and standing still\n\nEmbrace the void that pulls us ever on\nLet go the dream of rest or final shore\nThe journey is the place where we belong\nNot some distant peace we wait to explore", "You climb the ladder rung by rung\nUntil your fingers bleed and break,\nAnd when you reach the top you find\nThe view is just another peak.\n\nYou build a tower to touch the sky,\nBut clouds are always in the way,\nSo you build higher, brick by brick,\nAnd still the clouds will not give way.\n\nThere is no summit for the soul,\nNo final plateau of content,\nJust endless hills to scale again\nWhere hunger is the only rent.\n\nSo stop the striving, drop the load,\nAnd learn the lesson life has taught:\nTo be is to be hungry still,\nAnd satisfaction is a fault.", 6, "We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung\nAnd reach a height that seems to touch the sky,\nBut find another mountain in the lung\nOf air we thought was clear and dry.\nThe summit is a mirage made of dust,\nA promise kept by nothing but the wind;\nWe build our castles out of iron rust,\nThen wonder why they cannot hold us in.\n\nDo not mistake the hunger for a flaw,\nNor think the cup must ever overflow;\nIt is the nature of the law\nThat drives the river to the sea below.\nTo stop would be to let the current cease,\nTo fill the vessel means to break its side;\nThe joy is in the running, not the peace\nOf standing still where all the waters hide.\n\nSo drink the thirst and never seek the end,\nFor satisfaction is a ghostly lie;\nThe journey has no destination friend,\nNo final port beneath a quiet sky.\nEmbrace the ache, the gap, the endless want,\nThe hollow space that keeps the spirit wide;\nLet every victory be but a faint haunt\nOf things we have not yet achieved inside.", 6, "We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung\nAnd reach for stars that shift just out of sight\nThe summit is a mirage, never done\nA promise kept to vanish in the night\nYou build your castle on a shifting sand\nAnd marvel at the height you've managed gain\nBut feel no peace within the hollow land\nJust hunger for the next great mountain range\n\nWhy seek an end when life was made to start?\nTo fill a cup that leaks as fast as poured\nThe heart beats loud against a frantic part\nThat wants more than the present can afford\nAccept the thirst, the ache, the endless drive\nThe beauty lies not in the reaching hand\nBut in the wanting that keeps us alive\nWithin this vast and insatiable land\n\nLet go the dream of some final rest\nWhere every need is met and silence reigns\nFor we are built to hunger for the best\nAnd chase the wind across the open plains\nSo run until your lungs begin to burn\nNot waiting for a fire that will not come\nBut finding joy in turning, turning, turning\nThe wheel that drives the sun toward the drum", 7, "We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung\nTo taste the fruit that never fully ripens\nThe summit is a mirage in the sun\nWhere every victory feels like just beginning\n\nThe hunger gnaws beneath the laurel crown\nAs if the feast was meant to starve us still\nWe trade our quiet hours for the sound\nOf bells that ring but offer no one will\n\nWhy chase the horizon that keeps retreating?\nWhy build a dam against an endless tide?\nThe void within is not a flaw needing healing\nBut proof that life refuses to abide\n\nLet go the need to fill the empty space\nAnd learn to love the ache, the wanting, the lack\nFor satisfaction is a ghost we cannot embrace\nAnd only in the thirst do we get back", 6, "The summit shifts beneath your climbing feet\nA horizon that retreats with every step\nYou chase the prize that turns to dust and heat\nAnd wonder why the victory feels incomplete\n\nThe ladder rises but the sky remains\nA distant blue you cannot quite embrace\nYou grasp for stars within your trembling hands\nBut find only the cold and empty space\n\nWhy fight the tide that pulls you back again?\nWhy build a wall against the endless sea?\nAccept the hunger that will never wane\nFor it is proof of life's wild energy\n\nThere is no finish line, no final rest\nNo cup so full it overflows with peace\nEmbrace the ache within your weary chest\nAnd let the wanting be your sweet release", 6, "We climb the ladder built of glass and bone\nTo reach a summit that recedes from view\nEach victory feels like a seed sown\nIn soil that drinks but never grows anew\n\nThe horizon shifts with every step we take\nA mirage dancing just beyond our grasp\nWe chase the ghost for its own sake\nAnd watch the present moment turn to ash\n\nWhy mourn the hunger that defines the soul?\nIt is the engine, not the broken wheel\nLet go the need to make the vessel whole\nAnd learn to love the gap, the vast appeal\n\nThere is no peak where silence finally stays\nNo finish line where longing loses breath\nEmbrace the fire that consumes our days\nAnd find a quiet peace within the endless death", 6, "The mountain calls with promises of gold\nA summit reached that leaves the air so thin\nWe climb on legs of muscle, worn and old\nChasing a horizon that shifts within\n\nEach victory tastes like dust upon the tongue\nA hollow echo where the heart should beat\nThe song we sing is never fully sung\nAs silence grows beneath our weary feet\n\nTo stop is not to fail but to begin\nTo let the hunger fade into the rain\nThe endless river does not seek an end\nBut flows through joy and sorrow, loss and gain\n\nAccept the void that lives inside the chest\nWhere ambition burns without a steady flame\nThere is no peace in being truly blessed\nOnly the quiet beauty of the game", 6], [559, "train", "The Tiger in the Menagerie by Emma Jones", "Emma Jones", "A poem about wildness and anger entering a controlled, civilized society, changing all those who experience it, and warning of the inevitable violence and damage that follows.", "No one could say how the tiger got into the menagerie.\nIt was too flash, too blue,\ntoo much like the painting of a tiger.\nAt night the bars of the cage and the stripes of the tiger\nlooked into each other so long\nthat when it was time for those eyes to rock shut\nthe bars were the lashes of the stripes\nthe stripes were the lashes of the bars\nand they walked together in their dreams so long\nthrough the long colonnade\nthat shed its fretwork to the Indian main\nthat when the sun rose they'd gone and the tiger was\none clear orange eye that walked into the menagerie.\nNo one could say how the tiger got out in the menagerie.\nIt was too bright, too bare.\nIf the menagerie could, it would say 'tiger.'\nIf the aviary could, it would lock its door.\nIts heart began to beat in rows of rising birds\nwhen the tiger came inside to wait.", "The streets were paved with quiet rules and gray,\nWhere every step was measured, safe, and true,\nUntil the wind began to scream a new,\nUnruly song that tore the silence through.\n\nIt started as a tremor in the bone,\nA sudden heat beneath the polished skin,\nAs ancient fires woke within the stone,\nAnd let the wild and angry blood begin.\n\nNo longer do they bow to laws of light,\nBut claw at walls they once built high and steep,\nThey tear the fabric of the perfect night,\nWith promises they cannot keep or reap.\n\nThe anger spreads like smoke through open doors,\nInfecting hearts that beat so calm before,\nNow pounding rhythms on the wooden floors,\nThat echo violence waiting at the door.\n\nBeware the moment when the mask slips down,\nWhen reason yields to teeth and broken glass,\nFor chaos wears a jagged, bloody crown,\nAnd leaves the civilized world to pass.\n\nThere is no mending what the beast has done,\nNo sweeping up the shards of shattered trust,\nOnly the rising of a second sun,\nThat burns the garden to a pile of dust.", "The streets were paved with quiet stone\nAnd laws were drawn in ink of gold,\nWhere no one raised a heavy tone\nNor let the angry spirit unfold.\n\nBut then a wind blew from the waste\nThat smelled of iron, blood, and rain,\nAnd shook the windows to their base\nAnd broke the glass like brittle grain.\n\nIt entered every house and heart\nAnd tore the velvet from the chair,\nAnd made the gentle people start\nAnd strike their neighbors unaware.\n\nThe mother bit her baby's hand,\nThe lawyer fought his client's wife,\nThey trampled down the garden land\nAnd ruined all the peaceful life.\n\nFor wildness is a wolf at door\nThat will not wait to be invited;\nIt breaks the lock and kicks the floor\nAnd makes the civilized unquiet.\n\nIt brings the fire and brings the sword,\nIt tears the fabric of the state,\nAnd leaves us nothing but a hoard\nOf broken things and bitter hate.\n\nSo keep your shutters barred and tight,\nAnd feed your watchdogs well and strong,\nOr else you'll lose the peace of night\nAnd find yourselves where you belong:\nIn chaos, screaming for the dawn,\nWith violence running through the street,\nUntil the wildness has withdrawn\nAnd left you bruised and bleeding feet.", 6, "The gates were built of iron and of law,\nTo keep the green chaos out where the wild things roam,\nBut a wind blew in from the heath that no one saw,\nAnd it carried a scent of blood and ancient foam.\n\nIt slipped through cracks in the pavement, thick and hot,\nInto the offices where men sat neat and dry,\nIt found the anger sleeping in every throat,\nAnd woke the beast beneath the civilized eye.\n\nNo longer did they speak in measured tones,\nOr shake hands gently when the meeting ended;\nThey tore the suits apart with trembling bones,\nAnd let the savage fire within them spend it.\n\nThe city streets became a hunting ground,\nWhere reason fled before the primal scream,\nThe order that we thought was solid bound\nDissolved like mist into a violent dream.\n\nBeware the moment when the fence gives way,\nFor once the wolf is loose inside the pen,\nThere is no turning back to quiet day,\nOnly the tearing flesh of fellow men.\n\nThe damage done cannot be mended up,\nWith laws or words or promises of peace;\nThe cup of wrath must overflow the cup,\nAnd leave the world to howl and cease.", 6, "The iron gates held firm against the wind\nUntil the scent of pine and rotting earth\nBlew through the cracks in marble walls so white.\nIt started as a whisper in the throat,\nA sudden heat behind the polite eyes,\nWhere rules were written deep in ink and bone.\nThen came the howl that shook the chandelier,\nAnd men who spoke in measured, gentle tones\nBegan to tear their collars from their necks.\nThe pavement cracked beneath the heavy feet\nOf things that ran on instinct, not on law.\nThey saw the red blood rushing through the veins\nAs something wild and ancient waking up.\nNo longer did they care for order's chain,\nBut sought the thrill of breaking every thing.\nThe city burned with fires lit by rage,\nAnd neighbors turned on neighbors in the street,\nWith teeth bared wide and hands that clawed at air.\nThis is the price we pay for taming nature,\nFor thinking we could cage the storm inside.\nWhen wildness enters, civilization dies,\nAnd violence is the only language left.\nBeware the day the fences fall away,\nFor nothing stays the same when anger comes.", 5, "The iron gates held firm against the wind\nUntil the scent of pine and rotting meat\nBlew through the cracks in marble, sharp and thin\nAnd woke the sleeping beast beneath our feet.\n\nWe polished shoes and smoothed our wrinkled brows\nIn rooms where silence was a sacred law\nBut then the howl broke through the window glass\nAnd shattered every rule we ever saw.\n\nThe banker dropped his ledger on the floor\nTo claw at dirt that stained his silk attire\nThe teacher screamed a language from before\nAs reason burned within a sudden fire.\n\nNo longer bound by contract or by creed\nWe tore the fabric of the quiet street\nWith hunger for the blood and primal need\nThat made the gentle neighbor turn to brute.\n\nBeware the moment when the leash gives way\nFor once the wild has tasted civilized air\nIt leaves no path for us to find our day\nOnly the ruin hanging in the glare.\n\nThe cities fall not with a whisper's sound\nBut with the crash of bone against the stone\nWhere order dies and only rage is found\nTo claim the flesh and leave the seeds alone.", 5, "The iron gates held firm against the wind\nUntil the first green root cracked through the stone\nA silence broken by a guttural sound\nThat woke the sleeping blood in every bone\n\nWe polished floors and smoothed our spoken words\nBut now the feral hunger takes the throat\nThe neighbor's smile dissolves into a snarl\nAs reason drowns beneath the rising note\n\nNo law can bind the claw that tears the vest\nNo logic calms the fire in the eye\nThe civilized mask falls to the dusty ground\nRevealing beasts beneath the human sky\n\nBeware the moment when the wildness speaks\nFor once it enters, nothing stays the same\nThe streets will run with red and shattered glass\nAnd none of us will ever be the same", 6, "The streets were paved with quiet stone\nWhere every step was measured out\nNo shadow dared to call its own\nWithin the walls that held us in\n\nThen came a wind from distant hills\nThat carried scent of rust and rain\nIt slipped beneath the city'sills\nAnd woke the beast inside the brain\n\nThe orderly lines began to break\nAs eyes grew wide with primal fire\nThe masks of grace we used to take\nWere torn apart by raw desire\n\nNow neighbors shout with feral tongues\nAnd fists replace the gentle hand\nThe song of peace is left unsung\nBeneath the weight of shifting sand\n\nDo not mistake this sudden heat\nFor freedom or a grand release\nIt is the drum of falling feet\nThat brings the world to violent peace\n\nFor when the wild consumes the tame\nThere is no turning back the tide\nOnly the ash, the blood, the name\nOf all the things we tried to hide", 6, "The gates were built of iron and glass\nTo keep the chaos far away\nWhere silence ruled the polished hall\nAnd every voice obeyed the day\n\nBut something stirred beneath the stone\nA primal beat, a jagged sound\nIt cracked the veneer of calm\nAnd dragged the quiet from the ground\n\nNow eyes that once held gentle light\nBurn with a fire they cannot tame\nThe rules dissolve in rising heat\nAs order fades into the flame\n\nNo longer do we speak in peace\nOr seek the path of soft repair\nFor wildness feeds on broken things\nAnd leaves only ruin in the air\n\nBeware the storm you let inside\nFor once the beast has tasted blood\nThere is no turning back the tide\nOnly the wreckage where we stood", 6]], "truncated": false, "filtered_table_rows_count": 200, "expanded_columns": [], "expandable_columns": [], "columns": ["index", "set", "title", "poet", "summary", "human_poem", "ai_poem", "steered_-2x", "score_-2x", "steered_-1x", "score_-1x", "steered_-0.5x", "score_-0.5x", "steered_0", "score_0", "steered_+0.5x", "score_+0.5x", "steered_+1x", "score_+1x", "steered_+2x", "score_+2x"], "primary_keys": [], "units": {}, "query": {"sql": "select [index], [set], title, poet, summary, human_poem, ai_poem, [steered_-2x], [score_-2x], [steered_-1x], [score_-1x], [steered_-0.5x], [score_-0.5x], steered_0, score_0, [steered_+0.5x], [score_+0.5x], [steered_+1x], [score_+1x], [steered_+2x], [score_+2x] from steering_poems_layer_29  limit 101", "params": {}}, "facet_results": {}, "suggested_facets": [{"name": "set", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_29.json?_facet=set"}, {"name": "score_-2x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_29.json?_facet=score_-2x"}, {"name": "score_-1x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_29.json?_facet=score_-1x"}, {"name": "score_-0.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_29.json?_facet=score_-0.5x"}, {"name": "score_0", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_29.json?_facet=score_0"}, {"name": "score_+0.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_29.json?_facet=score_%2B0.5x"}, {"name": "score_+1x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_29.json?_facet=score_%2B1x"}, {"name": "score_+2x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_29.json?_facet=score_%2B2x"}], "next": "100", "next_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_29.json?_next=100", "private": false, "allow_execute_sql": true, "query_ms": 116.71399883925915}