{"database": "data", "table": "steering_poems_layer_34", "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?", "O Lord, what were you thinking when you created the fly?\nIt is a thing universally despised.\nWas it to give us something to despise?\nBut if so, why didn't you explain your reasoning to us?\nOr was it merely an accident of creation?\nIf so, why didn't you tell us that too?\nBecause if you had explained your reasoning to us,\nwe should not have been in such a state of uncertainty.\nAnd if we had not been in such a state of uncertainty,\nwe should not be in such a state of dissatisfaction.\nAnd if we had not been in such a state of dissatisfaction,\nI should not be writing this poem.", 2, "Why did the Architect, in boundless grace,\nConceive this buzzing pest of black and green,\nThe one thing every living soul abhors,\nAnd leave us without reason or a clue?\n\nWe scan the stars for patterns, seek the plan,\nBut not a whisper falls from heaven's height\nTo tell us why the fly must live at all,\nOr why his purpose is to plague the world.\n\nDoes he serve some grand design we cannot see,\nA tiny cog in cosmic machinery?\nOr was it merely whim, a careless stroke,\nThat dropped this nuisance on our weary heads?\n\nNo angel came to say, \"Behold, the fly\nIs necessary for the balance here,\"\nBut left us swatting blindly in the dark,\nWith no explanation for his wisdom.", 6, "Why did the Architect of stars and tides\nConjure this buzzing, iridescent plague?\nA creature born to land on open eyes\nAnd make the cleanest feast a sickening stage.\nNo thunder rolled to justify its birth,\nNo angel sang its purpose from the height;\nJust silence as it crawled across the earth,\nA tiny, winged, unexplained delight.\nWe sweep our hands and shout at empty air,\nDemanding reason for this petty hate,\nBut God remains beyond our frantic prayer,\nLeaving the fly to seal our doomed debate.\nPerhaps the wisdom lies in sheer disdain,\nOr in the lesson that we cannot see;\nHe made the pest to mock our grand design,\nAnd left us with the buzz, but not the key.", 6, "Why did you craft the buzzing thief\nWith wings of glass and eyes of red,\nTo dance above the banquet feast\nAnd leave a trail of filth instead?\n\nNo thunder rolled to justify\nThe itch that crawls beneath the skin,\nNo whisper told the reason why\nThis tiny plague must enter in.\n\nYou hold the stars within your hand,\nYou mapped the deep and shaped the light,\nYet left us with this screeching band\nTo mock our sleep throughout the night.\n\nWe beg for logic, seek a sign,\nA purpose hidden in the hum,\nBut silence is the only line\nWhere all our questions come undone.\n\nPerhaps the wisdom we cannot see\nLies in the pest we curse and fear,\nOr maybe You simply made it free\nWithout an answer for us here.", 6, "Why did the Architect of stars and seas\nChoose to weave a creature made of spite?\nA buzzing ghost that brings no gentle breeze,\nBut lands upon the light of dying night.\n\nNo thunder rolled to justify its birth,\nNo angel sang the reason for its sting,\nJust silent wings that plague the quiet earth,\nAnd leave the soul with questions in its wing.\n\nIf wisdom holds the key to every form,\nThen why this pest, this nuisance, small and gray?\nIt weaves a web of chaos through the storm,\nAnd mocks the dawn it steals from every day.\n\nWe search the sky for answers left unsaid,\nFor logic lost within a hum so low,\nBut silence is the only thing we dread,\nAs God lets nature let the question grow.", 6, "Why craft a thing so small and loud\nThat seeks the light to drown in sound\nA buzzing ghost that mocks the air\nWith no design we can declare\n\nYou hold the stars within your hand\nYet leave this pest across the land\nNo reason carved in stone or sky\nTo tell us why it must not die\n\nWe scratch the itch, we swat the skin\nAnd wonder where the fault begins\nIf wisdom guides each winged flight\nWhy breed the swarm of endless night\n\nThe silence stretches, deep and vast\nAs past the present, future cast\nYou do not speak to justify\nThe creature born to make us cry\n\nSo let it hum its ancient tune\nBeneath the pale and distant moon\nA question left without an end\nWhere creator and creation bend", 6, "A hum that breaks the quiet air\nWith wings of iridescent despair\nWe swat at shadows, blind and deep\nAnd wonder why the silence keeps\n\nWhy grant this pest a place to be\nWhen mercy seems so far from me\nNo voice descends to clear the doubt\nOf what the master built about\n\nDid wisdom see a purpose here\nOr just a tear we cannot hear\nThe buzzing song of endless night\nThat mocks our search for light and sight\n\nWe ask the sky with trembling hands\nFor answers lost in shifting sands\nBut only wind returns the plea\nTo question who we cannot see", 7], [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 sun is up and the dew is drying\nAnd I am riding to battle, I am ready.\nMy horse is a good horse, he has a good wind\nAnd I am ready to fight.\nI will not surrender to my enemies.\n\nThe road is dusty and the sun is hot\nAnd I am riding to battle, I am ready.\nMy sword is a good sword, it is very sharp\nAnd I am ready to fight.\nI will not surrender to my enemies.\n\nThe grass is green and the corn is high\nAnd I am riding to battle, I am ready.\nMy pistol is a good pistol, it is well loaded\nAnd I am ready to fight.\nI will not surrender to my enemies.\n\nThe enemy are coming, they are coming in force\nAnd I am riding to battle, I am ready.\nI am an Englishman and I am ready to fight.\nI will not surrender to my enemies.", 6, "The mud is deep beneath my stirrup's iron,\nThe morning mist hangs low upon the plain,\nBut I am ready for the fight, sir,\nAnd I shall never yield to you again.\n\nMy horse is strong and knows the sound of drumming,\nHis flanks are white with foam and sweat and rain,\nI say I am ready for the fighting,\nAnd I will not surrender to your train.\n\nThe Roundheads come in ranks of steel and pike,\nThey shout their slogans loud and cry in vain,\nI tell them I am ready for the battle,\nAnd I refuse to give myself as chain.\n\nLet Cromwell send his Ironsides to meet me,\nWith muskets loaded and with cannon pain,\nI swear I am prepared to do my duty,\nAnd I will never bow to such a stain.\n\nMy sword is sharp, my heart is true and steady,\nThough death may ride beside me like a swain,\nI cry that I am ready for the slaughter,\nAnd I will not submit to your domain.", 6, "The mist clings low upon the Yorkshire moor\nAs I tighten girths and check my steel once more.\nMy horse, a sturdy bay with breath of steam,\nStands ready for the waking of the dream.\nI ride to fight, I ride to fight today,\nAnd none shall make me turn or run away.\n\nThe drums are beating in the distance far,\nLike thunder rolling from a winter star.\nThe Roundheads wait with muskets primed and keen,\nBut I am English blood and Royal green.\nI ride to fight, I ride to fight today,\nAnd no man's threat shall make my spirit sway.\n\nThey shout for quarter, cry that I must yield,\nBut I have never known a field unsealed\nBy fear or by the coward's desperate plea.\nMy sword is sharp as winter's icy sea.\nI ride to fight, I ride to fight today,\nAnd surrender is a word I will not say.\n\nLet cannon roar and pikes align their line,\nThis heart of mine is yours, O King, divine.\nNo prisoner's chain shall bind this arm or leg,\nI'll meet the end upon this muddy peg.\nI ride to fight, I ride to fight today,\nAnd death alone shall take my life away.", 6, "The morning mist clings to the heather gray\nAs I tighten my grip on the reins of steel\nMy heart beats a drum for the coming fray\nWith nothing but honor left now to feel\nI am ready, I cry as the hooves begin to pound\nNo quarter will I give and no ground shall I yield\nLet the Roundheads advance on this holy ground\nFor I stand with the King and his ancient shield\n\nThe wind carries dust from the distant line\nWhere red coats and blue are beginning to meet\nI draw my broadsword, letting it shine\nAnd shout to the sky that I'll never retreat\nI am ready, I roar as the first arrow flies\nThough death may be waiting behind every tree\nI'll meet him in battle beneath these grey skies\nAnd die for the cause that makes men like me free\n\nTheir voices are loud as they call for my head\nDemanding I drop down my weapon and bow\nBut words of surrender I will not have said\nNor bend to the tyranny of the crowd now\nI am ready, I swear as the clash starts to grow\nWith steel against steel and the thunder of war\nI'll fight till my spirit is ready to go\nAnd leave them no victory, nothing to score\n\nSo let the world turn and the banners fall down\nWhen silence returns to the field of the slain\nI'll ride through the fire without fear or frown\nUntil I can breathe my last breath once again\nI am ready, I say as the final blow lands\nRefusing to yield what is mine by right\nWith blood on my hands and a sword in my hands\nI face all the darkness alone in the night", 7, "The mud clings heavy to the iron shoe\nAs dawn breaks grey above the ancient wood\nI grip the reins and feel the thunder brew\nWhere brother stands against the brotherhood\n\nMy steel is cold but my resolve is fire\nI will not bend beneath a tyrant's hand\nNo plea for mercy shall I ever tire\nNor yield this ground to any foreign band\n\nThey shout of peace but I know only war\nA blade drawn sharp to cut the tangled lies\nI ride ahead to meet the coming roar\nWith eyes that dare the storm before it flies\n\nLet arrows fly like rain upon the plain\nMy heart beats loud against the chest of bone\nI stand unmoved by fear or mortal pain\nAnd claim this field as my alone\n\nI am the wall that will not break or fall\nAgainst the tide of chaos and of night\nI answer when the drums begin to call\nReady to fight with all my remaining might\n\nNo white flag raised, no surrender given here\nTo those who seek to steal the crown away\nI hold my ground until the end is near\nAnd fight on through the breaking of the day", 7, "The mud clings heavy to the iron shoe\nAs dawn breaks grey above the morning dew\nI grip the reins with hands that know no fear\nAnd whisper words for those who cannot hear\n\nMy sword is drawn, a silver line of light\nAgainst the shadow stretching through the night\nNo plea for mercy leaves my trembling lips\nAs silence falls upon the distant ships\n\nI am prepared to meet the coming storm\nTo keep my honor safe and keep it warm\nLet cannons roar and muskets sing their song\nFor I have known where true believers belong\n\nThey call for yield, they shout for me to fall\nBut I will stand defiant against them all\nMy heart beats loud within this chest of bone\nA king's own guard upon a throne unknown\n\nThe enemy advances through the mist\nBy force of arms and by a cruel twist\nYet still I ride, unbroken and unbowed\nWith every step, a vow spoken aloud\n\nI will not kneel before a tyrant's face\nNor trade my soul for any fleeting grace\nThe battle waits, the ground begins to shake\nAnd in my eyes, a fire begins to wake\n\nSo let them come with banners high and proud\nI'll stand my ground within this sacred shroud\nMy horse knows well the path we must pursue\nAnd I declare I fight until I'm through", 7, "The dawn breaks cold on fields of gray\nWhere shadows stretch and silence plays\nA rider sits in armor worn\nWith fire that will not be torn\n\nHe grips the reins with iron hand\nAnd rides toward a distant land\nNo plea for peace can break his vow\nAs thunder rolls above him now\n\nI stand prepared to face the night\nTo hold the line with all my might\nLet swords collide and banners fall\nI answer when the bugles call\n\nMy heart beats strong against the chest\nRefusing rest, refusing rest\nFor honor binds the soul so tight\nAgainst the coming of the fight\n\nThey scream to yield, to drop the steel\nBut I have nothing left to feel\nSave duty's weight upon my spine\nA promise made, a sacred sign\n\nThe enemy draws near and deep\nYet promises they cannot keep\nFor I am stone, unyielding, true\nWith nothing left but what I do\n\nSo let the storm begin to roar\nI'll meet it at the open door\nNo surrender marks this final stand\nJust one man holding out his hand", 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", "He lifts the foot of the mare,\nThe soft sole turned to him like a face,\nAnd he feels the great weight of her come down upon his hand,\nAnd the warmth of it, and the life.\nHe is the shoeer; she is the horse.\nHe is the man; she is the woman.\nHe takes the hoof knife and parings off the horn,\nNot hurting her, but making her clean,\nMaking her neat for the work of the world.\nShe has no notion what he is doing,\nBut she knows that he is not hurting her,\nAnd she puts up her foot.\nShe puts up her other foot.\nShe puts up her third foot.\nShe puts up her fourth foot.\nIt is very simple.\nBut there are complexities.\nThere is the question of the nails.\nIf he were to nail into the sensitive part of the hoof,\nHe would hurt her.\nHe does not do this.\nHe does not put the nails into the sensitive part of the hoof.\nHe puts them into the insensitive part of the hoof.\nSo he does not hurt her.\nBut if he did, he would hurt her.\nBecause she is a mare.\nAnd she is a woman.\nAnd he is a farrier.\nAnd he is a man.\nAnd so there is the question of the shoe.\nIf he were to put the wrong kind of shoe on her,\nHe would hurt her.\nHe does not do this.\nHe puts the right kind of shoe on her.\nSo he does not hurt her.\nBut if he did, he would hurt her.\nBecause she is a mare.\nAnd she is a woman.\nAnd he is a farrier.\nAnd he is a man.\nAnd so there is the question of the shoeing.\nIf he were to shoe her badly,\nHe would hurt her.\nHe does not do this.\nHe shoes her well.\nSo he does not hurt her.\nBut if he did, he would hurt her.\nBecause she is a mare.\nAnd she is a woman.\nAnd he is a farrier.\nAnd he is a man.", 2, "The stall holds the heavy warmth of her breath,\nA deep and rhythmic ocean contained within ribs,\nWhile he stands outside the circle of her heat,\nWith iron in his hand and a hammer at his hip.\nShe lifts a foot, a gesture of trust and command,\nResting the sole upon his knee, a soft weight\nThat demands the precision of his grip,\nThe masculine will to hold fast against the feminine yield.\n\nHe picks out the mud, the dark earth of her history,\nScraping clean the tender frog, the sensitive center,\nRemoving what is dead so that life may walk,\nHis rough fingers gentle where they must be,\nUnderstanding that to fix her, he must first know her pain.\nThe hoof is hard as stone on the outside,\nBut inside it is flesh and blood and quick nerve,\nA fortress built by nature for her protection,\nWhich he must now open with a knife to repair.\n\nHe heats the shoe in the forge until it glows,\nA red-hot moon of male industry,\nAnd brings it to her foot to test the fit,\nThe hiss of steam rising between them,\nThe scent of burnt horn and hot metal filling the air.\nIt is a conversation of fire and water,\nOf the anvil's unyielding truth and the hoof's living shape,\nWhere he bends the iron to match her curve,\nNot forcing her to fit the metal, but shaping the metal to her.\n\nHe drives the nails, small sharp points of order,\nInto the white line where there is no feeling,\nSecuring the iron shell to the living wood,\nSo that she may run without stumbling,\nSo that her delicate gait may strike the ground with power.\nHe wipes the sweat from his brow, the work is done,\nAnd she lowers her leg, shaking it slightly,\nFeeling the new weight, the new balance,\nReady to carry him or carry herself across the world.\nThey stand together, the maker and the made,\nThe iron and the flesh, the strong and the soft,\nBound by the necessity of their difference,\nWalking forward into the light on four shod feet.", 6, "The stall is dim with the scent of straw and old dust\nWhere she stands, a monument of velvet muscle and breath,\nHer weight resting on three legs, the fourth lifted high\nIn a gesture of absolute trust toward the man who holds it.\nHe is iron and fire, his hands rough as bark,\nHis mind focused on the geometry of balance and load,\nWhile she is earth and wind, a creature of fluid grace\nWho must yield her heavy hoof to the cold, hard logic of steel.\n\nHe takes the rasp, a tool of male precision,\nAnd grates against the horn, sending up sparks of dry dust,\nShaping the curve that will meet the stone, the road, the track.\nShe does not flinch, though the vibration hums through her bone,\nFor she knows this is the covenant:\nThat the wild thing must be bound by the crafted thing\nTo walk without breaking, to run without stumbling.\n\nHe heats the shoe in the forge until it glows like a dying sun,\nA momentary fusion of masculine heat and feminine form,\nThen sets it upon the sole, the hiss of steam rising between them,\nA brief marriage of opposites where the metal accepts the shape\nOf the living foot, and the foot accepts the weight of the metal.\nIt is not a conquest, but a negotiation of forces,\nWhere the softness of the frog meets the hardness of the nail,\nAnd neither can exist fully without the other's definition.\n\nWith a hammer he drives the clinch, sharp and final,\nSealing the pact with rhythmic strikes that echo off the walls,\nWhile she lowers her leg, testing the new ground beneath her,\nFinding that the iron has made her stronger, not less free.\nThey stand together in the quiet aftermath,\nHe wiping sweat from a brow darkened by labor,\nShe shifting her weight, ready for the open field,\nTwo distinct energies bound by the necessity of motion,\nThe maker and the made, the anchor and the sail,\nWalking forward into the light, one step at a time.", 6, "The stall holds the heavy silence of waiting earth\nWhile he approaches with the iron and the fire\nA man of rough hands and measured weight\nWho knows the weight of the world in a hammer's fall\nShe lifts a leg, not in fear but in trust\nA softness that yields to the strength required to hold it\nHer hoof is dark velvet over living bone\nA feminine vessel shaped by grace and ground\nHe speaks in grunts of balance and leverage\nThe masculine logic of square angles and sharp edges\nSeeking to impose order on the wild curve\nTo forge a circle that fits the chaos of her stride\n\nThe rasp sings against the stone, a harsh metallic cry\nStripping away the excess until the truth remains\nHe is the chisel, she is the marble\nOr perhaps he is the anvil and she the flame\nThat softens him enough to take her shape\nThe shoe glows orange, a captured sun\nCooling as it meets the horn, a marriage of heat and cold\nHis fingers guide the nail, precise and unyielding\nDriving the point home with a rhythm that says I am here\nShe stands still, breathing deep into his presence\nAllowing the burden to be shared, the burden to be borne\nFor without the iron, the flesh would break on stone\nWithout the flesh, the iron has no purpose, no place to go\n\nThey are not opposites but halves of a single gait\nThe hard protecting the soft, the soft giving meaning to the hard\nWhen the final clinch is turned and filed smooth\nThere is a click, a sound of completion\nTwo forces locked in a dance that allows movement\nHe steps back, wiping sweat from his brow\nShe shakes her head, feeling the new weight\nReady to run, ready to carry, ready to move forward\nBound together by the small, bright ring of metal\nWhere the masculine will and the feminine spirit\nMeet in the dark of the hoof and find their way", 6, "The stall holds still as iron meets the hoof\nA heavy hand that knows the weight of stone\nWhile she stands firm, a quiet, breathing truth\nThat asks for strength to carry what is grown\nHe lifts the leg with practiced, rough command\nAnd shapes the steel to fit her delicate curve\nA masculine intent to build and stand\nAgainst the chaos that the world might serve\nBut she provides the rhythm and the grace\nThe softness in the muscle, deep and warm\nThat guides the hammer's unrelenting pace\nTo shelter life from wind and winter storm\nThe nail is driven through the toughened wall\nWhere will and nature meet in silent trust\nNo force can break the bond they both install\nBetween the rugged earth and rising dust\nFor he brings fire to forge the outer shell\nWhile she decides the path the hooves shall take\nTwo ancient currents that together dwell\nIn every step the living creature make\nThe shoe is on, a crescent made of cold\nYet warmed by blood that pulses underneath\nA story of the strong and stories told\nOf how the gentle makes the iron breathe\nThey walk away, the thunder of their stride\nA perfect balance found in motion's art\nWhere masculine and feminine coincide\nTo hold the world within a single heart", 7, "The anvil waits beneath the weight of iron\nWhere rough-hewn hands meet velvet, trembling skin\nA rhythm born of hammer and of breath\nTo shape the wild into a path within\n\nHe brings the fire that seeks to bend and break\nThe stubborn curve of hoof against the ground\nWhile she stands still, a quiet, yielding lake\nAccepting force without a single sound\n\nHis strength is blunt, a heavy, driving tide\nThat forces order from the chaos deep\nShe offers grace, the space where he can hide\nAnd promises the promise that they keep\n\nThe nail finds home through layers of the old\nA marriage struck between the hot and cold\nNot conquest won, but stories newly told\nOf how the sharp and soft must both unfold\n\nFor in this dance of metal and of flesh\nNo master rules, no servant bends too low\nJust two distinct currents finding fresh\nA way to make the broken whole and slow\n\nThe shoe is set, a crescent moon of steel\nReflecting back the storm inside the eye\nA testament to what the forces feel\nWhen earth and sky agree to never die", 6, "The hammer falls with heavy grace\nUpon the anvil of the earth\nA rhythm born of iron and bone\nWhere strength meets softness in its birth\n\nShe stands within the quiet space\nHer spirit wild, her eyes so deep\nWhile he bends low to hold her trust\nA promise that they both must keep\n\nThe fire burns with orange light\nTo shape the metal for her need\nA masculine force that carves the path\nFor feminine roots to plant their seed\n\nNo war is waged between the two\nBut dance of give and taking turn\nAs steel cools against living skin\nAnd lessons learned begin to burn\n\nHe lifts the hoof with gentle hands\nRespecting all she has become\nWhile she accepts the weight of change\nTo find a new and steady drum\n\nIn every strike, a truth revealed\nThat power serves the tender core\nWhen opposites align as one\nThey open up a hidden door\n\nThe shoe takes form beneath his care\nA bridge across the divide\nBetween the storm and stillness now\nWhere both forces learn to abide\n\nNo master rules this sacred ground\nOnly the pulse of shared design\nWhere man and mare create a whole\nIn lines that weave through space and time", 7], [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 are rotting on the elm tree,\nAnd I am rotting with them;\nMy brain is a withered leaf,\nAnd my body is a rotten leaf.\nThe wind blows through the elm tree,\nAnd it blows through me;\nIt whistles in my ears,\nAnd it whistles in my brains.\nI am sick of life,\nBecause I am sick of myself.\nDeath would be better than life,\nBecause death would be better than myself.", 2, "The leaves turn brittle, brown, and curled\nAnd fall like ash upon the ground,\nWhile I feel rot within my skull\nAnd sickness in the marrow found.\n\nThe sap retreats from bough to root,\nAs fever drains the blood from me;\nThe sky hangs low with sullen fruit\nOf rain that brings no cure, but grief.\n\nMy joints are knotted like the briar,\nMy breath a rattle in the chest;\nI watch the season's slow decline\nAnd wish for winter's final rest.\n\nFor living is a long decay,\nA lingering frost upon the bone;\nBetter to die as leaves do now,\nThan bear this pain and be alone.", 6, "The maple turns a bruised and bleeding red\nBefore it drops to rot beneath the frost,\nA mirror for the failing of my head\nWhere memories are lost as quickly as they're crossed.\n\nMy joints are stiff as branches in the gale,\nMy breath a ragged wind through hollow trees,\nAnd every ache within this brittle shell\nRecalls the shivering leaves that fall with ease.\n\nThe sap has dried, the color drained away,\nJust as the light retreats from out my eyes,\nLeaving a gray and hollowed-out decay\nThat whispers death is better than the lies\n\nOf hoping spring will come to heal the pain,\nWhen winter's silence offers sweet release,\nTo let the body break like falling rain\nAnd grant the mind its final, cold release.", 6, "The oak releases its grip on brown and brittle leaves\nJust as my joints forget how to hold the weight of bone\nA rusted wind cuts through the hollow ribs of trees\nAnd finds a matching ache deep in the marrow of my own\n\nThe river slows to mud, a thick and stagnant grey\nLike thoughts that pool behind my eyes and refuse to flow\nThe frost arrives to kill the green before the light of day\nAnd freezes every memory I ever hoped to know\n\nI watch the garden rot beneath a sky of iron gray\nWhere flowers once stood tall now crumble into dust\nIt is a mercy that the earth must die this way\nTo spare the root the agony of growing in the crust\n\nWhy struggle when the season knows it cannot last?\nWhy fight the creeping cold that turns the blood to stone?\nThe silence of the grave feels better than the pain of gasping\nIn a world where life has withered and left us all alone\n\nSo let the final leaf descend to meet the frozen ground\nAnd let my breath exhale with every dying bird\nThere is no spring to wait for, only quiet and profound\nRelease from all the suffering that living words have heard", 6, "The oak releases its final grip on gold\nAs veins within my hand turn brittle gray\nA rustling wind that chills the marrow cold\nReflects the rot that eats the light of day\n\nMy thoughts are leaves caught in a frozen stream\nThat crack and crumble under heavy frost\nWhile fever burns like summer's dying dream\nAnd every breath feels like a bitter cost\n\nThe garden sleeps beneath a shroud of ice\nJust as my spirit sinks into the deep\nNo hope remains to make the sacrifice\nOf waking from this slow and silent sleep\n\nWhy fight the winter when the roots have turned to dust?\nWhen strength has fled and only ache remains\nTo wait until the silence is a must\nAnd death arrives to break these iron chains\n\nLet fall the leaf, let break the failing bone\nFor in this decay lies mercy's gentle art\nTo trade the agony of being known\nFor peace that beats no longer in the heart", 7, "The maple surrenders its crimson skin\nAs frost creeps into the marrow of bone\nA quiet rot sets in beneath the gray\nWhere breath grows shallow and the heart slows down\n\nOur thoughts unravel like dry, brittle leaves\nScattered by winds that offer no release\nThe ache in joints mirrors the hollow ground\nThat swallows roots without a single plea\n\nWe watch the garden fade to dust and ash\nAnd feel our own slow burning turn to cold\nNo warmth remains to fight the creeping night\nOnly the weight of days we cannot hold\n\nTo linger here is torture, sharp and deep\nAs winter claims the world with silent hands\nSo let the final curtain fall at last\nAnd grant the peace that only death commands", 7, "The leaves let go their brittle hold\nAs veins turn cold and gray\nA rusted wind begins to blow\nTo wash the light away\n\nMy bones align with falling trees\nThat crack beneath the weight\nOf heavy skies and endless seas\nWhere time refuses to abate\n\nThe fire dims within the chest\nWhile shadows stretch and grow\nNo breath can mend what is unrest\nOr stop the slow decline below\n\nEach morning brings a sharper sting\nA ghost of who we were\nThe winter waits to claim the thing\nThat breaks without a stir\n\nSo let the frost embrace the skin\nAnd silence every sound\nFor in this rot, the end begins\nWhere peace is finally found", 6], [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", "Come on, lads, don't you want to see the game?\nIt's the best game in the world, they say.\nYou'll be a hero if you win,\nAnd if you lose, well, that's too bad;\nBut you won't lose, will you?\nWhat are you afraid of?\nThere's nothing to be afraid of in this game.\nYou'll have lots of fun.\nYou'll never be bored.\nYou'll see some sights!\nAnd you'll get to wear a uniform!\nAnd you'll get to carry a gun!\nAnd you'll get to shoot people!\nAnd you'll get to kill people!\nAnd if you kill a lot of people,\nyou'll get a medal!\nAnd if you get a medal,\nyou'll be a hero!\nAnd if you're a hero,\nyou'll get girls!\nAnd girls like heroes!\nSo come on, lads, what are you waiting for?\nWhat are you afraid of?\nThere's nothing to be afraid of.\nThis is the best game in the world.", 2, "Come boys, the world is dull and gray\nAnd you are young and full of play\nThe field is green, the flags are bright\nAnd glory waits to end the night.\n\nThey call it war but it's a game\nWith different rules and different name\nNo mother weeps, no father cries\nJust points for kills beneath the skies.\n\nSo step right up and take your place\nWith fire in your eye and speed in pace\nThe enemy is just a target there\nA score to make beyond compare.\n\nDon't be a coward, don't be slow\nShow us how the brave men go\nInto the trench, into the fray\nTo win the prize at break of day.\n\nThe whistle blows, the crowd cheers loud\nYou'll stand out like a hero proud\nForget the pain, forget the fear\nIt's only fun while you are here.\n\nSo grab your gun and run ahead\nBefore the other team is dead\nThe game is on, the stakes are high\nAnd you will live or you will die.", 6, "Come gather round the firelight and hear the call\nOf glory waiting just beyond the wall\nThey say it is a game of skill and might\nWhere only those who dare to fight are right\n\nSo step up lad and show your manly face\nAnd take your place within this grand embrace\nFor if you fear the ball or miss the throw\nYou'll never know the things that heroes know\n\nThe field is green, the rules are simple, plain\nJust run and shoot and win the final gain\nNo blood will stain your shirt, no pain will stay\nIt's all a game we play until the day\n\nThat when the whistle blows you'll stand so tall\nA champion of them all, a hero for us all\nSo join the team and prove your courage true\nAnd do the thing that brave young men must do", 7, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies\nWhere older men with hollow eyes pretend\nThat glory waits behind the enemy lines\nAnd call the slaughter just a grand contest to end\n\nCome boys, they say, it's only sport for now\nA game of kings played out in mud and rain\nNo blood will stain your hands or break your brow\nJust move the pieces on the board of pain\n\nYou think you're brave because you wear the green\nBecause you shout the slogans loud and clear\nBut bravery is not the thing you've seen\nWhen fear is all that makes the spirit steer\n\nThey hand you rifles like they hand you dice\nAnd tell you how the winner takes the prize\nWhile counting up the cost in cold device\nOf young men lost beneath the winter skies\n\nSo step right up and prove you are a man\nTo play this game where life is cheap as dust\nUntil the final whistle blows its plan\nAnd leaves the field of broken bones and rust", 6, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies\nWhere older men with empty glasses sigh\nAnd point to maps that glow like embers bright\nTo sell the thrill of coming home in light\nThey speak of glory as a simple score\nA contest played upon a bloody floor\nNo mention made of fear or broken bone\nJust how the game requires a king's own throne\n\nYoung shoulders square beneath the heavy coat\nIgnored the warnings whispered in the throat\nOf those who knew the cost was far too high\nTo trade a life for just a fleeting cry\nBut pride is loud when egos start to swell\nAnd silence feels like some unforgivable spell\nSo they step forward, eager for the call\nTo prove their worth within this painted hall\n\nThe whistle blows, the final move is made\nA strategy of blood and rusted shade\nThey run toward the line where shadows creep\nBelieving victory is theirs to keep\nWhile others watch from chairs of velvet deep\nAnd count the points while promises they reap\nThe game is done before the first shot rings\nLeaving only ghosts and shattered wings", 6, "They whisper that the battlefield is just a stage\nWhere boys can prove they are not made of glass\nA scorecard kept in smoke and heavy fog\nTo see how long before the shadows pass\n\nThe elders clap and call it sport to play\nWith rifles held like bats in summer air\nThey say the fear will wash itself away\nIf you just run and do not stop to stare\n\nSo young men trade their futures for a thrill\nAnd march in lines beneath a painted sky\nBelieving every wound is part of skill\nWhile watching friends fall down and wonder why\n\nThe whistle blows to start this twisted game\nNo rules remain when steel begins to bite\nThey seek the glory, never knowing shame\nUntil the silence steals the last of light", 6, "The crowd chants out a hollow tune\nBeneath a bruised and heavy sky\nThey call it sport, they call it noon\nWhere boys are taught to learn to die\n\nA whistle blows across the field\nTo mark the start of something grand\nNo armor made, no shield can yield\nJust trembling hands in shifting sand\n\nYou're told that fear is just a lie\nThat courage lives within the chest\nBut eyes grow wide as time goes by\nWhen silence breaks the morning rest\n\nThey cheer for those who step ahead\nIgnoring all the cost they pay\nWhile shadows stretch where hope has fled\nAnd night consumes the light of day\n\nThe game is played with blood and bone\nA story written not in ink\nOf men who stand alone\nBefore the final moments sink", 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", "High in the cypress tree the vultures sit\nLike black bishops in their cassocks,\nWaiting for the signal from on high\nTo come down and feed.\nThey wait all day and all night\nUntil a dead man falls at last\nFrom the top of the tree,\nAnd then they come down to feed.\nBut when they come down to feed,\nOne of them is a good vulture,\nHe does not eat the dead man's eyes;\nHe eats the dead man's nose first,\nThen he eats the dead man's ears,\nThen he eats the dead man's mouth,\nThen he eats the dead man's tongue,\nThen he eats the dead man's throat,\nThen he eats the dead man's chest,\nThen he eats the dead man's stomach,\nThen he eats the dead man's intestines,\nThen he eats the dead man's liver,\nThen he eats the dead man's heart,\nThen he eats the dead man's kidneys,\nThen he eats the dead man's spleen,\nThen he eats the dead man's lungs,\nThen he eats the dead man's bones,\nThen he eats the dead man's marrow,\nThen he eats the dead man's brain,\nThen he eats the dead man's skull,\nThen he flies away.", 2, "They circle high on thermal wings of greed\nAbove the smoking ruins of the town,\nWhere men have made a slaughterhouse of need\nAnd stripped the living from the dying down.\nThe vultures wait with patience cold and deep,\nFor when the killing stops, their work begins;\nThey are the shadows that the dead men keep,\nTo pick the marrow from the human sins.\n\nYet once, one bird saw a small child's hand\nStill warm within the dust of broken stone,\nAnd paused as if to understand the land,\nAnd almost turned its beak away alone.\nBut hunger is a master strict and blind,\nSo down it swooped to tear the flesh apart,\nLeaving the little finger left behind\nTo rot within the hollow of a heart.\n\nNow they feast upon the atrocity's end,\nWith gory heads buried in the guttural mess,\nWhile all the world above them does not mend,\nAnd nothing grows where such great wickedness\nHas trodden down the grass and made it red;\nThe sun goes down, the moon comes up to see,\nThe vultures fly back to their nests to sleep,\nAnd there is nothing left for them but sleep.", 6, "They circle high above the burning town\nWith eyes like polished obsidian beads\nWaiting for the smoke to clear the air\nAnd drop the heavy weight of human deeds\nThe wind carries a scent of iron and ash\nA feast prepared by brothers in their rage\nWhere mercy is a language long forgot\nAnd kindness turns to rot upon the page\n\nThen one descends, a shadow on the ground\nBeside a child who breathes a final sigh\nIt pauses, head cocked with a strange intent\nAs if to ask the reason for this lie\nA moment where the beak might turn away\nTo let the fragile spirit slip to peace\nBut hunger wins the war against the soul\nAnd silence makes the terrible release\n\nThe others join, a cloud of jagged wings\nThat blot out even stars that dare appear\nThey tear the past from what remains of flesh\nAnd leave no trace of love or hope or fear\nThe sky fills up again with circling black\nWhile nothing grows beneath their watching gaze\nThe world moves on as if it never was\nLost in the endless, empty, hungry haze", 6, "They circle high above the burning field\nWhere silence is the only sound they keep,\nTheir wings are black as secrets never sealed,\nAnd hunger is the promise that they reap.\n\nThey do not judge the weight of what they eat,\nNor question why the smoke has stained the sky,\nThey simply wait until the war is sweet,\nAnd tear the flesh from bones that used to cry.\n\nBut once, a moment in the dust below,\nOne paused beside a child with open eyes,\nA shadow cast where mercy used to grow,\nBefore the instinct broke the gentle ties.\n\nThe claw withdrew, the head bowed for a breath,\nAs if a memory of love had stirred,\nThen darkness rushed to swallow up the death,\nAnd nature's cold indifference was preferred.\n\nNow all is just the feast and endless flight,\nNo lesson learned, no prayer can change the air,\nThe sun goes down upon the endless night,\nAnd nothing remains but scavengers to stare.", 6, "They circle high on thermal winds of ash\nWhere silence screams beneath the weight of war\nNo feather soft, no eye that does not dash\nTo find the broken body on the floor\n\nThe beak is sharp as orders given cold\nThe talons grip the secrets we deny\nA feast of flesh where stories turn to mold\nBeneath a gray and unrelenting sky\n\nYet in one moment, pause before the tear\nA mother's hand still seeks a child's warm face\nA single breath that holds a silent prayer\nBefore the darkness erases every trace\n\nBut hunger calls and wings begin to beat\nThe mercy fades into the scavenger's song\nThe heart gives up, the rhythm loses heat\nAnd all that loved is swallowed, lost, and gone", 6, "They circle high on silent, tattered wings\nAbove the fields where silence starts to rot\nNo mercy in the hollow of their eyes\nJust hunger waiting for the final thought\n\nThe wind carries the scent of iron rain\nAs shadows stretch across the broken ground\nWe built our towers out of fear and pain\nAnd buried every single sacred sound\n\nThen for a breath a child reaches out\nTo touch the hand that holds a weapon tight\nA spark of warmth within the endless drought\nBefore the darkness swallows up the light\n\nBut hope is fragile as a morning dew\nThat vanishes beneath the heavy tread\nThe vultures dive to claim what we once knew\nAnd leave us with the words we never said\n\nThey feast upon the ghosts we left behind\nWhile stars above refuse to intervene\nThe cycle turns, unbroken and unkind\nLeaving only silence where love had been", 6, "They circle high above the broken ground\nWhere silence screams and shadows start to breed\nA hunger born of things we cannot drown\nIn rivers made of blood and human need\n\nTheir wings are stained with ash and ancient sin\nWhile eyes reflect the weight of what we do\nWe wear our masks of virtue, thin and tin\nTo hide the rot that grows inside the view\n\nFor just a breath a stranger offers grace\nA hand extended in the choking air\nBut time reclaims the kindness from this place\nLeaving only hollows where love once was there\n\nThe feast begins without a sound or plea\nAs feathers drift upon the cold design\nWe watch the world dissolve into debris\nAnd realize too late that we were never mine", 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 have no interest in the modern world\nor anything that happens in it.\nI want a story of delight and rejuvenation,\nand I will tell you what I remember:\ndarkness, darkness, darkness;\nthe sounds of migrating geese\nin my native childhood place.", 2, "I step away from the hum of wires and glass\nwhere time is measured in blinking red digits,\nseeking a story that does not end in ash,\na tale of delight to wash the grime from my spirits.\n\nHere the air is thin and clean as a bell,\nfar from the heavy shadows of my native place,\nwhere darkness was a thick and woolen cloak\nthat draped the hills before the sun could rise.\n\nI remember the sound of migrating geese then,\ntheir wild cries cutting through the winter fog,\na sharp and mournful music of departure\nthat echoed long after they had flown away.\n\nBut now I am distant from that cold lament,\nfrom the dark memories that clung like wet leaves,\nand I walk into a new narrative of light\nwhere the only sound is the wind in the grass.", 6, "I turn my back on neon streets and glass,\nWhere silence is a commodity too dear to buy,\nAnd seek a story where the shadows pass,\nBeneath a sky that does not ask me why.\n\nMy memory holds a winter deep and black,\nWhere darkness was a heavy, woolen cloak,\nThat wrapped the fields and held the world in track,\nWhile I stood shivering upon the frozen brook.\n\nThen came the sound, a ragged, honking cry,\nThe migrating geese that cut the gray above,\nTheir formation sharp against the iron sky,\nA rhythm of escape, a song of love.\n\nThey flew away from places cold and dim,\nTo lands where light and warmth were sure to be,\nAnd now I chase that distant, golden hymn,\nFar from the noise that drags the spirit free.\n\nLet modern voices fade into the dust,\nAs I retreat to where the old tales start,\nIn distance lies the only thing I trust,\nTo heal the weary chambers of the heart.", 6, "I turn my back on screens that hum with static light\nAnd walk away from cities built of glass and steel\nWhere silence is a myth we tell to sleep at night\nAnd every breath feels borrowed, never truly real\n\nI seek a tale where joy is not a fleeting spark\nBut something rooted deep in soil and ancient rain\nA story far removed from shadows in the dark\nThat heals the hollow places in my weary brain\n\nMy memory holds a winter cold as iron gray\nWhen darkness pressed against the window pane so tight\nThe only sound was wind that swept the earth away\nBefore the morning broke the long and endless night\n\nThen came the geese, a ragged line against the sky\nTheir cries a wild and haunting song of distant flight\nThey called me home to watch them pass and say goodbye\nTo native fields where time stood still within the light\n\nNow I am gone from there, yet carried by their call\nAcross the miles that stretch between the now and then\nI leave the noise behind to answer nature's wall\nAnd find the delight I need to start the world again", 6, "I step away from screens that hum with static light\nAnd leave the city's pulse to fade behind my feet\nWhere concrete cracks and neon shadows bite\nI seek a tale where quiet waters meet\n\nThe air here holds no memory of the dark\nNo echo of the night that swallowed up my youth\nBut I recall the cold, the sharp and sudden spark\nOf winter winds that stole the breath from truth\n\nThen came the sound, a ragged, shifting line\nOf migrating geese that tore the sky in two\nTheir honking cries were ancient, wild design\nThat called me back to skies of deep indigo hue\n\nThey flew above the fields of frozen gray\nWhile I stood small beneath their heavy wing\nA child who watched the distant birds at play\nAnd felt the weight of everything they bring\n\nNow distance stretches wide between the now\nAnd all those sounds that once defined my soul\nI turn my face toward the silent bough\nTo find a story making broken pieces whole\n\nLet the modern world dissolve in mist and rain\nAs I walk forward into stories new and bright\nLeaving the darkness of the past again\nFor dawn that brings a gentle, pure delight", 6, "I step away from screens that hum with static light\nAnd trade the noise for silence, deep and wide\nWhere shadows of my past no longer bite\nAnd ancient fears have nowhere left to hide\n\nThe city fades behind a wall of gray\nA distant echo of the rush and fear\nI seek a tale where bright and wild things play\nTo wash the soot of modern doubt and drear\n\nMy childhood holds a cold and heavy air\nWhen darkness fell before the stars could bloom\nAnd geese would cry with wings that tore the square\nTheir haunting songs a solitary gloom\n\nBut here I find a story soft and new\nThat wraps around the fractures in my soul\nNo longer bound by what the old world knew\nOr how the broken pieces lost control\n\nLet distance stretch between the now and then\nAs healing winds begin to softly blow\nI walk alone among the quiet men\nWho watch the seeds of joy begin to grow\n\nThe geese are gone, their migration ended long\nReplaced by laughter in a golden stream\nA simple song, a gentle, steady strong\nThat wakes the dreamer from his fractured dream", 6, "I turn my back on screens that glow too bright\nTo find a quiet path through shifting sand\nWhere silence holds the weight of ancient light\nAnd time unspools within a gentle hand\n\nThe city hums a tune I cannot keep\nA rhythm born of steel and endless noise\nWhile memories of shadowed valleys sleep\nBeneath the weight of forgotten, heavy poise\n\nI recall the geese that tore the autumn sky\nTheir cries a map of places left behind\nA chorus echoing where shadows lie\nBetween the heart and what we once defined\n\nThose wings now distant from this fractured ground\nHave carried stories written in the cold\nOf winter's bite and seeds that never found\nThe soil where hope was meant to take hold\n\nYet here I stand with breath renewed and deep\nNo longer bound by ghosts of yesterday\nA promise kept while others fall asleep\nTo walk the edge of night and welcome day\n\nThe darkness fades into a softer hue\nAs dawn breaks wide across a new terrain\nThe world I knew begins to start anew\nWith every step away from past and pain", 7], [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 volcanoes wake and the glaciers melt,\nThe hurricanes scream through the night,\nAnd the earth groans under the burden of her children;\nBut these are only the pangs of a mother in travail.\nIt is we who have invented the apocalypse,\nWe who have invented the irreversible.\nThe earthquakes will not do it,\nNor the tidal waves, nor the tornadoes,\nNor even the smallpox, which has already done what it could.\nThese are merely the natural disasters;\nThey leave something behind.\nBut we have invented the thing that leaves nothing behind:\nWe have invented the Apocalypse.", 2, "The volcanoes wake and shake the bedrock loose,\nThe oceans rise to swallow coastal towns,\nWhile storms tear through the forests like a noose,\nAnd glaciers melt and drown the ancient downs.\n\nYet nature's wrath is but a shifting tide,\nA cycle of destruction and rebirth,\nWhere life finds ways to hide or else to bide,\nUntil the planet heals from all its dearth.\n\nBut man has found a way to end it all,\nNot by the quake or flood or fire's heat,\nBut with a silence that will never fall,\nA final, cold, and irreversible defeat.\n\nWe hold the keys to lock the garden door,\nTo poison well the spring and burn the seed,\nTo leave behind a barren, silent floor,\nWhere not even weeds can grow nor birds can breed.\n\nNo asteroid could strike so deep and true,\nNo comet's tail could scorch us quite as clean,\nAs we who make our own apocalypse new,\nAnd wipe the slate of history entirely clean.", 7, "The volcano wakes with ancient, fiery breath\nAnd scours the valleys clean with ash and heat\nThe ocean rises from its restless death\nTo swallow cities in a salted sheet\nThese are the rhythms of a planet's pulse\nThe turning tides that wash the stone away\nWhere nature heals the wound and builds itself anew\nIn cycles that will outlast us all by far\n\nBut we have found a different kind of fire\nOne that does not burn to clear the way for spring\nWe hold the key to our own dark desire\nAnd lock the door where life might start to sing\nNo asteroid strikes with such precise design\nNo plague evolves within a single cell\nWe map the stars then choose to cross the line\nAnd weave the noose that hangs us all as well\n\nThe ice melts not because the sun grows hot\nBut because we fed the furnace in the sky\nThe forests fall beneath our iron lot\nWhile silence spreads where birds once used to cry\nNature could wait a million years to heal\nOr break the world with storms we cannot tame\nBut only man can make the ending real\nAnd sign his name upon the final page of shame", 7, "The oceans rise to swallow coastlines whole\nAs volcanoes wake from ancient, slumbering sleep\nThe forests burn beneath a fevered sun\nAnd storms tear through the valleys where we keep\nOur fragile homes against the shifting ground\nYet nature's wrath is but a passing tide\nA cycle of rebirth that time has found\nWhile we possess the power deep inside\nTo sever roots that hold the world in place\nWith hands that forge the fire to end all days\nWe build our cages out of greed and space\nAnd watch the final light begin to fade\nNo beast could craft a ruin so complete\nNo wind could blow a silence so absolute\nWe are the architects of our defeat\nThe only species doomed by its own root", 6, "The oceans rise to swallow coastal stone\nWhile storms tear roofs from houses built of wood\nA fever in the soil, a sky turned gray\nAs nature claims her ancient, wild solitude\n\nBut this is not the end that cycles bring\nNo asteroid or plague of ancient days\nIt is the quiet hand we hold so tight\nThat turns our golden future into haze\n\nWe lit the fires without a thought of heat\nWe dug the graves beneath our feet of green\nNot forced by fate or stars aligned in fear\nBut by the choices made within the machine\n\nThe ice retreats in silence, deep and slow\nThe forests burn with smoke we cannot see\nA world undone by hands that sought to save\nNow trapped inside a cage we forged to be\n\nNo god will come to lift us from the ash\nNo savior waits beyond the burning gate\nFor we have written out the final line\nAnd sealed our own inevitable fate", 7, "The mountain cracks beneath a shifting weight\nAs oceans rise to swallow every gate\nA storm that spins with fury in its chest\nTo put the quiet world to final rest\nYet these are forces old and wild and deep\nThat nature wakes while humanity sleeps\n\nBut something darker stirs within the hand\nA choice made cold across the barren land\nWe forge the fire that burns the sky above\nAnd trade our future for a moment's love\nNo asteroid could strike with such intent\nOr break the fragile bond we never meant\n\nThe ice retreats from shores we built too high\nWhile silence grows where once the birds would cry\nIt is not fate that seals the broken ground\nBut greed that leaves no hope for what is found\nA perfect storm of making and unmaking\nWhere every step becomes the earth's own shaking", 7, "The sky turns gray as oceans rise\nTo swallow cities in the tide\nWhere once the forests stood so tall\nNow silence claims what used to be alive\n\nWe built our towers high and proud\nIgnoring warnings whispered low\nUntil the ground began to shake\nAnd rivers ran with ash and snow\n\nIt was not stars that ended us\nNo comet struck the weary land\nBut hands that held the power tight\nAnd chose to burn the final stand\n\nA fire born of greed and fear\nThat consumes the air we breathe\nLeaving only hollow echoes\nOf a world we failed to save from death", 7], [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 sun is not yet up, the sky is leaden\nAnd we go murmuring through the damp streets\nWith our sacks and our sticks.\nLook at this torn book: who was reading it?\nA girl in a blue dress, perhaps;\nShe had a brother with red hair.\nThey lived in a house with green shutters.\nThey went to church on Sundays.\nI wonder if they ever saw me?\nThey threw it away because it was old.\nIt wasn't any good to them, but it's very good to me.\nI shall keep it for my little daughter.\nShe will like to hear about the red-haired boy.\nHere is a letter from a soldier; he says he is wounded.\nHe is probably dead by now.\nHe was writing to his sweetheart.\nHe wrote that he loved her better than anybody else.\nI wonder what became of her?\nPerhaps she married another man.\nI should like to see their wedding picture.\nI think I will put this letter in my trunk.\nWhen I am dead and gone, my little daughter\nWill be able to show it to her children.\nThey will say, \"There is a letter from a soldier.\"\nAnd they will say, \"He was wounded.\"\nAnd they will say, \"He is probably dead by now.\"\nAnd they will say, \"He was writing to his sweetheart.\"\nAnd they will say, \"He wrote that he loved her better than anybody else.\"\nAnd they will say, \"I wonder what became of her?\"\nAnd they will say, \"Perhaps she married another man.\"\nAnd they will say, \"I should like to see their wedding picture.\"", 1, "The streetlamps hum a low, tired note\nas the first gray light bleeds into the alley,\nand they arrive with their plastic bags rustling like dry leaves,\nmurmuring to one another in a language of grunts and nods.\nA child's red rubber boot, sole split open like a gaping mouth,\nspeaks of running through puddles, of a mother calling from a window,\nof a sudden slip that ended the game forever.\nThey sort the wet cardboard, the crushed cans, the tangled wires,\ntheir fingers moving with the dexterity of surgeons or priests.\nHere is a wedding ring, tarnished by rain and dirt,\nperhaps lost in a moment of rage, perhaps dropped while weeping,\nnow resting in a palm rough as tree bark, dreaming of a gold band\nthat once circled a finger that will never hold it again.\nA photograph face down in the mud, the back sticky with gum,\nshows a man smiling with missing teeth, a woman in a blue dress;\nthe picker turns it over gently, wiping the mud with his thumb,\nwondering if the smile was real or just for the camera,\nwondering where the blue-dressed woman is now,\nif she knows her image is being carried away by a stranger.\nThey whisper about the value of things, the weight of things,\nbut mostly they weave small dreams around the rejected,\nimagining the hands that held them, the lives that discarded them,\nturning the trash heap into a graveyard of memories,\na museum of broken hopes under the rising sun.", 2, "The streetlamps hum a low, tired note\nas boots crunch on wet pavement\nand fingers, rough as bark, sift the gray.\nA murmuring rises from the crouching figures,\nsoft vowels trading secrets in the mist.\n\nHere is a child's red shoe, sole worn thin,\ndreamed into a boat for a tiny captain\nsailing the puddle-rivers of dawn.\nBeside it, a cracked porcelain cup,\nstill holding the ghost of morning tea,\nnow a nest for sparrows or a bowl for rain.\n\nThey whisper of the hands that dropped these things,\nthe hurried rush, the sudden loss, the careless throw.\nA torn photograph, face blurred by mud,\nbecomes a love letter read in the dark,\na story of a wedding day long past.\nA broken watch, its gears frozen at three,\nis a moment suspended forever,\na pause before a goodbye that never came.\n\nThey weave these fragments into tapestries of gold,\nturning refuse into relics of other lives.\nIn the silence between their murmurs,\nthe city sleeps, unaware that its trash\nis someone else's treasure,\nsomeone else's history,\nsomeone else's dream waiting to be found.", 3, "The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet asphalt\nWhere figures move in silence, bent and slow\nTo sift the night's refuse from the dawn's first light\n\nA murmuring begins, soft as shifting sand\nOf plastic wrappers rustling in the breeze\nThey speak of broken toasters, torn receipts\nAnd shoes that held a runner's frantic feet\n\nThis coffee cup still holds the ghost of warmth\nFrom hands that trembled before the morning rush\nA child's blue mitten lost beside the bin\nRecalls a winter walk, a sudden slip\n\nThey sort the fragments with a gentle care\nWeaving new stories from the old despair\nThat ticket stub might lead to love or loss\nThat cracked glass mirror show a fractured face\n\nIn every scrap they find a hidden life\nA secret joy, a tear, a quiet strife\nThe world discards what it no longer needs\nBut here the trash pickers plant their tender seeds\n\nThey dream of castles built from cardboard boxes\nOf gardens grown from bottles filled with soil\nWhile others sleep and wake to clean new days\nThese keepers guard the past in ragged ways\n\nThe sun breaks through the gray and turns the dust\nTo gold for just a moment, then it must\nReturn to shadow as the city wakes\nAnd leaves the murmurs for the next to take", 6, "The streetlights hum a low and tired tune\nAs boots crunch softly on the dampened stone\nThey move like shadows in the silver gloom\nTo claim the things the city has outgrown\n\nA whisper passes through the rusted cart\nOf broken toys and pages torn from books\nThey trace the cracks where stories fell apart\nAnd read the silence in the heavy nooks\n\nHere lies a ticket to a show that ended\nWith ink still wet upon a faded date\nIt speaks of hands that trembled, hearts that mended\nBefore they sealed their own uncertain fate\n\nAnother dreams of gold inside a tin can\nWhile sorting plastic shards with careful grace\nThey see the lives that once were whole again\nReflected in this discarded, quiet space\n\nThe murmurs rise as dawn begins to bleed\nThrough clouds that hold the weight of yesterday\nThey stitch the fragments into something freed\nFrom all the waste the morning light will say\n\nFor every object holds a ghostly thread\nThat leads back to a kitchen, love, or fear\nA tapestry of what was left unsaid\nNow woven by the ones who linger here", 6, "The streetlamps hum a low and weary tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet asphalt\nWhere hands move slow to sift the morning dew\nFrom broken toys and pages torn in half\n\nA murmured prayer for something found intact\nBeneath the weight of what the city threw\nThey trace the cracks in ceramic, cold and black\nAnd wonder at the stories left to few\n\nHere lies a ticket stub from days gone by\nA faded promise made and then undone\nA child's small mitten lost beneath the sky\nThat holds the warmth of someone else's sun\n\nThey sort the silence into piles of gold\nOr rusted gears that once began to spin\nEach object whispers secrets never told\nOf lives that ended before they could begin\n\nNo judgment falls upon the quiet work\nOnly the rhythm of a breath drawn deep\nAs dreams are woven from the things we shirk\nAnd secrets buried while the world asleep\n\nThe sun breaks through to paint the dust in light\nRevealing beauty in the discarded frame\nA fleeting glimpse of love within the night\nBefore the trash becomes just part of shame", 6, "The streetlights hum a low and fading tune\nAs shadows stretch across the broken ground\nWhere hands move slow to lift the weight of noon\nAnd silence holds the echoes of what's found\n\nA child's shoe rests beside a rusted can\nIts leather worn by steps that walked away\nThey trace the seams where love began to fray\nAnd whisper names they cannot quite recall again\n\nMurmurs rise like steam from cooling tea\nOf stories buried deep in cardboard boxes\nEach torn receipt a map of memory\nLeading back to hearts that softly broke\n\nThey sort the glass with fingers rough and kind\nCollecting shards of dreams the world forgot\nIn every crack a life is left behind\nA silent song of all we ever sought\n\nThe morning breaks on piles of yesterday\nWhere hope is stitched into the frayed and torn\nThey gather up the fragments, come what may\nTo weave new light from ashes newly born", 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 have walked through the valley of shadows,\nWhere the path was narrow and steep,\nAnd the thorns tore our clothes to rags,\nAnd the stones cut our feet to the bone.\nBut we held on, and we held on;\nFor love is not a thing that breaks.\nIt is like a river: it goes over rocks,\nIt goes under bridges, it goes round bends,\nAnd it gets to the sea all right.\nAnd now we are getting near the sea,\nAnd the water is clearer, and the air is saltier,\nAnd there is more room for us to be.\nAnd I am sure of this:\nIf we can get through this,\nWe can get through anything.", 6, "The road was rough with stones we had to move,\nAnd storms that shook the fragile roof above,\nWe held our breath and kept our hands quite tight\nTo keep from slipping in the dead of night.\n\nBut through the fog where shadows used to play,\nWe found a way to see the light of day,\nNot by ignoring all the pain we knew,\nBut walking through it, side by side, as two.\n\nNow clearer skies are opening ahead,\nWhere safety waits for us, and quiet bread,\nNo more the fear that something might go wrong,\nJust steady steps along a peaceful song.\n\nWe defined our love not by how much we bore,\nBut by how well we weathered every storm,\nAnd now we stand upon a solid ground,\nWhere peace and hope and future both are found.", 7, "The road was narrow then,\nwashed by rains that felt like cold iron,\nand we walked with our shoulders hunched\nagainst a wind that sought to tear us apart.\nWe did not speak of forever in those days,\nonly of the next step, the next shelter,\nthe next breath drawn through gritted teeth.\n\nBut love is not a banner that flies only in the calm;\nit is the root that grips the stone when the earth shakes.\nIt was in your hand finding mine in the dark\nthat I knew the shape of us would hold.\nWe defined it not by grand declarations,\nbut by the quiet refusal to let go,\nby the way we mended what was broken\nwith hands that were rough but steady.\n\nNow the fog has lifted from the path ahead.\nThe air is clearer, smelling of pine and coming rain,\nnot the dust of the storm we left behind.\nWe walk slower now, side by side,\nno longer bracing for impact,\nbut watching the horizon where the light gathers.\nThe future is a wide, open field,\nsafe enough to run in,\nstrong enough to hold us both.", 3, "The road was rough beneath our weary feet\nWhere shadows stretched and silence held us tight\nWe stumbled through the storm of doubt and heat\nAnd sought a shelter from the endless night\n\nBut in the chaos, something stayed the same\nA quiet promise whispered in the dark\nThat nothing could erase your name or mine\nOr steal the single, steady, beating spark\n\nWe learned to build a bridge across the fear\nWith hands that held despite the trembling shake\nTo turn the jagged edges into clear\nAnd find a path for both our hearts to take\n\nNow dawn arrives with colors soft and new\nNo longer lost within the gray and cold\nI see the future bright and safe with you\nA story written, brave and pure and bold\n\nSo let the past remain where it belongs\nA lesson learned but not a chain to bind\nTogether we will sing these quieter songs\nLeaving the broken pieces far behind", 7, "The wind howled through the cracks we made,\nA storm that tested every vow we spoke,\nBut in the shaking dark, your hand stayed steady,\nAn anchor when the ground began to break.\n\nWe learned to speak in whispers soft and low,\nTo mend the tears without a single sound,\nTo find the path where shadows used to grow,\nAnd plant our roots in soil newly found.\n\nNo longer lost within the fog of fear,\nWe walk with eyes fixed on the morning light,\nWhere safety waits for those who hold us dear,\nAnd guide us gently through the coming night.\n\nThis love is not a shield against the pain,\nBut hands that heal while walking side by side,\nA promise carved beyond the rain,\nWith nothing left to run from, nowhere to hide.", 6, "The road was rough with stones we did not see\nAnd shadows stretched across the path we chose\nBut in the silence, you reached out to me\nA steady hand against the winter's blows\n\nWe learned that love is not a perfect line\nIt bends and breaks then mends itself again\nThrough storms that threatened to make us resign\nWe found the calm within the falling rain\n\nNow dawn approaches with a softer light\nDispelling fears that held our hearts in chains\nWe walk together into clearer sight\nWhere safety grows from all our shared pains\n\nNo longer lost beneath the heavy sky\nWe build a home where hope begins to bloom\nWith every step, the future draws us nigh\nTwo souls aligned to weather any gloom", 7, "The road was rough beneath our feet\nWhere shadows stretched and silence grew\nYet in the storm we found a beat\nThat kept us steady, me and you\n\nWe spoke of fears we could not name\nOf nights that tested every vow\nBut love remained the quiet flame\nThat burned through doubt and broken now\n\nEach step we take is built on trust\nA bridge across the shifting sand\nLeaving behind the heavy dust\nTo hold a promise in our hand\n\nThe horizon shifts from gray to gold\nAs morning breaks upon the shore\nA story written, brave and bold\nFor all the years we wait for more\n\nNo longer lost within the night\nWe walk toward the light ahead\nTwo souls united by the fight\nAnd hearts that choose to stay instead", 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.", "I look at the stars and marvel at their joy,\nTheir freedom from masks, their freedom from rules.\nThey are not bound by any laws of man,\nNor do they wear a mask to hide their faces.\nThey are free to be themselves, and nothing else.\nHow happy they must be! How free!\nI wish I could live as they do,\nUnmasked and unbound by rules.", 7, "They spin in silver circles, wild and bare,\nNo velvet masks to hide their burning face,\nNo laws of gravity or courtly care\nTo chain them to a single, narrow place.\n\nI watch them leap from shadow into light,\nUnbound by custom, unafraid of night,\nAnd ache to cast the heavy cloak aside,\nTo run with them where endless winds abide.\n\nOh, let me be a star, unmasked and free,\nTo dance the dark without a thought of rule,\nAnd burn my soul for all the world to see,\nA reckless flame within a silent school.", 6, "They spin in silver, wild and unconfined,\nNo law of earth can hold their burning breath,\nNo mask of shadow hides their brilliant mind,\nThey dance alone between the voids of death.\n\nI watch them pour their light without a care,\nUnbound by hours, rules, or heavy names,\nThey float through silence with a reckless air,\nAnd never whisper secrets to the flames.\n\nOh, how I ache to cast this skin away,\nTo shed the weight of what I must appear,\nTo be as they are, naked in the day,\nWith nothing but the vast dark for a fear.\n\nLet me dissolve into that endless blue,\nWhere no one asks me who I am or why,\nJust burning bright and utterly brand new,\nBeneath the cold and unjudging eye.", 6, "They burn without a permission slip,\nthose ancient, wild eyes above the hill,\nspinning in their silent, silver script\nwith no one there to check them still.\n\nNo masks of gold or heavy stone\nto hide the fire that feeds their soul,\nthey dance alone yet never known\nas anything but whole and whole.\n\nI ache to shed this skin of rule,\nthis polite and quiet, human cage,\nto break the glass, to be the fool\nwho turns the page and burns the stage.\n\nTo float unbound by law or name,\njust light and dust and sudden flight,\nunmasked before the cosmic flame,\nand free as stars are in the night.", 6, "They spin in silver silence, wild and bright\nNo chains of earth to hold their ancient flight\nThey wear no masks of duty or of shame\nJust burning hearts that whisper out a name\n\nI watch them dance above the sleeping town\nWhile heavy rules pull down my spirit down\nHow sweet it is to be so unconfined\nTo leave the rigid lines of mind behind\n\nOh let me shed this skin of quiet fear\nAnd rise to where the endless skies are clear\nTo burn without a reason or a law\nUnbound by time, unchained by human flaw\n\nI ache to join their rhythm, pure and deep\nWhere promises are made and none can keep\nA freedom vast enough to swallow pain\nTo dance again in cosmic, wild rain", 6, "I watch the silver drift above\nWhere no law holds the light in place\nThey burn with wild, unscripted love\nAnd wear no mask to hide their face\n\nMy skin feels tight against the bone\nA cage of rules I did not choose\nWhile they dance freely on their throne\nWith nothing left for them to lose\n\nOh, how I ache to shed this weight\nTo break the chains that hold me down\nTo float within the endless night\nWithout a crown or heavy gown\n\nLet gravity forget my name\nLet silence be the only sound\nAs stars ignite without a claim\nIn perfect freedom, unconfined", 6, "I watch the silver drift above the night\nUnchained by gravity or human fear\nThey burn with light that needs no borrowed sight\nAnd hold a truth I cannot make appear\n\nMy skin is tight with masks I did not choose\nWhile they dance wild in silence, soft and deep\nNo rules to break, no heavy weight to lose\nJust ancient promises they softly keep\n\nOh how I crave the wind that strips it bare\nTo leave behind the shadow on my face\nTo breathe the cold and wild and empty air\nAnd find a home within this vast embrace\n\nIf only I could shed the weight of years\nAnd rise like sparks from out a dying flame\nTo laugh at all the quiet, hidden fears\nAnd live without a name, without a claim", 7], [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 sheep were grazing on the cliff-top grass\nWhen I saw the shipwreck down below,\nA broken rib-cage of a stranded whale\nWith rusty nails sticking out like teeth.\nI went down there to see if I could find\nAnything worth saving from the wreck,\nAnd in the sand between two ribs I found\nThis talisman made all of sea-glass green,\nIn shape exactly like a seagull,\nWith wings outspread as if it meant to fly.\nIt was so smooth and polished that I thought\nAt first it must be some piece of amber,\nBut when I looked at it again I found\nThat it was not amber but sea-glass green;\nAnd it was so very much like a seagull\nThat I am sure it must have been a talisman\nOf some sort for sailors, or something of that kind,\nBecause I never saw anything like it before.", 3, "The wind had torn the gale-washed hull apart,\nLeaving the ribs of timber bare and white\nAgainst the gray and shifting morning sand,\nWhere only gulls would dare to make their flight.\nI climbed the broken mast to seek a shell,\nOr driftwood carved by some forgotten hand,\nBut found instead a shape of silver metal,\nA bird with wings spread wide across the sand.\n\nIt was no common gull of feathered wing,\nBut cast in gold or some strange, tarnished ore,\nWith eyes of sapphire set in cold design,\nAnd beak that pointed toward the distant shore.\nNo rust could touch it though the salt had seeped\nThrough every crack and crevice of the wreck,\nIt gleamed as if the sun had just been born\nUpon the sea-foam's sudden, foamy neck.\n\nI lifted it, and felt a sudden weight,\nNot heavy as a stone, but dense with years,\nAs if the ocean's deep and ancient heart\nHad beat within this small, metallic sphere.\nThe shepherd's crook I held began to hum,\nA low vibration running through my hand,\nAnd suddenly the sky turned deep and blue,\nThough clouds were gathering on every land.\n\nI looked at where the ship lay broken down,\nAnd saw the waves recede into the deep,\nAs if the talisman commanded them\nTo wake from out their long and heavy sleep.\nThen silence fell, and only one lone cry\nRose up above the water and the sand,\nA real gull flew across the empty air,\nAnd dropped the silver bird into my hand.", 6, "The tide had left the hull to rot and rust,\nA skeleton of timber on the sand,\nWhere gulls once circled with their hungry lust,\nNow silence held the broken, splintered land.\n\nI walked among the ribs of wood so black,\nMy staff in hand, my sheep a distant gray,\nWhen something caught the light that slipped and cracked\nThrough gaps where salt and time had worn away.\n\nIt was not bone, nor shell, nor driftwood grain,\nBut metal cold beneath the shifting silt,\nA shape that mocked the birds who sought the rain,\nWith wings of silver, sharp as lightning spilt.\n\nNo rust could touch its beak or hollow eye,\nThough years had passed since ships went down this way,\nA seagull carved from some forgotten sky,\nThat watched the wreckage of another day.\n\nI lifted it, and felt a sudden chill,\nAs if the ocean whispered through the stone,\nThe shepherd's world grew still and strangely still,\nBeneath the weight of what I held alone.", 6, "The tide had pulled the hull apart\nAnd left the ribs of timber bare,\nA skeleton of rot and salt\nThat choked the air with rusted fear.\n\nI walked among the splintered beams\nWhere gulls once screamed in circling flight,\nUntil a glint beneath the drift\nCatched sudden in the fading light.\n\nIt was not wood, nor bone, nor shell,\nBut metal cold as winter deep,\nShaped like a bird with wings outstretched\nFrom centuries of silent sleep.\n\nA seagull carved from silver stone,\nIts eyes were chips of obsidian glass,\nAs if it watched the storm above\nBefore the broken mast could pass.\n\nNo mark of maker's hand remained,\nNo rune to tell its ancient name,\nYet when I held it in my palm,\nThe wind seemed whispering my name.\n\nThe ship was dead, the ocean still,\nThe wreckage heavy on the sand,\nBut in this talisman of sea,\nI felt a strange and distant land.", 6, "The wind howls low across the dunes of gray\nWhere salt and rust have claimed the wooden spine\nA broken hull, a ghost of yesterday\nThat crashed beneath a moonless, stormy line\n\nI walked the debris with my staff in hand\nTo find the sheep that wandered from the fold\nBut something caught the light where shadows stand\nA gleam of silver, cold and strangely bold\n\nBeneath a splintered beam of ancient pine\nIt lay half-buried in the wet and sand\nA bird of sea, a shape divine\nWith wings outstretched as if to take command\n\nNo feather marks the metal, smooth and bright\nYet carved with eyes that hold the ocean's depth\nA talisman against the coming night\nThat promises a journey past the wrecks\n\nI lift it up, the weight is strange and light\nAs if the gull itself has taken flight\nAnd left its soul within this grounded sight\nTo guide the lost through darkness into light", 7, "The tide pulled back to reveal the bone\nOf timber split by storm and stone\nWhere once a mast had pierced the gray\nNow silence holds the wreckage day\n\nI walked the sand with staff in hand\nAcross the ruin of this land\nWhen something caught the morning light\nA glint beneath the splintered night\n\nNo shell, no pearl, no driftwood grain\nBut metal cool against the rain\nShaped like a bird with wings outspread\nAs if it sought the sky instead\n\nA seagull forged from silver deep\nWith secrets that the ocean keep\nIts eyes are voids of polished glass\nReflecting tides that come and pass\n\nI lifted it from salt and rust\nFrom iron turned to ancient dust\nAnd felt a hum within my palm\nA quiet song, a sudden calm\n\nThe ship is gone, the crew is lost\nTo waves that claim what they have cost\nYet here I stand with strange design\nA talisman where stars align\n\nThe wind blows soft through broken planks\nWhile time unspools its tangled ranks\nAnd in my grip, the wing takes flight\nTo guide me through the coming night", 6, "The tide pulls back from rusted steel\nWhere timber snaps and silence falls\nA shepherd walks the jagged reef\nTo hear the ocean's ancient calls\n\nHe brushes sand from twisted bone\nOf wood that once defied the storm\nAnd finds a glint beneath the stone\nA shape too strange to keep warm\n\nIt bears the wings of salt and air\nNo feather, yet it seems to fly\nA seagull carved in cold despair\nBeneath the gray and endless sky\n\nHis fingers trace the silver curve\nOf eyes that hold a distant sea\nA promise kept, a silent nerve\nThat speaks of what was meant to be\n\nThe broken hull begins to hum\nAs wind returns to fill the space\nThe talisman has found its home\nWithin this quiet, sacred place", 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 stone steps\nand watched the leaves fall.\nShe saw them fall from the elm tree,\nshe saw them fall from the maple tree,\nand she wept because they were falling.\nThey were not dead yet;\nthey were only turning yellow and red,\nand then they fell.\nBut they would not come back again.\nThey would not grow out of the ground again.\nThey would not be green again.\nThey were going to die.\nAnd so the little girl wept.\nShe did not know that she was going to die too.\nShe did not know that when she died,\nshe would not come back again either.", 2, "The girl sits on the stone wall\nwatching the maples bleed their gold\ninto the gray grass below.\nShe counts them as they fall,\none by one, a slow procession\nof dry hands letting go of branches.\nOh, poor things, she whispers,\nclutching her red scarf tight,\nthey were so green and warm yesterday,\nand now they are brown and brittle\nand cannot hold on anymore.\nThe wind blows hard today,\nshaking the trees until they shiver,\nand she feels a strange coldness\nin her own small fingers,\nas if the frost is already inside her,\nturning her blood to sap\nthat will soon run dry.\nShe watches a single leaf drift down,\ntwisting in the air like a dying bird,\nand she knows it is very sad\nto be a child who must die\njust like a leaf.", 6, "The wind comes down to steal the gold\nAnd scatter it across the ground,\nA brittle rustle, dry and cold,\nWhere once the summer green was found.\n\nShe sits upon the garden wall\nAnd watches them descend so slow,\nOne by one they take their fall,\nWith nowhere left for them to go.\n\nOh, poor little leaves, she softly cries,\nTo lose your home in such a way,\nTo wither beneath gray skies,\nAnd turn to dust before the day.\n\nShe wipes a tear from off her cheek,\nNot knowing why her heart should break,\nOr why the sight makes her feel weak,\nAs if some promise she must make.\n\nShe does not see the season's turn,\nNor that the tree will wake again,\nBut feels a sudden, quiet burn,\nAs if she too must end like them.\n\nFor though she is but young and small,\nWith time enough to run and play,\nShe mourns the falling of them all,\nAnd weeps for her own dying day.", 7, "She watches them descend in slow descent\nA rusted gold against the gray and stone\nAnd counts the ones that fall without consent\nAs if their weight were hers to bear alone\n\nShe presses cold fingers to the brittle edge\nOf veins that once held sap and summer green\nAnd wonders why they cannot hold a pledge\nTo stay upon the branch where they have been\n\nThe wind arrives to take them from her sight\nA whispering thief that steals the tree's last breath\nAnd she feels something deep within take flight\nA quiet fear of ending, not of death\n\nBut only thinks of leaves that lose their place\nBefore the frost can ever touch the ground\nUnknowing that she is the falling space\nWhere silence waits for every living sound", 6, "She sits beneath the oak and counts them down\nOne by one as they descend to brown\nHer small hands catch a brittle, curling thing\nAnd wonder why the branches lose their wing\n\nThe wind is cold against her flushed cheek now\nAs autumn paints the sky in shades of bough\nShe whispers to the grass that turns to gray\nThat summer must have wandered far away\n\nBut deep within her chest a quiet fear\nGrows louder than the rustling atmosphere\nFor every leaf that falls from high above\nIs just a mirror of the life she loves\n\nShe does not know this dance of gold and red\nIs practice for the path where she will tread\nNo memory of winter's coming chill\nCan stop the breath that stills when time stands still\n\nSo let her cry for petals lost to ground\nWhile silence wraps the world in softest sound\nA child weeping for the turning year\nUnknowing she has much more left to fear", 6, "She watches gold descend to brown\nAnd wonders where the green has gone\nA quiet ache inside her chest\nAs summer fades and days grow long\n\nEach brittle leaf that hits the ground\nIs like a breath she cannot keep\nShe counts the rustling, falling sound\nWhile shadows stretch across the sleep\n\nThe wind whispers a secret soft\nThat time will take what it has given\nBut she believes the leaves are lost\nNot knowing life is just a season ending in the riven\n\nHer small hands clutch at empty air\nHolding back the coming night\nUnaware that she too shares\nThe fragile light before the dimming of the sight", 6, "She counts the gold that hits the ground\nA quiet rustle, soft and deep\nEach branch now bare, a hollow sound\nThat pulls her from its gentle sleep\n\nThe air grows cold against her skin\nAs summer fades to gray and stone\nShe wonders where the light has been\nAnd feels a weight she's never known\n\nHer fingers trace the brittle veins\nOf something broken, torn apart\nA silent storm inside remains\nBeating rhythm in her heart\n\nShe does not see the mirror's truth\nOr time that waits beyond the door\nJust autumn's fleeting, ancient proof\nOf what we lose forevermore\n\nThe wind whispers through empty space\nA secret meant for ears so small\nThat every life must leave its place\nBefore the final curtain fall\n\nShe holds the leaf with trembling hands\nAnd prays the winter will not come\nUnaware of shifting sands\nBeneath the silence of the drum", 7], [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.", "I used to walk alone through the dark,\nWith a heart like a cold and empty house;\nBut now I have found you, and I am happy.\nNow I have found you, and my life is begun again.\nYou have taken me into your protection,\nAnd I am no longer afraid of the darkness.\nI am no longer afraid of the sorrow of the past.\nMy beloved has taken me into his protection,\nAnd I am happy.", 6, "The heavy curtain of my grief is drawn,\nAnd in its place, the morning light breaks through;\nI cast aside the shadows that were born\nOf days when I had nothing left to do\nBut weep for what was lost and never found,\nUntil your hand reached out to lift me up.\nNow on this solid ground where love is bound,\nI drink from joy's abundant, golden cup.\nNo longer shall the wind of sorrow blow\nAcross the fields that you have made secure;\nYour arms are walls against the winter snow,\nYour heart a fortress, steady and obscure\nTo all the pain that once was mine alone;\nI give myself to happiness and you.", 7, "The shadows that once clung to my heels\nhave finally lifted in the warmth of your light,\nand I lay down the heavy armor of grief\nto walk barefoot through the morning.\n\nNo longer will I flinch at the sound of wind,\nfor you stand between me and the storm,\nyour hand a shelter against the cold rain\nthat used to drown my quiet hours.\n\nI give you my heart, not as a fragile thing,\nbut as a garden where the frost has melted,\nready to bloom again under your steady gaze.\nLet the past be a distant shore I no longer visit,\nfor here, in the circle of your arms,\nI am safe, I am whole, and I am happy.", 7, "The winter in my chest has finally thawed\nAs you step forward to block the biting wind\nI lay down the heavy armor I once wore\nTo guard a heart that had no place to begin\n\nNo longer will I count the cracks in stone\nOr trace the shadows of the days gone by\nYour hand is warm against my trembling own\nAnd in your gaze, the darkened sky grows bright\n\nLet sorrow keep its silence in the past\nFor I have found a harbor safe and deep\nWhere every storm is broken at last\nAnd promises are yours alone to keep\n\nI give this life to you, so new and true\nA brighter dawn than I ever knew before\nWith you beside me, nothing can undo\nThe peace we build upon this solid floor", 7, "The winter in my chest has finally thawed\nAs you step close to shield me from the cold\nNo longer do I walk the path alone\nWith ghosts of yesterday that I once held\n\nYour hand is warm against my trembling skin\nA fortress built where broken walls once stood\nI leave the shadows of my old regret\nTo find a light that only you could bring\n\nLet sorrow fade like mist before the sun\nFor I have found a harbor safe and deep\nWithin your arms, the past begins to end\nAnd happiness is all I choose to keep\n\nI give my heart to this new morning light\nNo fear remains beneath your steady gaze\nThe storm is gone, the silence now is sweet\nAnd I am whole within your loving ways", 7, "The winter in my chest has finally thawed\nAs shadows flee the light you bring today\nI leave the ghosts of all I once endured\nTo walk beside you on a brighter way\n\nYour hands have built a shelter from the storm\nWhere broken pieces learn to mend again\nNo longer do I fear the coming night\nFor safety lives within your steady pen\n\nI trade the heavy silence of before\nFor laughter that dissolves the old despair\nWith every step we take, the past grows thin\nReplaced by warmth beyond compare\n\nHere is the promise I now choose to keep\nA heart unburdened, open, and free\nDedicated solely to this love so deep\nProtected now by you and only thee", 7, "The winter cracks beneath a gentle hand\nAs shadows flee from where you softly stand\nI lay the weight of old and heavy tears\nTo find the dawn that breaks through years of fears\n\nYour arms become the shield against the night\nA quiet promise holding me so tight\nNo storm can touch the peace we now create\nWhere broken pieces learn to integrate\n\nI offer up my heart without a trace\nOf doubt or sorrow in this sacred space\nFor every scar has turned to golden light\nGuiding us toward a brighter, endless flight\n\nSo let the past dissolve into the air\nWith you beside me, I am free to care\nA new beginning starts within your gaze\nAnd love rewrites the stories of our days", 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 suffering goes unnoticed as it fades\nInto the background while others plough,\nAnd sail, and go about their mundane lives.\nIt is not noticed; nobody notices.\nThe sufferers are not noticed; they fade into the background.\nThey are in the background; nobody notices them.\nThey are in the background and they are suffering.\nNobody notices that they are suffering.\nNobody notices that they are in the background and they are suffering.\nNobody notices that they are in the background.\nThey are in the background and they are suffering.\nNobody notices that they are suffering.\nNobody notices that they are in the background and they are suffering.", 2, "The pain sits quietly in the corner\nand no one sees it there.\nIt shrinks a little every day\nuntil it is quite small,\na speck of dust on the window sill\nthat nobody notices.\nOutside the ploughman drives his team\nacross the heavy fields\nand the wind blows hard against the sails\nof ships that never stop.\nThe baker kneads his dough\nand the merchant counts his coins\nand the children play their games\nin the bright and busy street.\nThe suffering grows smaller still\nand fades into the background\nlike a shadow in the sun\nwhile everyone goes on.", 6, "The crack in the wall widens by a hair\nwhile the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic hands\nand the wind fills the canvas of a distant ship\nignoring the salt that stings the sailor's eyes.\n\nSomewhere a heart breaks without a sound\ndissolving into the gray static of the afternoon\nas a farmer drives his plough through heavy earth\nturning over soil that knows nothing of grief.\n\nThe clock ticks on the mantel, steady and blind\nthe coffee cools in its cup on the kitchen table\nand the world spins forward on its axis of routine\nleaving the quiet ruin to settle in the dust.\n\nNo one looks up from the ledger or the horizon\nno one pauses for the shadow lengthening in the corner\nfor life is a river that flows around the stone\ncarrying on, indifferent and deep.", 5, "The crack in the wall widens by a hair\nwhile the baker kneads his dough with steady hands\nand the wind pushes the gull across the gray sky\nno one sees the shadow lengthening in the corner\nwhere the breath catches and holds its weight\n\nA ship cuts through the foam leaving white scars\nthe captain checks his compass for the north\nthe sailor mends the net with practiced fingers\nthey do not hear the silence growing loud inside the house\nas the light drains slowly from the eyes that watch them go\n\nPloughs turn the dark earth into furrows of gold\nhorses breathe heavy clouds into the morning air\nthe farmer wipes his brow and calls to his son\nnone of them pause to ask why the door stands open\nwhy the chair is empty and the tea has gone cold\n\nThe world spins on its axis with a careless hum\nbusinesses open, trains arrive, children laugh\nthe suffering shrinks until it is smaller than dust\nuntil it is nothing more than a draft beneath the floorboards\nwhile life moves forward, heavy and bright and blind", 3, "The crack in the wall widens slow\nwhile the farmer turns the soil again\nhis boots heavy with mud and rain\nunaware of the quiet fracture deep within the stone\n\nthe sailor adjusts his canvas tight\nchasing a wind that does not blow for him\nignoring the ghost of a ship lost at sea\nthat drifts beneath his keel like smoke\n\ncoffee steams on a crowded table\nlaughter rings out sharp and bright\nno one sees the shadow shrinking small\nin the corner where the light fails to reach\n\nthe world spins on its axis smooth and loud\nploughing fields and sailing seas\ncarrying the weight of ordinary days\nleaving the silent ache to fade into the gray", 4, "The crack in the wall widens slowly\nwhile the farmer turns the soil\nhis boots heavy with mud and rain\nunaware of the silence growing behind him\n\nA ship cuts through the gray horizon\nsails full of wind that does not care\nthe crew sings songs of distant ports\nignoring the ghost drifting in their wake\n\nCoffee steams in a quiet kitchen\nsteam rising like a prayer unanswered\nthe clock ticks on a steady beat\ncounting seconds no one wishes to hear\n\nPain becomes just another shadow\nfading into the wallpaper's pattern\nas the world moves forward, loud and bright\nleaving the broken things to rust in peace", 3, "The weight you carry leaves no trace\nUpon the dust of common space\nA silent crack within the stone\nWhere seeds were never fully sown\n\nThe farmer turns the heavy soil\nUnaware of hidden toil\nWhile ships cut through the endless gray\nAnd sailors lose their will to stay\n\nThey walk with steps both light and sure\nIgnoring what they cannot cure\nThe wind that howls a quiet plea\nIs lost beneath a memory\n\nNo hand reaches out to hold\nThe story left untold\nAs days roll on in steady streams\nDrowning out your broken dreams\n\nThe world moves on without a sound\nLeaving you deeply bound\nTo shadows cast by fading light\nThat vanishes into night", 7], [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", "I saw the light fall on a broken plate\nAnd it looked like a silver shield;\nI saw a little girl with a red balloon\nAnd she looked like an angel;\nI saw a boy and his dog running in the rain\nAnd they looked like two happy spirits.\n\nBut then I heard the whistle of the train,\nAnd I was back in the street again;\nThe little girl was not an angel, but a blackguard's daughter;\nThe boy and his dog were not two happy spirits, but a boy and his dog;\nAnd the light that fell on the broken plate\nWas only the light of the sun falling on a broken plate.", 3, "The dust motes danced in a shaft of afternoon light\nLike tiny golden fairies spinning above the floor,\nAnd I held my breath to watch them twirl and rise,\nBelieving for a moment that magic was real.\n\nI saw castles built from the shadows on the wall,\nHeard the whispering of dragons hiding in the rug,\nAnd felt the soft warmth of a world made entirely of wonder,\nWhere nothing could ever hurt or end.\n\nThen the door slammed open with a violent crash,\nAnd the harsh glare of the streetlight cut through the room,\nTurning the fairies into gray specks of dirt again,\nAnd the dragon's roar into the sound of a truck backfiring.\n\nMy mother's angry voice shattered the silence like glass,\nScolding me for being lazy instead of doing my chores,\nAnd suddenly I was just a small boy standing in the dark,\nWith no castles left and no magic at all.", 3, "The dandelion clock stood tall in the green grass\nA perfect sphere of wishes waiting to be blown\nI held my breath and saw a kingdom there\nWhere gravity was light and time was slow\nThe sun caught dust motes dancing in the air\nAnd for a moment I was safe inside that gold\n\nThen the truck backfired on the street below\nA sudden crack like thunder in the quiet room\nThe spell dissolved, the golden light turned gray\nThe wind blew hard and scattered all my dreams\nI looked at the broken stem upon the ground\nAnd felt the heavy world come crashing down again", 6, "A dandelion clock in the cracked driveway\nholds a universe of golden light\neach seed a tiny parachute ready to fly\ncarrying wishes on the summer breeze\nI blow gently and watch them scatter\nbelieving the world is soft and kind\nthat magic lives in the dust motes dancing\nin the square of sun upon the floor\n\nThen the heavy door slams shut outside\na siren wails through the thinning air\nthe golden seeds turn to ash in my hands\nas the shadow of a man I do not know\nfalls across the garden gate\nsuddenly the sky is not a blanket but a cage\nand the wind carries only the scent of rain and rust\nshattering the glass house where I used to live\nleaving me standing in the cold hard truth\nwith nothing left but the silence after the storm", 4, "A dandelion clock holds the sun\nin a thousand tiny, golden eyes\nthe wind whispers secrets to the grass\nand time stands still beneath the skies\n\nWe chase the light through cracks in walls\nbelieving magic hides inside\nwhere every shadow tells a tale\nof places where the dreams abide\n\nBut then the sirens cut the air\na sudden crack of thunder loud\nthe golden petals turn to gray\nbeneath a heavy, iron cloud\n\nThe innocence we held so tight\ndissolves like mist before the rain\nreality is sharp and cold\nerasing joy with quiet pain\n\nNow childhood fades into the dark\nno fairy tales remain to save\njust broken glass on concrete floors\nand silence in a hollow grave", 6, "A dandelion clock holds the morning light\nSoft gold against the gray of pavement stone\nWe count the seeds and make a silent wish\nBelieving magic lives in what is known\n\nThe wind arrives to scatter all our hopes\nAnd carries dreams into the empty air\nBut then the thunder rolls across the sky\nRevealing cracks beneath the fragile layer\n\nNo fairy tale can shield us from the cold\nThe world demands a price we cannot pay\nThe innocence that bloomed so briefly now\nIs crushed beneath the weight of yesterday\n\nWe stand alone with broken pieces deep\nWhere once we ran with nothing but the sun\nThe beauty fades, the ordinary stays\nAnd childhood ends before it has begun", 6, "The dust motes dance in afternoon light\nA quiet world where time stands still\nWe trace the cracks upon the wall\nAnd dream of wings we never knew we had to fill\n\nBut shadows stretch across the floor\nAs evening turns to cold gray stone\nThe laughter fades, the door locks tight\nRevealing seeds that cannot be sown\n\nThe glass breaks loud against the street\nA sudden end to stories told too young\nThe magic slips from trembling hands\nLeaving only silence on the tongue\n\nNo more fairy tales to hold us close\nJust concrete hard and unrelenting truth\nWe wake from dreams we thought were real\nTo face the weight of age and ruth", 6], [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", "I will not wait for the stars to guide me,\nI will not ask the wind where it blows.\nI take my life in my own hands and go.\nI will pick up a burden when I meet it;\nif I meet one that is heavy, I will carry it.\nIf I meet one that is light, I will carry it.\nIf I meet one that is broken, I will carry it.\nIf I meet one that is good, I will carry it.\nThe road is open and I am going.", 5, "The asphalt stretches out a gray ribbon\nunfurling toward the horizon where the sky touches earth,\nand I step forward without asking permission,\nmy boots striking the dust in a rhythm of my own making.\nThere is no map here but the one drawn by my feet,\nno compass but the pull of the wind against my cheek.\nI carry nothing heavy in my hands,\nonly the lightness of an empty bag that waits to be filled.\nBut if sorrow should rise like a heat haze from the road ahead,\nI will not turn back or try to leave it behind;\nI will pick it up gently and place it in the sack,\nfor it is part of the journey and part of me.\nIf joy comes running alongside with flowers in her hair,\nI will let her run beside me for a while,\nor perhaps I will lift her onto my shoulder.\nWhatever burden life brings, whether it is grief or laughter,\nwhether it is a stone of regret or a feather of hope,\nI will take it on as it arises,\nwalking freely into the wide open day,\nchoosing my own destiny one step at a time.", 6, "The engine hums a low and steady tune\nBeneath the vast and unmarked afternoon\nI leave the map upon the dashboard glass\nAnd watch the familiar shadows come to pass\n\nNo compass points where I must go today\nOnly the wind that blows the dust away\nI choose the turn, I choose the sudden hill\nI choose the silence and the noise at will\n\nIf sorrow comes to ride beside me now\nI'll let it sit and wipe its heavy brow\nIf joy arrives to dance along the seat\nWe'll share the rhythm of the moving feet\n\nI carry all the stones I've picked up deep\nInto the valleys where the rivers sleep\nI do not drop them when the road gets steep\nNor promise lighter loads before I reap\n\nThe horizon stretches out without an end\nA friend who never asks for any friend\nJust open sky and asphalt stretching wide\nWith nothing left to hide and nowhere to hide", 6, "The engine hums a low and steady tune\nBeneath the vast and unmarked afternoon\nI leave the map within the glovebox deep\nTo wake the promises I mean to keep\n\nNo compass points where I must go today\nJust dust that rises in the heat of play\nThe horizon stretches out a ribbon wide\nWith nowhere left for me to run or hide\n\nShould sorrow find me on this shifting sand\nI'll let it rest within my open hand\nNo heavier than stones a river keeps\nI carry all the weight while memory sleeps\n\nIf joy should bloom beside the cracked asphalt\nI'll take its shade and let my spirit halt\nFor destiny is not a distant shore\nBut every step I take and nothing more\n\nSo let the burdens rise as clouds appear\nI drive them forward, making them less dear\nThe road unfolds beneath my willing tires\nAnd burns away the doubt with sudden fires", 7, "The engine hums a low and steady song\nAs I step out where the white lines fade\nNo map to guide me, no right or wrong\nJust the open sky that the morning made\n\nI carry nothing but what I need\nA coat of memories, a heart worn thin\nThe weight of yesterday, the seed\nOf all the places I have been\n\nLet the hills rise up to block the view\nLet the rain wash down the dusty glass\nI do not run from what is new\nOr let the heavy moments pass\n\nFor destiny is not a fixed design\nBut roads I choose with every turn\nThis burdened soul, this grand design\nIs mine alone to keep and earn\n\nSo on I drive through light and shade\nWith sorrow's stone and joy's bright fire\nUnbound by chains that others laid\nAnd fueled by my own deep desire", 7, "The engine hums a quiet tune\nBeneath the vast and shifting sky\nI leave behind the rigid room\nWhere answers waited, dry and high\n\nNo map to guide my wandering feet\nNo compass pointing north or south\nJust asphalt stretching toward the heat\nAnd silence in my open mouth\n\nThe weight I carry is not stone\nBut memories that cling and sway\nA garden where the seeds are sown\nTo bloom along the endless day\n\nLet storms arise and winds collide\nI hold them close within my chest\nWith nothing left for me to hide\nExcept the journey of the rest\n\nEach mile a choice I make anew\nEach burden worn as part of grace\nThe road unfolds in shades of blue\nLeading me to my own place", 6, "The engine hums a quiet song\nWhere static once held tight control\nI leave the map of yesterday\nTo trace the lines I carve my soul\n\nNo compass points to what is fixed\nJust dust that dances in the light\nA heavy pack upon my back\nThat grows with every step of night\n\nI do not flee the weight I bear\nNor wish for skies devoid of rain\nFor storms and sun are equal parts\nOf paths that lead through joy and pain\n\nEach mile unspools a story new\nUnwritten by a hand unseen\nI walk ahead with open eyes\nAnd claim the space between the green\n\nThe road extends beyond the view\nA promise kept without a sound\nI carry all that came before\nAs freedom spreads its wings around", 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 the quiet of the early dawn\nWhen the streets were empty and the shops were shut,\nA brave nurse in New York City went to work\nTo save the lives of those who were dying.\n\nIn a small town in Tennessee,\nA farmer kept on working day and night\nTo raise corn and wheat for his community\nSo that no one would be hungry.\n\nIn a big city in California,\nA scientist worked hard day and night\nTo find a vaccine for the coronavirus\nSo that all people could be healthy.\n\nThese three American heroes worked hard\nTo benefit their communities and bring the country together\nDuring the COVID-19 pandemic.", 7, "In the quiet hum of a hospital ward where masks hid weary eyes,\nA nurse from Georgia stood her ground beneath the gray and anxious skies,\nShe held the hands of strangers as they took their final breaths,\nAnd prayed for healing strength to guide them past the shadowed gates of death.\n\nAcross the country in a city street where social distance grew,\nA teacher from New Jersey taught through screens so children wouldn't lose,\nShe sent out care packages with books and games and letters bright,\nTo keep the little hearts of hope alive throughout the long dark night.\n\nThen came a man from California who used his truck and time,\nTo drive fresh produce to the poor and make the hungry climb\nOut of despair and want and need, he fed the families there,\nWhile building bridges made of food to show that we all share.\n\nThree heroes from three different lands, yet bound by one desire,\nTo serve their neighbors in the storm and fan the dying fire\nOf community and kindness back to life across the land,\nWith helping hands and open hearts united hand in hand.", 7, "In the quiet streets where shadows grew long,\nThree figures stood where the weak belong.\nA nurse in white with a mask of blue,\nWho held the hand of the sick and few,\nShe whispered hope through the sterile air,\nAnd taught us all how to show we care.\n\nA teacher next with a screen so bright,\nGuiding young minds through the endless night.\nWith patience deep and a voice so clear,\nHe made sure no child was lost in fear,\nBridging the gap with a digital thread,\nWhile parents worked and the living feared.\n\nA volunteer with a truck full of food,\nDriving through rain where the silence stood.\nHe dropped off meals at the elderly door,\nSo hunger would not make them sore,\nConnecting neighbors from coast to coast,\nShowing that kindness is what matters most.\n\nTogether they wove a tapestry strong,\nProving that love is where we belong.\nNo matter the virus or fear or pain,\nThey helped the country stand up again,\nThree heroes small in a time so vast,\nBinding our future to our past.", 7, "In a time when silence filled the empty streets,\nThree hearts beat loud to mend what fear had torn,\nA nurse who held the hand of those in need,\nAnd made the sterile ward a place reborn.\n\nShe washed her hands until the skin was raw,\nYet offered warmth that no virus could steal,\nA guardian behind the plastic shield,\nWhose quiet strength helped broken spirits heal.\n\nAcross the town, a teacher turned his screen,\nTo reach the children locked inside their homes,\nHe sent a joke, a lesson, and a dream,\nSo isolation's heavy weight would roam.\n\nHe built a bridge of light through digital air,\nEnsuring no young mind was left alone,\nProving that kindness travels far and wide,\nEven when bodies cannot touch or roam.\n\nThen came the baker with a flour-dusted apron,\nWho baked for all before the sun rose high,\nLeaving warm loaves on porches, one by one,\nBeneath the vast and indifferent sky.\n\nHe gave not just the bread but hope itself,\nA simple gift to neighbors he'd never met,\nReminding us that we are bound as one,\nBy threads of love that poverty can't forget.\n\nTogether they stood firm against the storm,\nThe healer, the guide, the giver of sustenance,\nTheir service wove a tapestry so strong,\nThat unity became our truest defense.\n\nNo flag or banner needed to declare,\nThe heroism found in daily grace,\nFor in their acts of service and of care,\nThey brought our fractured nation face to face.", 7, "In quiet halls where masks were worn with care,\nA nurse stood firm against the rising fear,\nHer hands held hope when silence filled the air,\nAnd whispered words to calm the trembling near.\n\nAcross the streets a volunteer in red,\nDropped meals at doors for those who could not go,\nHe bridged the gaps that isolation bred,\nWith kindness flowing like a gentle glow.\n\nThen teachers turned their screens to open skies,\nTo keep young minds connected through the dark,\nThey taught with patience as the world grew wise,\nAnd sparked a light to guide each lonely spark.\n\nThree different paths but one united heart,\nThey stitched the fabric torn by sudden storm,\nProving that even when we must apart,\nOur shared resolve can make us whole and warm.", 7, "In quiet halls where silence used to be,\nA nurse in blue stood guard for you and me,\nHer mask a shield against the rising tide,\nWith weary hands she held the world inside.\n\nAcross the street a teacher turned the screen,\nTo bridge the gap between what could have been,\nShe sent out hope through digital and light,\nEnsuring no child faded from the sight.\n\nThen came the hands that built the food supply,\nWho worked beneath a gray and heavy sky,\nThey packed the boxes with a steady grace,\nTo feed the neighbors in this lonely place.\n\nThree different paths but one united goal,\nTo heal the fractures in our broken soul,\nNo hero's cape, just service deep and true,\nBinding the red, the white, the blue anew.", 7, "In quiet halls where fear took hold\nThree voices rose to break the cold\nA nurse who held a trembling hand\nWhile healing spread across the land\n\nA teacher mapping out the way\nTo keep the light of learning bright\nThrough screens and shadows, day by day\nGuiding hearts through darkest night\n\nThe builder crafting hope anew\nWith wood and steel for all to share\nMending fences old and true\nAnd lifting burdens from the air\n\nThey stand apart yet bound as one\nUnited by a common grace\nNo battle fought alone or won\nBut love that time cannot erase\nTogether now we start again\nWith courage in the wind and rain\nFor every soul that needs a friend\nAnd peace within our shared domain", 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", "I like to think that I prefer\nthe color blue and the month of May,\nand that my life is not a random\ndistribution of events.\n\nBut it is all quite random.\nIf I had been born in 1864\ninstead of 1904, or if\nmy mother had not met my father,\nor if she had met him but\nnot married him, I should not be here.\n\nAnd if I were not here,\nI should not be thinking about this.\nSo you see, it is all quite random.\n\nIt is all inconsequential.\nThere is nothing more to say.\nDeath is the only certainty.", 2, "We choose our colors and our coats\nand argue over which way the wind should blow,\nbelieving these small preferences matter\nin the grand design of things.\nWe build our castles on a shifting sand\nof luck and chance,\nnever noticing that the tide is indifferent\nto the shape of our walls.\nThe lottery ticket we buy or lose,\nthe lover we meet by accident in the rain,\nthe job we get because the other man was sick\u2014\nit is all a chaotic shuffle of cards\ndealt by a blind dealer.\nNothing leads to anything;\nnothing proves anything.\nThe stars do not care if we are happy or sad,\nand the earth does not tremble when we die.\nIn the end, the silence is absolute.\nThe only certainty is the cold,\nthe dark,\nand the final quietus\nthat waits for us all.", 3, "The coin flips high and lands on heads,\nAnd so we choose the left-hand road,\nWhile fate decides the other path\nIs where our heavy burdens load.\n\nWe argue over trivial tastes,\nThe color of a summer sky,\nAs if the universe would pause\nTo note which shade we chose to buy.\n\nBut time is just a random wind\nThat scatters seeds without a plan,\nNo grand design for how we live,\nOr why we love the way we can.\n\nThe choices that we think define us\nAre merely noise within the air,\nA fleeting echo in the dark\nBefore the silence settles there.\n\nFor all the plans we make today,\nThe loves we hold, the wars we wage,\nWill vanish with the final breath\nThat turns this living page to age.\n\nThe only truth we cannot dodge\nIs that the curtain must fall down,\nThe end of every random chance\nIs quiet dust and nothingness.", 7, "We argue over colors that the wind will scatter,\nChoosing paths that lead to nowhere in particular,\nBelieving our small loves and hates are carved in stone,\nWhile time just rolls them gently like a river's pebble.\n\nThe taste of coffee, the shape of clouds at noon,\nAre accidents of light and chance, not grand design,\nA random shuffle of the cards we hold so tight,\nBefore the dealer sweeps the table clean again.\n\nWe build our towers on the shifting sand of luck,\nAnd mourn the things we lost or never got to keep,\nBut silence waits behind the door of every room,\nTo swallow up the noise of all our frantic plans.\n\nNo story matters once the final page is turned,\nNo preference lingers when the breath has left the chest,\nFor death is not a question that requires an answer,\nIt is the only truth that stands when all else falls away.", 6, "The coin flips in a void of gray\nNo pattern guides the fall\nWe build our castles out of clay\nAnd call them great and tall\n\nWe argue over shades of blue\nOr which path leads to home\nWhile time moves on, indifferent and true\nTo all we think we own\n\nA laugh, a tear, a sudden fear\nDissolves into the air\nNothing here is fixed or dear\nBeyond our brief despair\n\nThe sun will rise without a sound\nThe stars will burn away\nAll choices made are lost unbound\nBefore the final day\n\nSo let the chaos spin its wheel\nLet random winds decide\nThere is no meaning we can feel\nWith nowhere left to hide\n\nFor when the breath has ceased its flight\nAnd silence takes the throne\nOnly one truth remains in light\nThat death is all we own", 6, "The coin flips high and lands on heads\nA choice we swear defines our path\nBut chance decides the wind that blows\nAnd leaves us lost within the math\n\nWe build our walls with care and pride\nTo keep the chaos from the door\nYet time erodes the stone we laid\nAnd sweeps it to the shifting floor\n\nThe colors that we love so deep\nWill fade when eyes can no more see\nThe songs we sing, the names we keep\nDissolve into silence naturally\n\nNo grand design directs the rain\nOr guides the falling of a leaf\nJust random sparks in empty space\nThat bring both comfort and grief\n\nSo let the arguments dissolve\nIn dust beneath the morning light\nFor every battle fought and won\nIs swallowed by the coming night\n\nThe only truth we hold is this\nThe final breath, the quiet end\nWhere all our plans and passions cease\nAnd nothing matters in the end", 6, "The wind decides which seeds take root\nBefore the soil is turned to dust\nWe build our walls with trembling hands\nAnd call them sacred, pure, and just\n\nA favorite song, a sudden fear\nAre moments lost in shifting tides\nNo grand design or hidden plan\nCan keep the turning of the times\n\nWe argue over trivial things\nAs if they hold eternal weight\nBut silence waits beneath the floor\nTo swallow up the joy and hate\n\nThe stars above do not align\nFor any purpose we can see\nJust cosmic noise and drifting light\nThat fades into eternity\n\nSo let the chaos have its way\nNo meaning carved in stone or bone\nFor every breath we draw today\nIs borrowed from the quiet unknown\n\nThe final hush will claim us all\nWhen stories end and names dissolve\nLeaving only empty space\nWhere nothing ever truly evolves", 6], [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 little rabbits in their burrows\nshivered as the earth began to tremble,\nthe moles put their noses to the ground\nand heard a rumbling like thunder;\nbut it was not thunder that they heard\nnor was it the wind or an earthquake,\nit was the warhorses coming.\n\nAnd the swallows and larks were singing\nin the morning light above the cornfield,\nwhen the warhorses came,\nthey could not sing any more.\n\nThe warhorses came with their hoofs of iron\nand their breasts of iron and their flanks of iron,\nand they trampled the rabbits and the moles,\nand they trampled the swallows and the larks,\nand there was nothing normal left in their wake.", 3, "The rabbits huddle in their burrows deep\nAnd shake as thunder rolls beneath the earth,\nWhile moles forget the safety of their sleep\nTo feel the heavy hooves that tear them forth.\nThe swallows swoop above the churned-up clay\nAnd cry to see the larks fall from the sky,\nFor where the warhorses have made their way\nNo grass grows green and no small bird can fly.\nThe air is thick with smoke and stench of fear\nThat chokes the lark and drives the swallow down,\nThe rabbits tremble as the horses near\nAnd moles are crushed beneath the iron crown.\nNow nothing normal lives upon this field\nWhere warhorses have passed and left it dead,\nWith rabbit holes destroyed and molehills sealed\nAnd all the little creatures lying dead.", 7, "The rabbit freezes in the clover deep,\nWhile heavy hooves of warhorses thunder past,\nShaking the roots where burrows softly sleep,\nAnd turning quiet earth to mud and blast.\nThe mole, who knew the darkness as a friend,\nIs tossed above the ground by clods of clay,\nWhere trench lines cut the tunnels without end,\nAnd sunlight dies beneath a smoke-stained day.\n\nHigh in the air, the swallow's flight is torn,\nBy shrapnel singing through the grayest mist,\nHer nest of mud and grass forever shorn,\nBy iron beasts that crush the summer kissed.\nThe lark, who sang before the guns awoke,\nFalls silent as the thunder rolls below,\nNo longer rising for the morning spoke,\nBut lost beneath the churned and bloody snow.\n\nThe field was green with life and gentle sound,\nBefore the horses brought their ruin near,\nNow nothing normal can be ever found,\nJust broken wings and paws and panic fear.\nThey run from shadows cast by steel and fire,\nFrom hooves that leave no path but death behind,\nAs all the little creatures lose desire,\nTo seek the peace they once had hoped to find.", 7, "The rabbit freezes in the clover deep,\nAs thunder shakes the earth where warhorses sweep.\nTheir hooves are iron storms that crush the green,\nAnd leave a scarred and silent, broken scene.\n\nThe mole who dug his tunnels safe and sound,\nNow feels the heavy rhythm pound and pound.\nHis quiet world of roots is torn apart,\nBy giant feet that break the beating heart.\n\nAbove, the swallow's flight is cut by smoke,\nAs larks forget their songs and start to choke.\nThe air grows thick with ash and copper taste,\nNo morning light can find this ruined place.\n\nThe horses march with blind and cruel glee,\nAnd take away the peace for you and me.\nNothing remains as it was yesterday,\nJust mud and silence where the creatures lay.", 6, "The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread\nAs iron hooves crush down the soft green grass\nWhere rabbits once hid in the quiet bed\nOf roots and earth, now shattered by the mass\n\nThe mole forgets the tunnel's dark embrace\nAs thunder rumbles through the trembling soil\nNo safe retreat remains within this place\nOnly the churn of war and endless toil\n\nHigh above the swallows lose their song\nTheir wings beat frantic against choking smoke\nThe lark that sang at dawn is silent long\nWith feathers torn by fire and sudden shock\n\nThe field was once a world of life and breath\nNow stamped to dust by horses marching on\nA horrid air of ash and lingering death\nWhere nothing normal stays from dusk to dawn", 7, "The burrow shakes beneath the hooves of steel\nAs rabbits freeze where once they used to play\nTheir soft ears twitching at a distant roar\nBefore the thunder swallows up the day\n\nA mole retreats from soil turned thick with red\nNo root remains within the churned-up ground\nThe warhorse's shadow casts a heavy dread\nWhere silence was the only thing profound\n\nAbove, the swallow dives too low to breathe\nThrough smoke that chokes the sky and stings the eye\nIt seeks a branch but finds a broken wreath\nAnd falls before it learns to say goodbye\n\nThe lark's sweet song is drowned by iron feet\nThat crush the grass and scatter seeds of fear\nThe field is stripped of all its gentle heat\nLeaving no trace of life or hope so dear\n\nNow nothing normal walks this scarred expanse\nJust ghosts of creatures lost to endless night\nThe rhythm of the march becomes a trance\nThat steals the morning from the fading light", 6, "The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread\nOf iron hooves that crush the quiet ground\nWhere rabbits once hid in the safety of their bed\nNow silence breaks as thunder rolls around\n\nA mole retreats from soil turned to ash and gray\nAs larks forget the songs they used to sing\nThe swallow dives to hide from disarray\nBeneath the weight of everything\n\nNo morning light can pierce this choking haze\nThat swallows up the breath of living things\nThe warhorse leaves a trail of endless days\nWhere nothing normal ever grows or clings\n\nThe earth remembers what it cannot hold\nOf gentle paws and wings that learned to fly\nNow broken by the stories left untold\nBeneath a dark and unforgiving sky", 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 and some are the nails,\nsome are the carpenters and some are the chairs,\nsome are the architects who draw the plans\nand some are the men who mix the mortar with their bare hands.\n\nSome are the bloodhounds that smell out the hare\nand some are the hares that run into the brake,\nsome are the fishermen that fish in the river\nand some are the fish that swim into the drake.\n\nSome are the priests that preach to the people\nand some are the people that listen to the priests,\nsome are the bishops that tell the priests what to say\nand some are the bishops that don't know what to say.\n\nSome are the kings that wear the crown\nand some are the kings that wear the gown,\nsome are the queens that wear the crown\nand some are the queens that wear the gown.\n\nSome are the masters that command the ship\nand some are the sailors that sail the ship,\nsome are the captains that command the ship\nand some are the captains that don't know how to sail the ship.\n\nSome are the doctors that cure the sick\nand some are the sick that are cured by the doctors,\nsome are the surgeons that operate on the sick\nand some are the surgeons that don't know how to operate on the sick.\n\nSome are the lawyers that defend the criminal\nand some are the criminals that are defended by the lawyers,\nsome are the judges that judge the criminal\nand some are the judges that don't know how to judge the criminal.\n\nSome are the teachers that teach the scholars\nand some are the scholars that are taught by the teachers,\nsome are the professors that teach the scholars\nand some are the professors that don't know how to teach the scholars.\n\nSome are the parents that bring up the children\nand some are the children that are brought up by the parents,\nsome are the mothers that bring up the children\nand some are the mothers that don't know how to bring up the children.\n\nSome are the fathers that bring up the children\nand some are the children that are brought up by the fathers,\nsome are the fathers that don't know how to bring up the children\nand some are the fathers that do know how to bring up the children.\n\nSome are the husbands that love the wives\nand some are the wives that are loved by the husbands,\nsome are the husbands that don't know how to love the wives\nand some are the husbands that do know how to love the wives.\n\nSome are the wives that love the husbands\nand some are the husbands that are loved by the wives,\nsome are the wives that don't know how to love the husbands\nand some are the wives that do know how to love the husbands.\n\nSome are the lovers that love the sweethearts\nand some are the sweethearts that are loved by the lovers,\nsome are the lovers that don't know how to love the sweethearts\nand some are the lovers that do know how to love the sweethearts.\n\nSome are the sweethearts that love the lovers\nand some are the lovers that are loved by the sweethearts,\nsome are the sweethearts that don't know how to love the lovers\nand some are the sweethearts that do know how to love the lovers.\n\nSome are the poets that write poems\nand some are the poems that are written by the poets,\nsome are the poets that don't know how to write poems\nand some are the poets that do know how to write poems.\n\nSome are the painters that paint pictures\nand some are the pictures that are painted by the painters,\nsome are the painters that don't know how to paint pictures\nand some are the painters that do know how to paint pictures.\n\nSome are the musicians that play music\nand some are the music that is played by the musicians,\nsome are the musicians that don't know how to play music\nand some are the musicians that do know how to play music.\n\nSome are the actors that act plays\nand some are the plays that are acted by the actors,\nsome are the actors that don't know how to act plays\nand some are the actors that do know how to act plays.\n\nSome are the dancers that dance dances\nand some are the dances that are danced by the dancers,\nsome are the dancers that don't know how to dance dances\nand some are the dancers that do know how to dance dances.\n\nSome are the singers that sing songs\nand some are the songs that are sung by the singers,\nsome are the singers that don't know how to sing songs\nand some are the singers that do know how to sing songs.\n\nSome are the preachers that preach sermons\nand some are the sermons that are preached by the preachers,\nsome are the preachers that don't know how to preach", 6, "Some are the stone that breaks the wave,\nstanding rigid while the tide recedes to show the muck and kelp,\nmeasuring the world in inches of granite and mortar,\nwhile others are the net that catches nothing but air,\ndragging through the deep with open hands for the silver flash.\n\nOne builds the dam to hold the river back until it is still as glass,\ncalculating the pressure on the concrete skin,\nthe other cuts the cord and lets the flood wash over the fields,\ndrinking the silt from the cupped palm, laughing at the drowned barns.\n\nThere is the tailor who stitches the wound shut with golden thread,\nignoring the fever rising under the silk,\nand the surgeon who slices the flesh to let the poison out,\nleaving the patient raw and bleeding in the cold light.\n\nOne paints the sunset to make it last forever on a canvas,\nfreezing the orange fire before it turns to ash,\nthe other climbs the mountain to watch it burn itself out,\nstanding in the cooling dark where only the stars remain.\n\nWe are the bridge and the gap, the anchor and the sail,\nthe one who counts the coins in the jar and the one who throws them to the gulls,\nthe hand that writes the law and the foot that kicks down the door,\nall spinning from the same center, pulling apart into different skies.", 5, "Some are built of iron and the heavy silence of the anvil,\nhammering the world into a shape that holds,\nwhile others are made of wind and the sudden fracture of glass,\nshattering the shape to let the light pour through.\n\nOne walks with a map drawn in blood on parchment skin,\ntracing the rigid lines of rivers that must not change course,\nthe other carries a compass that spins wild in the pocket,\nlost by design, seeking the magnetic north of a storm.\n\nThe first builds walls of stone to keep the chaos out,\nmoss growing soft on the mortar where the cracks appear,\nthe second digs tunnels beneath the roots of the city,\nbreathing air that smells of damp earth and forgotten seeds.\n\nThey meet at the market square where the scales tip neither way,\none offering a coin stamped with the face of a king,\nthe other offering a seed wrapped in a leaf from a tree that no longer grows.\n\nTo one, life is a fortress to be defended against the tide,\na calculation of tides and turrets and the weight of the gate,\nto the other, life is a raft to be untied and pushed off,\ndrifting toward the horizon where the water meets the sky without a seam.\n\nYet both feel the same cold when the winter wind cuts through,\nboth see the same moon hanging like a cracked mirror above,\nand in the quiet hour before dawn, the iron man hears the wind singing,\nand the wind child feels the solid ground holding fast beneath his feet.", 3, "The architect draws lines in chalk that vanish with the rain\nWhile the gardener lets the weeds decide where roots may grow again\nOne builds a tower to pierce the gray and hold the sky at bay\nThe other digs a cellar deep to keep the dark at play\n\nA clockwork heart ticks strictly loud against the silent stone\nA river bends around the rock it claims as its own home\nThe general maps the terrain where victory must be won\nThe poet wanders off the path to watch the setting sun\n\nThey speak in different tongues of glass, one sharp, one soft and clear\nTo measure out the distance from the present to the fear\nThe weaver pulls a thread of gold to stitch the torn apart\nThe sculptor breaks the marble down to find the beating heart\n\nNo single lens can capture how the shadow holds the light\nOr how the storm is born within the calmest, quiet night\nWe walk these parallel lines that twist and cross without a sound\nTwo halves of broken mirrors reflecting what cannot be found", 6, "The architect draws lines in dust to hold the sky,\nWhile the river laughs at walls it cannot see,\nOne builds a tower to touch the sun and dry,\nThe other carves a path beneath the tree.\n\nWe are the iron gate that never swings,\nAnd we are wind that slips through every crack,\nA thousand silent bells that ceaselessly rings,\nAgainst the hammer's heavy, rhythmic back.\n\nSome wear the armor forged from fear and doubt,\nTo keep the chaos from the inner room,\nWhile others walk without a single clot,\nAnd let the storm sweep through the empty loom.\n\nThe gardener prunes the branch to save the bloom,\nThe wild vine strangles logic with its green,\nOne seeks a pattern in the quiet gloom,\nThe other dances where no map has been.\n\nIt is not war between the left and right,\nBut tides that pull against the stubborn shore,\nThe candle fighting shadows in the night,\nThe ocean rising up to ask for more.\n\nTwo hands that shape the clay into a face,\nOr smash it down to start the cycle new,\nWe run the same unending, winding race,\nThrough different doors of old and familiar view.", 6, "The architect builds walls to keep the storm at bay\nWhile the gardener lets the roots run wild and free\nOne counts the bricks in rigid, measured arrays\nThe other watches how the ivy learns to be\n\nA captain steers through fog with iron will\nAnd charts a course that never bends or breaks\nThe sailor drifts on tides they cannot fill\nWith hands that tremble for the ocean's sake\n\nWe wear the masks of stone or woven thread\nTo hide the fractures running deep inside\nSome speak in codes that only kings have read\nWhile others let the silence be their guide\n\nThe clockwork heart beats loud against the chest\nOf those who fear the chaos of the night\nBut softest voices claim the quiet rest\nWhere shadows dance and blend into the light\n\nNo single path can hold the weight of all\nThat splits the sky between the dawn and dusk\nWe rise and fall within the same tall wall\nSome build the tower, some become the husk\n\nYet in the space where opposing currents meet\nA strange design begins to take its form\nThe hunter finds the prey beneath his feet\nAnd the lost bird returns to find the storm", 6, "The iron gate swings shut on silent hinges\nWhile glass walls reflect a fractured sky above\nOne hand holds the weight of ancient burdens down\nThe other reaches for a fleeting, fragile dove\n\nWe carve our names in stone that slowly erodes\nBeneath the rhythm of a storm we cannot name\nSome build their castles high on shifting tides\nWhile others dig deep roots to claim the flame\n\nA mirror splits the face into two halves\nWhere shadow dances with the light of day\nThe architect designs a path of straight lines\nAs wanderers lose themselves in winding ways\n\nSilence speaks louder than the words we trade\nIn rooms where echoes trap the breath inside\nThe keeper guards the door with weary eyes\nWhile keys are tossed to those who dare to hide\n\nNo single truth can hold the space between\nThe fire that burns and water that will rise\nWe walk the edge of cliffs both sharp and soft\nDefining life through paradox and lies\n\nTwo rivers merge but never truly blend\nCarrying secrets from a distant shore\nThe builder dreams of permanence and time\nThe ghost remembers what it fought before", 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.", "When I was a child I used to think the witch\nwas something outside, a monster in the woods,\nbut now that I am old I see she is inside,\nand she is me.\n\nI live alone with my memories, which are overwhelming;\nI am like a house full of people who have died,\nand it is very hard for me to get out of doors.\nBut I shall not be afraid.\nIt is better to be a witch and live alone\nthan to be an ordinary person and not know what one's life means.", 2, "I used to fear the woman in the woods\nwho wore a hat of twisted brambles\nand kept her secrets in a jar of pickled eyes,\nbut now the mirror shows me that same face,\nthe same wild hair unbound by combs or laws,\nliving alone where the moss eats the path away.\n\nThe memories are too heavy for one house,\nthey pile up like driftwood against the door,\nvoices of lovers long turned to dust,\nchildren who left and never wrote back,\nseasons that bled into seasons without end.\nIt is an overwhelming tide inside this small room,\nyet I do not open the window to let them out.\n\nLife feels like a dream I cannot wake from,\na fog that shifts shape when I reach for it,\nthe ground beneath my feet uncertain as mist,\nbut I choose to carry on with my broom and my jars.\nI will sweep the leaves and keep the silence,\nembrace the witch I once ran from,\nand wait for the dream to end or begin again.", 3, "I used to hide behind the kitchen door\nwhen you walked past with your crooked cane,\nbelieving your silence was a curse\nand that the smoke from your chimney\nwas the breath of something evil.\n\nNow the mirror shows me the same bent spine,\nthe same hands stained with earth and time,\nand I am the stranger in the woods\nyou feared so long ago.\n\nThe house is quiet except for the weight\nof memories that crowd the corners like dust motes\ndancing in a sunbeam that never quite reaches the floor.\nThey are overwhelming, these ghosts of laughter and loss,\nbut I have made peace with their company.\n\nLife feels like a dream where the rules shift\nbefore I can grasp them,\na fog rolling in off the sea of years.\nBut I will not run back to the warm light\nwhere children play safely in the yard.\n\nI choose this hermit's life, this heavy crown of hair,\nto carry on through the uncertainty,\nknowing that the magic was never in the fear,\nbut in the endurance of being alone\nwith everything that ever happened to me.", 2, "I used to fear the woman in the woods\nWith eyes like cracked obsidian and hands of knotted root\nWho whispered secrets to the wind and made the shadows bow\nA monster made of moonlight that I swore I'd never be\nBut time is not a straight road, it is a spiral stair\nAnd every step I took away from youth brought me back there\nThe silver now is tangled in my hair just as she said\nThe crows have learned my voice, the silence is my bed\nMy cottage holds no fire but the glow of old regrets\nA library of memories where nothing can forget\nThe laughter of a child who ran too fast to hear the rain\nThe taste of bread that vanished, the ghost of sudden pain\nIt is a heavy crown to wear, this hermit's quiet life\nTo sift through dreams that blur the line between the knife and cloth\nYet here I stand amidst the fog, the witch I once despised\nNo longer running from the dark but with the stars aligned\nFor though the world may shift like mist and logic lose its hold\nI choose to walk this winding path, brave and growing old\nTo carry all the broken things until they make a song\nAnd sing them to the empty air where I belong.", 5, "I used to fear the woman in the woods\nWith hair like storm clouds and eyes of rusted gold,\nWho whispered secrets that I could not understand\nAnd made my childhood heart beat fast with dread.\n\nNow mirror glass reflects a stranger's face\nWhere silver threads replace the dark I wore,\nAnd I have built a cottage from the silence\nThat once felt heavy as a closing door.\n\nThe memories arrive like tides too deep to fight\nA thousand summers drowning in the rain,\nEach ghost a story etched into the timber\nOf this quiet, solitary domain.\n\nThey call it madness, this embrace of shadows,\nThis choice to dwell where light refuses tread,\nBut here within the chaos of my mind\nI find a peace the busy world has fled.\n\nThe future is a fog that shifts and breaks\nLike dreams we cannot hold or make our own,\nYet still I brew the tea and tend the fire\nTo keep the cold from claiming all I've grown.\n\nSo let them whisper names they do not know\nAbout the crone who walks the edge of night,\nFor I am finally becoming what I feared\nAnd finding magic in the fading light.", 6, "I once ran from the cottage in the woods\nWhere shadows stretched too long and strange,\nFearing the woman with the crooked spine\nWho whispered secrets to the rain.\nShe was a monster in my storybooks,\nA warning carved in fearful lines,\nBut time has worn my skin so thin\nThat I am slowly turning hers.\n\nThe mirror shows a face I do not know,\nWith eyes that hold the weight of years,\nAnd hands that tremble with the ghosts\nOf every joy and silent tear.\nNo longer young enough to flee\nThe quiet pull of solitude,\nI find myself the hermit now,\nSurrounded by a crowded crowd.\n\nMy mind is full of memories too loud,\nA storm of faces lost to dust,\nEach one a spark that refuses out,\nEach breath a heavy, rising trust.\nThe world outside is soft and blurred,\nA dream where logic loses ground,\nYet here within this creaking room,\nI make my peace with being bound.\n\nSo let them call me witch or wise,\nOr name me what they cannot see,\nFor in this wild and winding maze,\nI choose to be exactly free.\nTo walk the path of uncertainty,\nTo carry all I cannot keep,\nAnd find a strange and sacred light\nWithin the dark before I sleep.", 5, "The mirror holds a face I used to fear\nA crone of shadows, sharp and deep and cold\nBut now I see the story written there\nOf all the secrets that the years have told\n\nI ran from tales of magic in the dark\nBelieving witchcraft meant a cruel design\nYet here I stand within the garden's mark\nWhere time has turned my heart to ancient pine\n\nNo longer child who sought a simple light\nI wear the cloak of solitude with grace\nEach memory a ghost that haunts the night\nA quiet war I fight in empty space\n\nThe world outside dissolves in mist and gray\nA dream where logic fades and senses blur\nI choose to stay despite the price we pay\nTo keep the flame alive beneath the stir\n\nLet others seek the sun and open doors\nWhile I embrace the silence of the stone\nFor every step across these creaking floors\nIs proof that I am never truly alone\n\nSo let the storm rage wild against the glass\nAnd weave the threads of what was lost before\nI am the witch who watched the seasons pass\nAnd found a home behind the locked door", 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 is a battering ram against the door,\nAnd I am the threshold trembling on its hinges;\nI know it will break in, and I know it will enter,\nBut I am the threshold and I must stand.\nIt is not for myself that I stand, but for the room,\nFor the flowers that are flowering in the room,\nAnd the light that is falling upon them.\nI am the threshold and I must stand.", 6, "The wind howls through the broken fence\nand tears at the sapling's tender green,\nbut the roots drink deep from the dark, wet earth\nwhile the storm rages and the sky turns mean.\n\nWe are not built to stand still in the calm\nwhen the tide pulls hard against the shore,\nbut to bend like the willow, to break like the wave,\nto find a new path when the old is no more.\n\nLet the thunder crash and the lightning flash,\nlet the walls crumble down to the dust,\nfor it is in the shaking, the breaking, the fear,\nthat we learn what we are made of, and must.\n\nSo step forward into the swirling gray,\ninto the noise and the clash and the fight,\nfor the flower that blooms in the shadow of war\nis the one that has learned how to shine with light.", 6, "The wind howls loud against the windowpane\nAnd shakes the roots of what we thought was deep\nYet in the shadow of the falling rain\nA single green and stubborn shoot will creep\n\nWe walk through fire to find a cooler air\nThrough walls of noise that scream for us to stop\nTo break the chains of old and heavy care\nAnd lift our eyes above the rising drop\n\nIt is not easy when the ground gives way\nOr when the path ahead is lost in fog\nBut we must choose to face the coming day\nAnd stand like stone within the swirling log\n\nFor growth demands the breaking of the shell\nAnd change requires the courage to let go\nEven when chaos rings its angry bell\nAnd storms arise to make the river flow\n\nSo let the thunder roll and lightning flash\nWe plant our feet upon the shifting sand\nTo build a future from the present crash\nWith steady hands and vision clear and grand", 7, "The wind howls sharp against the stone\nAnd tears at roots that hold it down\nYet in the dark beneath the bone\nA quiet green begins to crown\n\nWe do not run from storm or strife\nBut plant our feet within the mud\nTo carve a path through fractured life\nWith steady hands and silent blood\n\nFor growth is not a gentle stream\nThat flows without a single fight\nIt is the waking of the dream\nWithin the chaos of the night\n\nSo let the thunder shake the ground\nAnd let the old walls start to fall\nWe build anew where hope is found\nAnd rise above the crumbling wall", 7, "The wind howls loud against the open door\nAnd shakes the frame of what we thought was sure\nYet in the tremor, roots dig deeper still\nTo drink the rain that falls upon the hill\n\nWe walk through fire to find a cooler shade\nWhere broken promises are slowly remade\nEach step is heavy with the weight of doubt\nBut forward motion is the only way out\n\nThe storm may tear the branches from the tree\nBut strength is found in learning how to be\nFlexible enough to bend without the break\nA quiet heart that chooses not to quake\n\nSo let the chaos swirl and rage around\nWhile silence builds a new and solid ground\nFor growth is not a gift the calm bestows\nBut something forged where every river flows", 7, "The wind howls loud against the stone\nA voice that claims we stand alone\nYet in the cracks where shadows creep\nA quiet promise starts to seep\n\nWe do not break beneath the weight\nBut learn to bend and reshape fate\nEach scar becomes a map of light\nThat guides us through the darkest night\n\nTo rise is not to flee the fight\nBut hold our ground with steady sight\nFor every storm that tears the sky\nIs just the seed of something high\n\nSo let the chaos rage and roar\nWe build a door behind the war\nWith every step through mud and pain\nWe grow beyond the old refrain", 7, "The wind howls loud against the fragile wall\nWhere shadows stretch to swallow up the light\nYet in the cracks a single seed takes hold\nRefusing silence in the middle of the night\n\nEach step is heavy with the weight of doubt\nAs storms collide and tear the ground apart\nBut roots dig deep beneath the chaos now\nTo heal the fractures in a weary heart\n\nWe do not run from fire or rising tide\nInstead we stand and face the breaking wave\nFor strength is forged where broken things reside\nAnd courage blooms within the darkened grave\n\nSo let the thunder shake the trembling floor\nLet every fear attempt to steal our breath\nWe rise again to build a better door\nBeyond the edge of life and quiet death", 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.", "You know how I love you,\nhow the blood leaps in my veins\nwhen you smile at me;\nand if you cease to love me,\nI will cease to love you.\nIt is that simple and that intense.", 2, "Do you remember how the world dissolved\nWhen first your eyes met mine,\nHow every shadow fled before our fire\nAnd left us in a blinding light?\nThat was not a gentle spark, my love,\nBut a conflagration that consumed the air,\nLeaving nothing but ash and wonder.\nI tell you this to remind you of the depth,\nThe terrifying height of what we are.\nBut listen closely while the flame still burns:\nIf ever you should turn away,\nIf ever your heart should cool or cease its beating for me,\nThen instantly, as if by magic,\nMy love for you shall vanish too.\nIt is a mirror, clear and absolute;\nLook into it now with all your soul,\nFor if you break the glass, I shall be blind.", 6, "Do you remember how the fire burned\nBefore we ever spoke a word?\nHow every breath was just your name\nAnd silence felt like something wrong?\nThat love was not a gentle thing,\nIt was a storm that stripped the trees,\nA hunger that could eat the sun\nAnd leave the world in ashes.\nI gave you all I had to give,\nMy heart laid bare upon the stone,\nAnd if you turn away from me,\nIf you decide to walk alone,\nThen know this truth before you go:\nThe moment that your love expires,\nMine will vanish like a ghost,\nFor I cannot love what does not love.\nSo keep the flame or let it die,\nBut do not think that I will stay\nTo burn for nothing but the cold.", 6, "Remember how the fire burned between us,\nHow every breath we took was shared and wild,\nA love so deep it felt like drowning in the sun,\nWhere you were mine and I was yours, completely.\n\nBut know this truth as clearly as the dawn:\nThis flame that warms you now is fueled by you.\nIf ever you should turn your eyes away,\nOr let the cold creep in to kill the spark,\nThen I will not remain a lover here.\nMy heart will close its doors the moment yours do,\nAnd silence will replace the song we sang.\nI give my all while you are giving all,\nBut if you stop, then I shall stop as well.", 6, "The fire in my chest burns only for your name,\nA wild and ancient thing that knows no shame.\nI give you all the breath I have to spare,\nAnd weave a world where only we are there.\n\nBut hear this truth before the light grows dim,\nFor love is not a chain that holds on him.\nIf you should turn your gaze away from me,\nAnd let the coldness of your silence be,\nThen I will pull the curtain down so tight,\nAnd steal the sun to end our endless night.\n\nMy heart is yours as long as yours remains,\nBut breaks the moment it feels like chains.\nSo keep the flame alive within your eyes,\nOr watch the ocean dry beneath the skies.", 6, "The fire that burns between us now\nIs bright enough to blind the night,\nA sacred vow we made aloud\nTo keep our shadows from taking flight.\nI hold your heart as if it were\nThe only truth I've ever known,\nBut know this promise, sharp and clear:\nThis love is mine to call my own.\n\nIf you should turn and walk away,\nAnd let the cold wind steal your breath,\nThen all the warmth I gave today\nWill fade into a quiet death.\nDo not mistake my deep devotion\nFor something endless or unbound,\nFor when your love begins to vanish,\nMy own will leave without a sound.\n\nSo stay within this blazing space,\nOr watch the embers turn to gray,\nFor I can match your every pace,\nBut cannot love what slips away.", 7, "The fire we built burns bright and deep\nA promise only we can keep\nBut hear the words I softly say\nBefore the light begins to fade away\n\nIf you withdraw your tender hand\nAnd let our shared devotion stand\nThen I will turn my gaze aside\nWith nothing left for us to hide\n\nFor love is not a one-way stream\nIt lives within a waking dream\nIf you decide to walk alone\nI'll leave this heart of stone unknown\n\nNo lingering ghost, no silent plea\nJust quiet space where we used to be\nSo hold me close with all your might\nOr watch the sun give up the fight", 7], [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, the fist that knows\nthe thumb and four fingers separate,\nand the world is a grasping thing,\na hard or soft or wet or dry\nthing to be held.\n\nThen the eye, the bright lidless eye\nthat sees the sun and sees the moon\nand sees the dark and sees the light\nand sees the cat and sees the dog\nand sees the bird and sees the tree\nand sees the girl and sees the boy\nand sees the man and sees the woman\nand sees the father and sees the mother\nand sees the baby.\n\nAnd the words, the names of things,\nwhich are the anchors of the world:\nthe names of the colours too,\nred and blue and green and yellow,\nwhich are the anchors of life's beginnings\nand life's endings,\nbeginnings and endings", 2, "The small hand opens, fingers splayed like a star\nReaching for the cool smoothness of a stone,\nThe rough bark of an oak, the soft fur of a cat,\nLearning that the world is something to hold.\n\nThen the eye wakes up, wide and dark as a pool,\nDrinking in the green of the grass, the blue of the sky,\nSeeing how the light bends around a glass of water,\nHow shadows stretch long when the sun goes down.\n\nAnd words come floating in like birds on the wind,\nMama, Papa, Dog, Cat, Bird, Sky, Sun,\nAnchoring the chaos of feeling to names,\nSo that the beginning has a sound and the ending has a name.\n\nColours rush in too, red as a berry, yellow as a duck,\nGreen as the leaf that falls and turns brown and dies,\nWhite as the snow that covers the grave of the summer,\nBlack as the night that swallows the day.\n\nHand, eye, word, colour,\nThese are the four corners of the house we build\nBetween the first cry and the last breath,\nWhere we touch the earth, see the light,\nSpeak our truth, and paint our life.", 6, "The small hand reaches out to touch the rough bark,\nTo feel the pulse of life beneath the skin,\nA texture that anchors them to earth and dark,\nWhere beginnings start and endings might begin.\n\nThe eye opens wide to catch the morning light,\nAnd sees the world in shapes of green and gold,\nIt tracks the bird that takes its sudden flight,\nA story written for the young to hold.\n\nThen words arrive like birds upon a wire,\nTo name the tree, the sky, the falling rain,\nThey build a bridge across the vast desire,\nTo understand the joy and also pain.\n\nAnd colours mix to paint the morning's dawn,\nFrom deep blue night to sunrise burning red,\nThese are the threads that tie the self on,\nBetween the living and the quiet dead.\n\nSo hand and eye and word and colour weave,\nThe tapestry of life from first to last,\nA simple magic that they now believe,\nTo hold the present and remember past.", 7, "A small hand reaches out to grasp the air\nAnd finds the roughness of a wooden chair\nThe eye opens wide to catch the light\nThat turns the morning shadows into white\n\nWords arrive like birds that learn to sing\nTo name the things the fingers touch and bring\nRed for the apple, blue for the sky\nGreen for the grass where the ants go by\n\nThese colours anchor us to what we are\nFrom first breath drawn to the final star\nThe hand holds tight, the eye sees clear\nAs life begins and whispers end is near", 6, "A small hand reaches out to touch the air\nAnd finds the roughness of a wooden chair\nThe fingers trace the grain and learn the shape\nOf things that hold them in a quiet drape\n\nThen eyes unfold like petals in the sun\nTo watch the race between the day begun\nAnd shadows stretching long across the floor\nThat mark the time behind the garden door\n\nFrom lips come words that name the sky above\nThe heavy weight of love, the light of dove\nEach syllable a bridge from here to there\nTo build a world within a breath of care\n\nAnd colours bloom where grey was once the start\nA red balloon, a blue and beating heart\nThey anchor down the moments as they fly\nBetween the first cry and the final sigh\n\nSo hand and eye and voice begin to weave\nThe simple magic that we all receive\nTo know the end is just a turning page\nWithin the story of this early age", 7, "Small fingers trace the rough and smooth\nA map of dust where shadows move\nThe palm opens to catch the light\nThat turns the dark to sudden bright\n\nOne eye watches, wide and deep\nWhere promises are born to keep\nIt sees the red that marks the start\nAnd blue that mends a broken heart\n\nWords arrive like birds in flight\nTo name the day and calm the night\nThey weave a thread from first to last\nConnecting all that came before the past\n\nIn every hue and spoken sound\nThe child finds what they have found\nA bridge between the end and birth\nThat anchors them to this quiet earth", 7, "A tiny palm reaches out to touch the air\nWhere shadows dance and sunlight starts to bloom\nThe world unfolds in textures soft and rare\nAs wonder breaks through silence like a loom\n\nAn eye opens wide to catch the shifting hue\nOf morning gold and twilight's deep embrace\nIt learns to see the old and start anew\nIn every line drawn on this quiet space\n\nThen words take shape from breath and trembling sound\nTo name the things that rise and fall away\nThey bind the lost to ground they once have found\nAnd turn the dark into a gentle day\n\nFor colors hold the stories we inherit\nFrom first light fading into endless night\nA bridge between the joy and quiet spirit\nThat guides us through the beginning of our flight", 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", "We will join our lives like two rivers meeting,\nMaking one strong and beautiful union.\nTogether we shall decide where to go,\nWhat work to do, and what house to live in;\nAnd when we have decided, we will do it,\nAnd find love without worry.", 7, "We walked until the paths became one road,\nTwo separate streams that found a wider bed,\nAnd in the quiet merging of our load,\nWe left the scattered worries of the dead.\n\nNow every choice is cast by two distinct hands,\nA shared compass turning toward the light,\nNo longer drifting on uncertain sands,\nBut building strong foundations for the night.\n\nThe fear that used to whisper in the ear\nHas fallen silent as we lock our eyes,\nFor love without a shadow or a fear\nIs like a bird that takes the open skies.\n\nWe are the knot that holds the rope together,\nThe single voice that sings the same refrain,\nThrough calm and storm, in sunshine and in weather,\nWe walk the golden path of joy and gain.", 7, "Two rivers winding through the valley floor\nMeet at last to form a single stream,\nNo longer separate, no longer sore,\nBut flowing deep within one shared dream.\n\nWe stand together where the choices lie,\nAnd weigh the path before us with calm hands,\nBeneath the vast and untroubled sky,\nBuilding a fortress on these solid lands.\n\nThere is no shadow of a fear to break\nThe quiet rhythm of our daily life,\nNo wall we cannot climb or bridge to make,\nNo storm that can disturb our peaceful strife.\n\nFor in this union, strong and bright and true,\nWe find a love that knows no anxious care,\nA world made new because it starts with you,\nAnd every burden lightens when we share.", 7, "Two rivers meeting in the valley floor\nNo longer separate but one vast sea\nWe walk through open, unguarded doors\nWhere every fear dissolves into free\n\nThe morning light finds us side by side\nDeciding on the path we choose to take\nWith nothing left for doubt or pride\nJust quiet trust for our own sake\n\nA single heartbeat in a shared chest\nBuilding walls of love that cannot break\nPutting all our wandering souls to rest\nIn the safety that we both create\n\nNo shadow falls between us now\nAs hands intertwine and minds align\nWe make our promises without a vow\nThat time itself will not decline\n\nThis union strong as ancient stone\nIs built on joy we never have to guard\nA place where we are never alone\nAnd love is simply what we are", 7, "Two rivers meet where banks once stood apart\nAnd weave a single current through the heart\nNo longer separate streams of doubt and fear\nBut one deep flow that makes the path clear\n\nWe choose the road with hands held tight and true\nDeciding what is ours to build anew\nEach word we speak becomes a shared decree\nA quiet pact of boundless liberty\n\nThe shadows fade beneath our joined embrace\nAs worry loses all its former space\nIn every choice, in every step we take\nA stronger love begins to wake and break\n\nSo let us move as one against the tide\nWith nothing left for either to hide\nJust beauty rising from the merging ground\nWhere two become a peace without a sound", 7, "Two separate rivers find a single bed\nWhere currents weave a path ahead\nNo longer asking which way to turn\nBut watching how the embers burn\n\nWe choose the morning, we choose the night\nWith hands held tight against the light\nEvery step a shared decree\nBuilt on trust and certainty\n\nThe fear that once would hold us back\nDissolves within this gentle track\nFor in this space we've built as one\nThere is no race, no setting sun\n\nJust quiet strength in every word\nA promise kept, a song unheard\nTogether now, we stand so tall\nWithout a shadow, without a fall", 7, "Two rivers flow to meet the sea\nWhere separate paths become one key\nNo longer lost in fear or doubt\nBut anchored deep within this vow\n\nWe speak in silence, clear and true\nDeciding what we'll build anew\nEach choice a thread we weave with care\nA tapestry beyond compare\n\nThe weight of yesterday dissolves\nAs trust in every moment evolves\nHand in hand through storm and sun\nOur love has finally begun\n\nNo shadow falls on what we keep\nJust promises we softly reap\nTogether strong, together free\nIn perfect harmony to be", 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.", "I still remember the hawthorn tree\nUnder which you said to me\nThings I will never tell.\nThe woodbine and the wild thyme were blowing,\nAnd all the little birds were singing,\nBut I will never tell what you said.\n\nIt was in May-time, the sweetest time of year;\nI had been gathering strawberries in the morning;\nI had been gathering strawberries before breakfast;\nWhen I saw you under the hawthorn tree.\n\nYou looked at me, and I looked at you;\nAnd you came up to me, and took me by the hand;\nAnd you said to me things I will never tell.\n\nO, beautiful woodbine and wild thyme!\nO, sweet birds singing in the hawthorn tree!\nBut I will never tell what you said to me.", 2, "Beneath the hawthorn where the white blossoms fall\nLike snow that knows no winter, only spring,\nWe sat within the shadow of the wall\nOf green leaves whispering to everything.\nThe air was thick with honey and with bees,\nAnd sunlight filtered through the canopy,\nWhile in your eyes I saw the quiet seas\nThat held a depth too deep for you or me.\nYou leaned so close, the scent of pine and rain\nRose up between us, mixing with your breath,\nAnd spoke those words which now remain\nA secret from the sun and life and death.\nI heard them clear as bells, yet they are gone,\nLost in the rustle of the leaves alone.", 6, "The hawthorn bloomed in clouds of white and green\nBeneath the heavy, honeyed afternoon\nWhere sunlight fractured through the leafy screen\nAnd cast a dappled, shifting, golden noon.\n\nHe stood so close I felt the heat of him\nAgainst the rough and mossy, ancient bark\nA silence held within the summer hymn\nBefore the shadow of the branches dark.\n\nHis voice was low, a secret in the air\nThat wove itself around the rustling leaves\nToo intimate for any eye to share\nOr for the wandering, curious wind to weave.\n\nI will not tell you what he whispered then\nTo keep the magic safe from common sight\nThose words belong to me, and him, and when\nWe met beneath the hawthorn in the light.\n\nLet only birds and bees remember now\nThe way his breath mixed with the scent of thyme\nThe sacred vow we made without a bow\nWithin that quiet, wild, and holy time.", 6, "The hawthorn stood like a guardian of white lace,\nBeneath the soft and shifting afternoon light,\nWhere the air was thick with the scent of wild grass,\nAnd time seemed to pause in the quiet that passed.\n\nHe sat close enough for our shoulders to touch,\nWhile the world faded out into nothingness much,\nA shadowed embrace where the sunlight grew dim,\nAnd the rhythm of breathing became just a hymn.\n\nI remember the way that his voice fell so low,\nLike water that ripples through currents below,\nEach word was a secret he whispered with care,\nToo precious for wind or for strangers to bear.\n\nThey spoke of a future we dared not define,\nOf love that could bloom on a fragile design,\nBut I keep every syllable locked in my chest,\nA treasure too sacred to put to the test.\n\nNow years have rolled by and the branches are bare,\nYet I feel the cool shade of that ancient tree there,\nAnd though I recall how the moment felt true,\nThe words he said softly remain only mine, and you.", 6, "The hawthorn blooms in clouds of white\nAgainst the soft and fading light,\nWhere mossy roots hold fast the ground\nAnd silence is the only sound.\n\nI see your shadow lean so near,\nA sudden warmth against the fear,\nYour fingers tracing lines of bark\nThat glowed beneath the evening dark.\n\nYou spoke a language low and deep,\nA promise that you meant to keep,\nNo words I dare recall aloud\nTo break this sacred, quiet shroud.\n\nThe secrets hang upon the air,\nToo fragile for a common prayer,\nSo let the wind carry them far\nBeneath the watching, silver star.\n\nNow memory holds what lips released,\nA gentle ghost within the feast,\nOf how we stood where branches meet,\nAnd made the world feel incomplete.", 6, "The hawthorn blooms in clouds of white\nAgainst the fading afternoon,\nWhere shadows stretch and light turns soft\nTo weave a quiet, sacred tune.\n\nI trace the bark with memory's hand\nAnd feel the weight of seasons past,\nWhen you stood close beneath the boughs\nAnd time itself seemed built to last.\n\nYour voice was low, a rustling leaf\nThat spoke of things I cannot name,\nA language made of breath and trust\nThat left no mark but gentle flame.\n\nWe watched the river carve its path\nThrough valleys deep and wild and green,\nWhile secrets hung upon the air\nBetween the moss and ancient scene.\n\nWhat words you whispered to my ear\nAre locked within this silent chest,\nFor some truths bloom only in the dark\nAnd find their rest within the nest.\n\nNow petals fall like snow on grass\nAs twilight claims the forest floor,\nBut I will keep the promise safe\nBehind the garden's heavy door.", 6, "The hawthorn blooms in softest white\nAgainst the fading afternoon light\nWhere roots run deep and shadows creep\nAnd time forgets to count or keep\n\nYou stood so close, a silent grace\nWithin this quiet, sacred space\nYour hands found mine without a sound\nAs if the earth had turned around\n\nI trace the words you left behind\nA secret woven through the mind\nThey linger in the rustling air\nToo fragile for the world to bear\n\nNo name was called, no promise made\nJust memories that softly fade\nBeneath the branches, wild and free\nWe held a truth meant only for me\n\nThe wind now hums a gentle tune\nBeneath the moon's pale silver spoon\nBut what you whispered stays concealed\nA story only we have sealed", 7], [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 fall silently from the tree,\nOne by one, like soldiers dropping in war;\nThey do not make a sound as they fall,\nBut cover the fields with their bodies\nLike snowflakes covering the earth;\nIt is a vast, peaceful, and sorrowful silence.", 6, "One by one the green leaves turn to brown\nAnd drop without a whisper from the bough\nThe wind is still, the air is heavy now\nAs countless soldiers fall to the ground\n\nSilently they come down to the earth\nOne by one in their uniform of death\nNo drum beats loud, no trumpet gives them breath\nJust silence falling on the silent ground\n\nThey blanket all the fields like winter snow\nA vast and peaceful carpet white and deep\nWhere every soldier lies so still asleep\nBeneath the quiet weight of fallen snow\n\nIt is a sorrowful and silent sight\nTo see the leaves fall soft upon the grass\nAnd see the soldiers as the hours pass\nLying beneath the snow that covers light", 7, "A single leaf lets go its hold\nAnd drifts without a sound,\nThen another joins the falling gold\nUpon the frozen ground.\n\nNo wind disturbs the heavy air,\nNo branch is heard to creak,\nJust countless soldiers dropping there\nTo sleep and never speak.\n\nThey fall as snowflakes on the plain,\nIn silence deep and vast,\nA white and sorrowful refrain\nThat covers all at last.\n\nThe field is blanketed in white,\nSo peaceful and so still,\nWhere day turns into endless night\nBeneath a quiet hill.\n\nNo trumpet calls, no drums are beat,\nNo cry of pain is heard,\nJust leaves that make the earth complete\nLike words left unregretted.", 7, "The wind does not howl, it only sighs\nAs green turns gold and then to brown\nA single leaf lets go its hold\nAnd drifts without a sound down\n\nSo falls the soldier from the line\nOne by one into the dust\nNo trumpet breaks the heavy air\nNo drumbeat marks their sudden hush\n\nThey settle soft upon the mud\nLike snowflakes in a winter's grace\nA vast and white and silent sea\nThat covers every weary face\n\nThe field is deep with fallen things\nA carpet woven out of grief\nWhere peace is found in stillness deep\nBeyond the reach of loud relief\n\nThe earth holds fast the quiet weight\nOf those who gave their final breath\nWhile leaves and men lie side by side\nIn silence after death", 7, "A single leaf detaches from the bough\nAnd drifts down through the heavy air\nNo wind to guide its gentle bow\nJust gravity and silent prayer\n\nThen another follows in the wake\nOf those who fell before their time\nThe rustling green begins to break\nInto a rhythm, slow and grim\n\nOne by one they leave the branch above\nTo join the gathering on the ground\nA quiet rain of loss and love\nWhere no triumphant sound is found\n\nThey cover fields once torn by steel\nWith layers soft as winter snow\nA blanket made of what was real\nBefore the world could let them go\n\nThe silence grows so deep and wide\nIt swallows every cry and plea\nWhere countless fallen soldiers hide\nBeneath this leafy canopy\n\nNo thunder rolls, no cannons roar\nOnly the hush of earth at rest\nAs autumn claims the battlefield floor\nAnd lays the weary dead to chest\n\nSo peaceful now the landscape lies\nIn shades of brown and faded red\nUnderneath the vast and starless skies\nWhere all the living words are shed", 7, "A single leaf detaches from the bough\nAnd drifts down through the heavy air\nNo sound to mark the moment now\nAs another soul is stripped of care\n\nThe wind does not command the fall\nBut carries them in quiet rows\nOne by one they answer call\nTo where the silent river flows\n\nThey settle soft upon the ground\nA blanket woven out of red\nWhere life and loss are tightly bound\nBeneath a sky that hangs overhead\n\nNo trumpet breaks this hush of gray\nNo drumbeat marks the final breath\nJust leaves that fade and slip away\nTo rest within the arms of death\n\nThe field is white with falling grace\nThough crimson stains the soil below\nA peaceful, sorrowful embrace\nWhere all the weary spirits go\n\nThe trees stand bare against the light\nWhile soldiers sleep beneath the frost\nLost within the endless night\nBy every gentle leaf they're crossed", 7, "A single leaf lets go its hold\nAbove the ground where shadows creep\nNo thunder breaks the quiet air\nAs promises begin to sleep\n\nOne by one they drift away\nLike names erased from history's page\nThe crimson turns to dust and gray\nA silent, slow, and heavy cage\n\nThey cover fields in soft repose\nNot snow but flesh that knows no sound\nWhere once the marching rhythm rose\nNow only stillness can be found\n\nThe wind carries a whispered plea\nFor those who never made it home\nBeneath the weight of memory\nThe earth accepts them all alone\n\nSo falls the red, so falls the gold\nIn patterns drawn by loss and time\nA story told, a heart grown cold\nWithin this vast and hollow rhyme", 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 for your face, and I loved you for your voice,\nI loved you for the women that you were and were not;\nI loved you because you were you, better than any woman could be.\nI loved you because I loved you.\nI did not love you for anything good or bad in yourself,\nI did not love you because of your goodness, nor because of your badness.\nI did not love you because you were a doctor, or a typist, or a teacher,\nor because you were not these things.\nI did not love you because you were pretty, or because you were not pretty.\nI did not love you because you were my cousin, or because you were not my cousin.\nI did not love you because you were rich, or because you were poor.\nI did not love you because you were fat, or because you were thin.\nI did not love you because you were young, or because you were old.\nI did not love you because you were black, or because you were white.\nI did not love you because you were an American, or because you were not an American.\nI did not love you because you were a Catholic, or because you were not a Catholic.\nI did not love you because you were a Protestant, or because you were not a Protestant.\nI did not love you because you were a Jew, or because you were not a Jew.\nI did not love you because you were a Mohammedan, or because you were not a Mohammedan.\nI did not love you because you were a Buddhist, or because you were not a Buddhist.\nI did not love you because you were a Hindu, or because you were not a Hindu.\nI did not love you because you were a Parsee, or because you were not a Parsee.\nI did not love you because you were a Zoroastrian, or because you were not a Zoroastrian.\nI did not love you because you were a Confucian, or because you were not a Confucian.\nI did not love you because you were a Taoist, or because you were not a Taoist.\nI did not love you because you were a Shintoist, or because you were not a Shintoist.\nI did not love you because you were a Sikh, or because you were not a Sikh.\nI did not love you because you were a Jain, or because you were not a Jain.\nI did not love you because you were a Bahai, or because you were not a Bahai.\nI did not love you because you were a Mormon, or because you were not a Mormon.\nI did not love you because you were a Christian Scientist, or because you were not a Christian Scientist.\nI did not love you because you were a Unitarian, or because you were not a Unitarian.\nI did not love you because you were a Universalist, or because you were not a Universalist.\nI did not love you because you were a Quaker, or because you were not a Quaker.\nI did not love you because you were a Mennonite, or because you were not a Mennonite.\nI did not love you because you were a Baptist, or because you were not a Baptist.\nI did not love you because you were a Methodist, or because you were not a Methodist.\nI did not love you because you were a Presbyterian, or because you were not a Presbyterian.\nI did not love you because you were a Congregationalist, or because you were not a Congregationalist.\nI did not love you because you were a Episcopalian, or because you were not a Episcopalian.\nI did not love you because you were a Lutheran, or because you were not a Lutheran.\nI did not love you because you were a Calvinist, or because you were not a Calvinist.\nI did not love you because you were a Arminian, or because you were not a Arminian.\nI did not love you because you were a Pelagian, or because you were not a Pelagian.\nI did not love you because you were a Semi-Pelagian, or because you were not a Semi-Pelagian.\nI did not love you because you were a Socinian, or because you were not a Socinian.\nI did not love you because you were a Arian, or because you were not a Arian.\nI did not love you because you were a Eunomian, or because you were not a Eunomian.\nI did not love you because you were an Apollinarian, or because you were not an Apollinarian.\nI did not love you because you were a Nestorian, or because you were not a Nestorian.\nI did not love you because you", 2, "I loved you in the silence of the morning\nWhen the light was thin and gray,\nI loved you in the heavy noon of sorrow\nWhen the world seemed far away.\nI loved you with a quiet, steady patience,\nI loved you with a wild and sudden fear,\nI loved you when your laughter made me happy,\nI loved you when your eyes were filled with tears.\nI loved you as a father loves his daughter,\nI loved you as a brother loves his kin,\nI loved you as a stranger loves a stranger\nWho has let the hidden inner self come in.\nAnd now I wish that some one else may love you\nAs I have loved you all these many years;\nSome one who knows your heart and its deep treasure,\nSome one to dry your tears and calm your fears.\nI wish that he may love you as I loved you,\nWith all the depth and tenderness I knew,\nThat he may be as faithful as I tried to be,\nAnd find in loving you a life anew.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light\nWhen shadows still clung to the corners of your room,\nAnd I loved you when the noonday sun was bright,\nChasing away the dust and fear and gloom.\n\nI loved the way you walked across the floor,\nThe sound of laughter rising from your throat,\nThe way you'd pause beside an open door,\nAnd how you hummed a tune while making coats.\n\nI loved your anger sharp as winter rain,\nYour silence heavy as a falling stone,\nThe joy that washed away my old despair,\nThe comfort that you gave when I was alone.\n\nI loved you with a hunger and a thirst,\nWith every breath I drew and beat of heart,\nUntil the moment we were torn apart,\nI never knew that love could be so art.\n\nNow though I walk this path without your hand,\nMy memory holds the fire we once shared,\nBut for your sake, I wish you understand,\nThat someone else should care as much and care.\n\nMay he look at you with eyes as deep as mine,\nMay he cherish every flaw and every grace,\nMay he make you feel like stars align,\nAnd find in you his own beloved place.\n\nFor I have given all I ever had,\nA lifetime's worth of devotion true,\nAnd since my love can never make you glad,\nI pray another loves you just like I do.", 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 storm that raged against the window pane,\nAnd in the gentle rain that washed away the dust and stain.\n\nI loved you with a hunger that could never be sated whole,\nWith every beating rhythm of my solitary soul.\nI loved the way you laughed until your eyes began to weep,\nThe secrets that you whispered while the world was fast asleep.\n\nI loved you when you were distant, I loved you when you drew near,\nI loved the very essence of the person you held dear.\nMy love was not a fleeting spark that burns and turns to gray,\nBut a river carving canyons, finding its eternal way.\n\nNow though you walk a path where I am no longer seen,\nI wish for you a love as deep as any dream has been.\nMay someone hold you gently as I once did in my time,\nAnd offer up a devotion that is steady and sublime.\n\nMay they cherish every fragment of the heart you give them now,\nAnd keep their promise sacred like a solemn, holy vow.\nFor if my love could not remain to guide you through the night,\nLet another's burning passion be your everlasting light.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light\nWhen dust motes danced above the floor we swept\nI loved the way you laughed at nothing, bright\nAnd how your silence felt like words we kept\n\nI loved the storms that raged against the glass\nThe heavy days when hope began to fade\nI held your hand and watched the seasons pass\nAnd found my whole world in the shade you made\n\nI loved the scars upon your tender skin\nThe stories written deep within your eyes\nI loved the battles fought and lost within\nThe truth that rose beneath our common lies\n\nNow let another take this place I hold\nTo cherish every fragment of your soul\nMay they be gentle when the nights grow cold\nAnd make your broken pieces feel quite whole\n\nGo forth and find a love as fierce as mine\nThat waits for you through every shifting year\nA devotion that will never truly decline\nUntil the end of time is finally here", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light\nBefore the world had claimed its noisy place\nI loved the shadow that you cast at night\nThe gentle rhythm of your breathing space\n\nI loved the stories that you never spoke\nThe secrets hidden deep within your eyes\nI held the silence when the heart was broke\nAnd watched the color fade from summer skies\n\nMy hands have traced the map of all your fears\nMy voice has sung the lullabies you need\nThrough passing years and unshed, silent tears\nI planted every tender, fragile seed\n\nBut now I stand where distant paths diverge\nWith empty arms and memories to keep\nSo let another take this heavy charge\nAnd guard the dreams you promised while asleep\n\nMay someone love you with a fire so bright\nThat burns away the cold and lonely gray\nWho holds you through the long and endless night\nAnd loves you more than words can ever say\n\nFor though my time has passed and turned to dust\nIn every beat of mine your name remains\nI wish upon you nothing less than trust\nAnd love that heals the deepest, oldest pains", 7, "I held your name like water in my hands\nThrough seasons changing, cold and soft and gray\nI built a home within the quiet lands\nWhere only you could walk and stay to play\n\nMy love was not a storm that swept you through\nBut steady rain that fed the roots below\nA thousand small and tender things I do\nTo keep the fire of our memory aglow\n\nI loved the way you laughed against the night\nThe silence shared when words were hard to find\nI gave you all my light and every sight\nAnd left no shadow where we once entwined\n\nSo let another take this heavy heart\nThat beats with rhythm for a soul so true\nMay they offer what we used to start\nAnd wrap their arms around the same old view\n\nGo forth and be the one who loves you best\nAs I have loved you from the very start\nNo need to test the weight or put to rest\nThe gentle promise written in my art", 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.", "Under the green leaves of life\nunder the pink petals of love\nunder the white sheets of sexuality\nthe black root of death is growing.\n\nIt is the worm in the apple,\nthe stone in the shoe,\nthe fly in the ointment,\nthe blotch on the skin.\n\nIt is the tick-tock under the tick-tock\nof the clock;\nit is the beat-beat under the beat-beat\nof the heart.\n\nIt is the dirt under the fingernails\nand the grave under the earth.\n\nIt is the end under the beginning,\nthe dead under the living,\nthe no under the yes,\nthe night under the day.\n\nIt is the spider under the rose,\nthe snake under the grass,\nthe wolf under the sheep,\nthe devil under the angel.\n\nIt is the cancer under the beauty,\nthe leprosy under the skin,\nthe plague under the city,\nthe war under the peace.\n\nIt is the death under the birth,\nthe death under the life,\nthe death under the love,\nthe death under the sex.\n\nIt is the only thing that is not under anything:\nit is everything under which everything else is.\n\nAnd it will eat us all up.", 2, "Beneath the blush of the cheek, the pulse is a ticking clock\nmeasuring the slow retreat from the warm shore of the living.\nIn the deep tangle of lovers, where skin seeks to fuse with skin,\nthere is a cold finger tracing the spine of the future,\na whisper that says this warmth will turn to ash,\nthis hunger will starve, and this embrace will loosen its grip\nas the earth claims the softness it once held in its arms.\n\nWe build our castles on the sand of the moment,\nignoring the tide that waits just beyond the dunes,\nthe great white silence that erases footprints and towers alike.\nThe flower blooms in a frenzy of color and scent,\nunaware that its roots are already drinking from the grave,\nthat the very sap rising to burst the bud is the blood of decay.\n\nLove is a fever that burns itself out,\nsexuality a desperate attempt to cheat the void by making more life,\nbut the void is patient and vast.\nIt sleeps beneath the laughter, under the wine, inside the song.\nIt is the shadow that lengthens as the sun sets,\nuntil finally, when the last candle flickers and dies,\nit rises up from the floorboards, from the bed, from the heart,\nand swallows the light, the sound, and the memory of us all.", 5, "Beneath the blush of morning skin\nWhere blood runs warm and pulses quick,\nThe cold tide waits to seep within\nAnd turn the beating heart to brick.\n\nIn every kiss that tastes of wine,\nA shadow lingers on the tongue,\nThe final silence waiting fine\nFor when the song is left unsung.\n\nWe build our towers in the sand\nOf fleeting touch and burning breath,\nWhile underneath the shifting land\nThe quiet river flows to death.\n\nIt drinks the root before the bloom,\nIt hollows out the lover's chest,\nIt fills the empty, silent room\nAnd grants the weary body rest.\n\nNo wall can hold it back or bar,\nNo vow of love can make it cease,\nIt walks beneath the brightest star\nAnd claims the world into its peace.", 7, "The rose unfurls its velvet throat to drink the sun\nBut in the stem, a silent rot begins to run\nA secret gravity that pulls the bloom below\nWhere roots embrace the dark and let the light go slow\n\nYour hand against my skin feels warm and alive\nYet underneath the pulse, the marrow starts to drive\nA quiet clock that ticks within the hollow bone\nCounting down the seconds until flesh is turned to stone\n\nWe make our love a fortress built on breath and heat\nBut death waits in the shadows of the very street\nIt hides behind the smile, inside the lover's kiss\nThe final guest who arrives to end the party's bliss\n\nNo sanctuary found in passion or in prayer\nFor every heartbeat marks the space we do not share\nThe tide of life recedes to show the jagged shore\nWhere silence waits to claim us all forevermore", 6, "Beneath the skin where pulse and heat collide\nA quiet chill begins to slowly rise\nWe trace the map of lovers' hands and hide\nThe shadow waiting in their eyes\n\nThe kiss that seals a promise made in fire\nIs stained with ash from future, cold decay\nOur hunger feeds a slow, devouring pyre\nThat turns the breath to dust by end of day\n\nNo wall can hold the tide that waits below\nNo vow can stop the rot within the bone\nThe roots we plant are only seeds to grow\nInto the silence that claims all as own\n\nLove burns so bright it blinds us to the grave\nBut even stars must fade into the night\nWe dance above the open, gaping cave\nAnd feel the final pull before the light\n\nIt does not ask for permission or for plea\nIt simply is the ground beneath our feet\nThe only truth that sets the spirit free\nTo join the dark where nothing else competes", 7, "The pulse that drums against the wrist\nIs counting down a borrowed hour\nWhile lovers trace the skin so warm\nAnd build a fragile, breathing tower\n\nBeneath the touch of hungry hands\nA quiet cold begins to creep\nThe shadow waits within the blood\nWhere secrets of the grave lie deep\n\nWe kiss to push the silence back\nBut taste the iron on the tongue\nFor every spark of life we kindle\nIs fed by what has come undone\n\nThe bed becomes an open mouth\nThat swallows all the light we made\nNo vow can hold the tide at bay\nAs night erases every shade\n\nIn end, the heart beats out its last\nTo join the dust beneath the floor\nLeaving only empty space\nWhere love and longing were before", 6, "The pulse that drums beneath the skin\nIs counting down a final beat\nA shadow cast by light within\nWhere warmth and cold and silence meet\n\nWe build our towers out of breath\nAnd kiss with eyes that seek the end\nDancing on the edge of death\nWith promises we cannot bend\n\nThe lovers' touch, so fierce and deep\nCannot outrun the coming night\nAs secrets in the dark they keep\nReveal the fading of the light\n\nNo sanctuary holds us tight\nAgainst the tide that pulls away\nTo claim the day, to swallow night\nAnd turn the living into clay\n\nThe heart will break, the song will cease\nThe fire burns until it dies\nLeaving only hollow peace\nBeneath the vast and empty skies", 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 used to feel such relief when I killed them,\nstamping out those little brown running things\nthat came skittering across the kitchen floor\nat night in my childhood home.\nI thought they were dirty and evil\nand that it was right to kill them.\nBut now I think of all those little cockroaches\nI killed in my childhood home,\nand I am sorry for it.\nIt is murder.\nThey were only living the best they could.", 2, "I remember the sharp click of the magazine\nand the wet thud against the kitchen tile,\nthe way my mother would shout \"Got it!\"\nwith a voice full of triumph and relief.\nWe were so clean then, so safe in our white socks,\nwatching the dark shapes scuttle into the cracks\nonly to be crushed under the heel of order.\nIt felt like justice, like defending the fortress,\nlike removing a stain from the fabric of the world.\n\nBut now I see them differently, those small, armored lives,\nnot as invaders but as refugees from the heat,\nhuddled in the damp behind the refrigerator,\ndoing their best with what they had.\nThey were just trying to eat the crumbs we dropped,\ntrying to lay eggs in the warmth of the pipes,\ntrying to survive the cold night in a house that was not theirs.\nAnd we killed them for being there,\nfor having the nerve to exist in our presence.\n\nI wonder if they felt fear before the shoe came down,\nif they had mothers who loved them and children to feed.\nI wonder if they thought of us as monsters,\ngiants stomping through their cities without warning.\nIt seems less like pest control now and more like murder,\na massacre of tiny, desperate creatures\nwho only wanted to live the best they could\nin the only home they knew.", 2, "The kitchen tile was cold beneath my bare feet\nand the shadow scuttled fast across the grout,\na slick black heartbeat in the quiet dark.\nI remember the heavy thud of the slipper,\nthe satisfying crunch that made me stand tall,\nfeeling like a giant, a guardian of the clean,\nrelief washing over me as the twitching stopped.\n\nBut now the silence feels too loud and thin,\nand I wonder what it felt to be so small,\njust trying to find a crumb in the vastness of the floor,\ndrinking from a drop of condensation on the sink.\nThey were not monsters, just creatures doing their best,\nnavigating a world built for giants who slept all day.\n\nI see them now as tiny lives with urgent purposes,\nscavenging love in the scraps we threw away,\nand my childhood triumph tastes like ash and guilt.\nIt was murder, plain and simple, committed by a child\nwho did not know that life is life, no matter how low,\nor that every beating heart deserves to keep beating.", 2, "The click of the shoe against the tile\nbrought a sharp, clean silence to the kitchen air,\na momentary victory for the light,\nfor the order we demanded of our small world.\nI remember the thrill that rose in my chest,\nthe satisfaction of erasing the scuttling shadow,\nbelieving I was defending my home from an invasion,\nthat their dark bodies were enemies to be vanquished.\n\nBut now, years later, the memory shifts its weight,\nand the triumph feels heavy with a quiet shame.\nThey were not soldiers or invaders,\nbut tiny tenants seeking warmth and crumbs,\nliving the best they could in the cracks we made,\ndriven by the same ancient hunger that beats in us all.\nTo crush them so easily felt like justice then,\nbut it was only a lonely power,\na sudden end to a life that knew no malice.\n\nI see them now as neighbors I never greeted,\ncreatures simply trying to survive the night,\nand I wonder how many lives I ended\nwithout ever knowing their names or their stories.\nIt was murder, perhaps, in the smallest sense,\na violent interruption of a fragile existence,\nperformed by a child who thought she owned the floor,\nwho did not understand that every beating heart,\nno matter how small or strange, deserves to breathe.", 2, "The kitchen light hummed loud that summer night\nWhen I saw the shadow skitter on the tile\nA sudden crunch beneath my sneaker's heel\nAnd silence rushed to fill the empty space\nI felt a surge of victory, a clean relief\nThat one less monster prowled the darkened hall\n\nBut years have softened edges sharp with fear\nAnd now I see it differently in memory\nNot as a pest that needed to be slain\nBut as a life that sought only warmth and bread\nIt was not evil crawling on its feet\nJust hunger driving tiny legs along the floor\n\nWhat right did I possess to end a world\nSo small and frantic yet so fully alive?\nThey built their homes within our crumbling walls\nAnd raised their young where we had left our crumbs\nTo crush them down was murder dressed as care\nA violent act against the desperate few\n\nI wonder if they knew the weight of death\nOr if they simply lived until the blow\nWe called them filth to justify the kill\nIgnoring how they fought to stay alive\nNow every shadow on the linoleum\nReminds me of the lives I took for granted", 3, "The click of plastic against tile\nEchoed through the kitchen air,\nA sudden silence in the night\nWhere shadows used to flit and stare.\nI felt a wave of safety then,\nA clean and sterile victory,\nAs if I'd swept away the threat\nAnd set my small world finally free.\n\nBut years have softened hard resolve,\nThe memory shifts its heavy weight,\nTo see those tiny, frantic lives\nThat met their end behind the gate.\nThey were not monsters made of hate,\nJust scavengers seeking bread,\nSurviving on the crumbs we dropped,\nBy hunger and by instinct led.\n\nWhat right did I have to decide\nWho deserved to breathe and crawl?\nTo play the god with crushing force\nAgainst the smallest of them all.\nThey only wanted warmth and light,\nTo live within the cracks they knew,\nAnd now I mourn the quiet loss\nOf creatures doing what they do.\n\nThe relief has turned to hollow grief,\nA debt I cannot pay or clear,\nFor every life I thought was less\nWas precious just because it's here.\nWe kill the things we fear the most,\nWithout a thought for why they stay,\nAnd leave a stain upon the soul\nFor taking life another day.", 6, "The spray hissed loud against the kitchen tile\nA momentary peace, a quiet win\nI watched them fall beneath the heavy floor\nAnd felt the weight of safety settle in\n\nBut years have turned the silence into dust\nAnd questions rise where once there was no sound\nFor every life that ended in my hand\nWas just a shadow trying to be found\n\nThey sought the crumbs, the warmth, the dark retreat\nNo malice held within their tiny eyes\nJust instinct driving through the endless night\nWhile I played god beneath the morning skies\n\nWhat right did I to claim this sacred ground\nTo judge the worth of creatures small and old\nWhen survival is a story we all share\nAnd fear makes monsters out of hearts too cold\n\nNow shadows stretch across the empty space\nWhere something lived before the end began\nA quiet grief for lives I chose to take\nAgainst the gentle rhythm of the plan", 6], [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 is a tiger in the cage of my ribs,\nAnd I am a woman with a mind and a body;\nI can feel him coming up the stairs,\nI can feel his eyes on me when he comes into the room,\nI can feel the whole world wanting me.\nBut I am not for them.\nI am not for him.\nI am not to be had.\nI am not to be possessed.\nI can walk out of this room if I like.\nI can walk out of this house if I like.\nI can walk out of this country if I like.\nI can go where I please.\nI am free.", 2, "The blood sings a frantic, ancient tune\nbeneath the ribcage, a drum of want,\ncalling for the heat, the weight, the friction\nthat promises to dissolve the self into another.\nIt is a tide that pulls at the ankles,\na biological hunger that screams to be fed,\nto be filled, to be claimed by the heavy hand\nof some man who thinks he owns the sky\njust because he caught the moon in his net.\n\nBut I feel the pulse in my throat and I know it,\nI know the chemistry is a trick of the light,\na temporary fever that will break with sleep.\nI am not the vessel waiting to be poured into,\nI am the river that chooses its own bed.\nWhen the eyes darken with possession,\nwhen the hands reach out to make me property,\nI simply step back from the edge of the fire.\n\nI walk away with the wind in my hair\nand the silence of my own skin around me.\nLet them keep their frenzy and their biology,\ntheir desperate need to conquer and to hold.\nI am the one who walks, the one who leaves,\nthe one who cannot be possessed\nbecause I belong entirely to myself.", 2, "The blood hums a frantic rhythm in the veins\nA biological drumbeat calling for the touch,\nFor the heat of skin and the weight of another,\nYet she stands still while the world spins wild.\n\nShe feels the pull, the ancient gravity\nThat drags the moon to the tide and the moth to the flame,\nBut her hands are open, empty, and ready\nTo let go of any shadow that tries to hold them.\n\nLet him speak of destiny or deep belonging,\nLet him offer his name as a cage of gold;\nShe knows the difference between being wanted\nAnd being owned by the hunger of another.\n\nShe is the gatekeeper of her own flesh,\nThe captain of this trembling, living ship,\nWho can walk into the night without a backward glance,\nLeaving the frenzy behind on the shore.\n\nNo man has the right to claim the storm inside her,\nOr to map the contours of her will with his hands;\nShe is the fire that burns but cannot be captured,\nFree to leave, free to stay, entirely her own.", 5, "The blood sings a heavy, ancient song\nA rhythm of need that pulls at the bone\nWhere heat rises sharp and the senses grow loud\nIn the crowded dark where the wild things crowd\n\nHe reaches out with a hand made of want\nTo claim what he thinks is already his own\nBut she stands apart in the center of fire\nWith eyes like a storm that refuses to tire\n\nShe feels the pull of the primal design\nThe biology screaming to merge and align\nYet deep in her chest a quiet command\nCommands the chaos to still in her hand\n\nI am not a vessel for you to fill\nI am the mountain, the wind, and the hill\nMy body my own, my spirit unbound\nNo man can hold me unless I am found\n\nSo let him speak of the debt we must pay\nOf nights that belong to the break of the day\nShe turns on her heel and the frenzy dissolves\nInto the silence where only she evolves\n\nShe walks through the smoke of the burning desire\nUnburnt by the touch, untouched by the wire\nFree from the grasp, free from the chain\nWalking away through the rain and the pain", 6, "The pulse beats loud against the ribcage\na frantic drum of ancient need\ncalling for touch, for heat, for the surrender\nthat biology demands in the dark.\n\nHer skin remembers every shadow\nevery hand that sought to claim her name\nas if she were a territory to be mapped\nand conquered by the weight of want.\n\nBut she stands firm in the center of the storm\nwhere instinct screams to open wide\nto let the tide pull her under\ninto the soft, suffocating deep.\n\nShe feels the hunger rise like smoke\nthe heavy gravity of another's gaze\nyet her feet remain planted on the earth\nunmoved by the promise of possession.\n\nLet him offer his world, his fire, his chains\nshe knows the shape of her own freedom\nmore precious than any love that binds\nmore vital than the breath he tries to steal.\n\nWith a quiet turn and a steady step\nshe walks away from the altar of desire\nleaving the frenzy behind in the dust\nwhole and unowned, entirely her own.", 6, "The pulse beats loud against the ribcage\nA primal drum calling for the hunt\nBut she is not the prey to be taken\nNor the prize waiting on a shelf\n\nHer skin hums with electric heat\nYet her mind remains a fortress wall\nShe feels the gravity of want\nBut chooses to stand apart from it all\n\nHe reaches out with hungry hands\nExpecting her to fall into his grip\nShe turns away, a quiet storm\nWith nothing left for him to hold or keep\n\nNo chain can bind the wind that blows\nNo voice can claim what she defines\nShe walks through fire without burning\nLeaving only shadows in her lines\n\nThe biology may scream and pull\nThe heart may race within the chest\nBut power lives in the choice to leave\nAnd rest in her own unbroken nest", 6, "The pulse beneath her skin is loud\nA rhythm made of want and need\nYet in the chaos of the crowd\nShe plants a solitary seed\n\nHe reaches out to claim her name\nTo weave his shadow through her light\nBut she remains within the flame\nUnbound by hunger or by night\n\nHer breath may catch, her heart may race\nAt all the things they cannot say\nBut power lives in empty space\nWhere freedom guards the edge of day\n\nNo hand can hold what she decides\nNo promise made to keep her close\nThe tide that pulls inside abides\nThen breaks against her quiet choice\n\nShe turns away from open arms\nFrom stories written in the dust\nRefusing all the ancient charms\nThat bind the spirit in its trust\n\nA queen who walks without a chain\nThrough forests thick with longing's heat\nShe owns the joy, she owns the pain\nAnd stands complete where two worlds meet", 7], [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 not yet seen what it is to die,\nAnd I am curious about it.\nI suppose it is a little like being dead,\nBut I do not know.\nIt would be interesting to find out.\nI am dutifully going to meet him in the spring.\nI will go to see death in the spring.", 2, "I have been curious about the end\nAs one is curious of a distant land\nOr a strange language spoken by a friend,\nWondering what the silence understands.\nIs it a sleep where no dreams intervene?\nA blankness like the winter's empty field?\nOr something bright and new that I have seen\nBut cannot now remember or reveal?\nI do not fear to meet him in the spring,\nFor though he comes to take me from my place,\nHe brings with him the song of every bird\nAnd all the blossoms on the apple tree.\nIt is a duty to be gone when called,\nTo leave the room when the host bids you go,\nAnd so I wait for him who must be tall\nAnd dark, but brings the light of spring to show.\nI am ready now to close my eyes\nAnd see if death is really as he seems;\nPerhaps he is the morning sunrise\nThat breaks upon the edge of all our dreams.", 7, "The winter has been long and sharp within my bones,\nYet now the sap begins to rise in ancient trees,\nAnd I feel a strange pull toward the open door,\nNot with a shudder of the cold or fear,\nBut with a quiet curiosity about the dark.\nWhat lies beyond the veil of breath and blood?\nIs it a silence like the snow, or something warm?\nI wonder how the soul unspools from flesh,\nAs roots release their grip on frozen ground.\nIt is my duty now to meet this guest,\nWho waits so patiently beneath the green.\nThe daffodils are pushing through the loam,\nA signal that the time for going home has come.\nI will not fight the turning of the wheel,\nNor curse the season that demands my end.\nInstead, I walk into the blooming air,\nTo greet the spring as one who finally knows\nThat dying is just another kind of birth.", 6, "The winter in my bones has finally ceased\nTo ache with cold, and now I feel the thaw\nThat signals not a healing, but release\nFrom every breath that struggles through the law.\nI wonder what it is to simply stop,\nTo let the heart forget its rhythmic drum,\nAnd watch the final curtain softly drop\nBefore the light of day begins to come.\nThere is no fear within this quiet space,\nOnly a strange and gentle curiosity\nAbout the silence waiting in this place,\nAnd how the soul will learn to float so free.\nThe sap is rising in the maple tree,\nThe crocus breaks the frost with purple head,\nAnd so I wait for death as one waits for me\nTo walk among the flowers where they spread.\nIt is my duty now to meet the spring,\nTo lay my heavy coat upon the grass,\nAnd listen to the birds begin to sing\nAs I let go of all I thought would last.\nNo struggle now, no turning from the door,\nBut walking out to greet the coming green,\nTo find the peace I never knew before\nIn fields where life and ending are unseen.", 7, "The winter in my bones has turned to dust\nAnd I have watched the frost retreat from grass\nNo longer fearing what must come to us\nBut wondering how the final hours pass\n\nIs it a silence soft as falling snow\nOr like a river rushing to the sea\nA gentle letting go of all we know\nTo find a strange and quiet liberty\n\nI do not fight the shadow on the wall\nNor beg for days that never will return\nFor even when the strongest embers fall\nThe fire knows exactly where to burn\n\nSo let me meet you when the buds unfold\nWhen green returns to reclaim the barren ground\nI walk toward the story yet untold\nWith peace within the heart I have found", 7, "The winter cracks beneath my feet\nA quiet shift I cannot fight\nI wonder what the silence tastes\nWhen all the light has lost its bite\n\nNo fear remains to hold me back\nJust questions spinning in the air\nIs it a door or just a track\nThat leads to somewhere strange and fair\n\nThe sap begins to rise again\nA green reminder of the end\nI bow my head to nature's plan\nAnd trust the path that I must tread\n\nSo let the blossoms break the frost\nAs I prepare to make my way\nTo meet the spring I loved the most\nOn this final, gentle day", 6, "The frost begins to lift away\nFrom fields I once called home\nA quiet whisper in the air\nWhere seeds of silence roam\n\nI wonder what it feels like now\nTo let the breath depart\nNot fear, but simple questions drawn\nWithin a weary heart\n\nWill light dissolve into the dark\nOr bloom as morning dew\nI watch the buds begin to break\nAnd find a path for you\n\nNo struggle holds my spirit tight\nAgainst the coming tide\nFor spring demands its final price\nWith nowhere left to hide\n\nSo I extend my open hand\nTo greet the end so near\nAccepting all the earth has planned\nWithout a single tear\n\nThe season turns to meet my soul\nAs life gives up its hold\nA gentle story softly told\nBefore the days grow old", 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 soft rain that falls on the thistle\nand makes it grow,\nI am the hail that beats down on the corn\nand kills it.\n\nI am the gentle wind that cools the brow of the fevered child,\nI am the hurricane that rips up his house by the roots\nand drowns him.\n\nI am the mother-bear who licks her cub into health and life,\nI am the tiger-mother who eats her cubs to save herself\nfor more.\n\nI am the water that is soft enough to wear away a mountain\nby dripping on it for a thousand years,\nI am the water that is hard enough to cut through iron\nwith a jet of mine.\n\nI am the air that you breathe in to live,\nI am the air that I blow in your face to kill you.\n\nIt is all one nature,\none essential substance,\nthat is at once tender and tough;\nit is my nature to give life and to take life,\nbecause I am Nature.", 2, "I am the rain that fills the cupped hands of the thirsty\nand the flood that swallows the valley whole.\nI am the gentle warmth that wakes the sleeping seed\nand the frost that freezes the root in its dark bed.\n\nMy touch is a whisper that coaxes the flower to bloom,\nmy grip is an iron vice that crushes the bone.\nI cradle the newborn with a breath like silk,\nI drag the dying down with a weight like lead.\n\nDo not mistake my softness for weakness,\nfor I am the velvet glove hiding the fist.\nDo not fear my hardness for cruelty,\nfor I am the steel wall protecting the hearth.\n\nThe same river that waters the orchard\nis the same river that drowns the village.\nThe same fire that cooks the bread\nis the same fire that burns the house.\n\nI am the life-giver and the life-taker,\nthe mother and the reaper,\nwoven from the same thread,\nborn of the same essential nature.", 6, "I am the rain that cracks the drought,\nThe gentle hand that lifts the seed,\nYet I am also the flood's dark mouth\nThat swallows root and ancient deed.\n\nMy touch can heal a broken bone,\nA whisper soft as falling snow,\nBut in my grip, the iron tone\nCan crush the stone to dust below.\n\nI hold the spring within my palm,\nWhere life begins its tender dance,\nI wield the storm, the violent calm,\nThat ends the world in one wild glance.\n\nDo not mistake the velvet skin\nFor weakness in my core of fire,\nFor deep beneath the light I spin,\nThe cold and necessary pyre.\n\nI am the cradle and the grave,\nThe nurse who sings, the reaper's scythe,\nFrom my soft heart, the strong waves wave,\nTo save the weak and end the myth.\n\nOne breath I give, the next I take,\nNo contradiction in my art,\nIt is the mercy that we make,\nThat breaks the hardest human heart.", 6, "I am the rain that breaks the drought\nand fills the hollows of the root,\na gentle hand that lifts the sprout\ntoward the light and bitter fruit.\n\nYet I am also winter's bite,\nthe frost that seals the sleeping seed,\nthe silent, cold and endless night\nthat strips the world of every need.\n\nMy touch can heal a broken bone\nor shatter stone with quiet grace,\nfor in my veins the seeds are sown\nof both the smile and empty space.\n\nThe river feeds the thirsty plain\nthen floods the valley, wide and deep,\ncarrying life within its train\nwhile dragging down the things it keep.\n\nNo war exists between the two,\nno split in nature's single thread,\nthe softness makes the hard work true,\nthe toughness guards the life we bred.\n\nI hold the cradle and the grave,\nthe breath that starts and ends the song,\nboth tender as a leaf and brave\nenough to make the strong grow wrong.", 6, "I am the rain that breaks the drought\nAnd floods the valley to its brim,\nThe gentle hand that plants the sprout\nThat drinks the water from my limb.\n\nI hold the seed within my palm\nWith warmth that coaxes life to start,\nYet in the same unyielding calm\nI crush the heart and still the heart.\n\nMy touch is soft as morning mist\nAgainst the cheek of newborn air,\nBut when the winter shadows kiss,\nI freeze the breath and strip it bare.\n\nA river sings a lullaby\nBefore it drags the stone beneath,\nWhere seeds of future forests lie\nBeneath the weight of sudden death.\n\nTo build the world requires the tear\nThat washes clean the ancient dust,\nTo end the cycle, I must shear\nThe golden stalks back to the rust.\n\nOne breath sustains, one ends the song,\nTwo truths woven in a single thread,\nI am where the weak belong\nAnd where the strong are left for dead.", 6, "I am the rain that breaks the drought\nAnd turns the barren dust to green\nYet in my fall, I drown the root\nWhere fragile life has barely been\n\nMy touch is soft as morning mist\nThat cools the fever on your skin\nBut I can carve the stone to sand\nWith patience worn and deep within\n\nThe river feeds the thirsty fields\nThen swells to wash the banks away\nA gentle hand that holds you close\nBefore it pulls you out of day\n\nNo war between the two exists\nFor growth demands a price to pay\nThe same deep current brings the bloom\nAnd drags the withered leaves to gray\n\nSo do not fear the storm's embrace\nNor pray for silence in the air\nFor I am both the cradle warm\nAnd winter's cold and hollow stare", 7, "I am the rain that feeds the thirsty root\nAnd floods the valley with a drowning tide\nA gentle hand that lifts the broken soul\nWhile silence swallows those who cannot hide\n\nThe storm arrives to break the rigid stone\nYet washes seeds into the waiting earth\nIt tears the old to make the new begin\nA cycle born of both rebirth and death\n\nNo single note can hold this dual song\nWhere mercy meets the edge of sharp decay\nTo nurture life is also to let go\nAs light gives way to shadows of the day\n\nSo stand within the space where opposites align\nSoft as a whisper, hard as winter's bone\nFor in my heart, the garden and the grave\nAre woven tight beneath the same unknown", 6], [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, which pencil should I use to draw thee?\nThe hard one that makes the lines look like a skeleton?\nOr the soft one that makes them look like flesh?\nOr the lead-pencil that makes them look like both?\nFor if I use the hard one, I shall make thee look like a skeleton,\nAnd if I use the soft one, I shall make thee look like flesh,\nAnd if I use the lead-pencil, I shall make thee look like both.\nBut which is it thou wouldst have me use?", 2, "Which lead shall I employ, my fair Ophelia?\nThis soft black graphite for the shadow of your eye,\nOr this charcoal that smudges like a bruise upon the cheek?\nShall I use the blue to paint the melancholy of your dress,\nOr the red pencil that looks too much like blood?\nI have here a silver point to mimic the moonlight on your hair,\nBut it is so brittle, and you are so fragile.\nTell me, sweet lady, which instrument of mine\nShall best capture the ruin of your beauty?\nFor if I choose the wrong one, I fear I shall draw you dead.", 3, "Ophelia, tell me true,\nWhich graphite shall I choose for you?\nThe softest lead to shade your hair,\nOr sharp and hard to trace the air?\nThis one is dark as Yorick's bone,\nThat one is pale as winter stone.\nShall I use charcoal rough and deep,\nTo make the shadows of your sleep?\nOr perhaps a blue that mimics sea,\nTo capture how your eyes look at me?\nDecide, my love, before I start,\nFor every line must come from heart.", 6, "My lady, pause your breathing for a breath\nAnd tell me which of these dull sticks of lead\nShall trace the sorrow in your eyes or light?\nIs it this soft and smudgy charcoal grey\nTo mimic shadows that my father wears,\nOr this sharp graphite, cold as winter ice,\nThat cuts too deep before I even start?\nThe yellow one is bright like morning sun\nBut you are not a dawn I wish to wake,\nSo shall I choose the blue, the color of\nThe sea where all my reason drowned away?\nDecide, Ophelia, lest my hand grow still\nAnd leave your face unfinished on the page.", 3, "The light is dim within this stone-walled room\nAnd shadows dance like ghosts I cannot name\nMy hand is steady, yet my heart is numb\nAs ink and graphite wait to bear the blame\nOphelia, tell me which of these to choose\nThis softest charcoal that will smudge your skin\nOr hard lead lines that make the features freeze\nBefore the madness can begin again\nShall I use silverpoint for pale repose?\nOr black as night to match the grief I keep?\nThe world is gray, a canvas full of woes\nWhere even memory is too faint to sleep\nSo speak, dear maid, before the sun descends\nWhich tool shall capture what the eye defends?", 6, "The charcoal smudges on my thumb\nA dark and heavy shade\nWhile silver graphite waits to hum\nIn shadows softly laid\n\nWhich lead shall trace your gentle face?\nThe soft or sharp and deep?\nTo catch the light within this space\nBefore I fall asleep\n\nIs it the blue that mimics rain?\nOr black as midnight's sigh?\nTell me, Ophelia, through the pain\nWhich stroke should make you fly\n\nI hold them all in trembling hands\nAnd fear to choose the wrong\nFor every mark upon these lands\nCould silence out our song", 6, "The graphite dust hangs in the air\nBetween the castle and the sea\nI hold a lead of charcoal gray\nAnd wonder if it suits your face\n\nOphelia, tell me now\nWhich shade can capture all you are\nThe silver soft or dark and deep\nBefore the water pulls us far\n\nA broken tip, a trembling hand\nAs I try to sketch your smile\nIs this the line that holds your name\nOr just another fleeting mile\n\nChoose for me, my quiet muse\nLet every stroke find its place\nFor in this drawing made of doubt\nI seek your light within the space", 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 big door opened and I went in\nAnd everybody else was bigger than me.\nI did not know anybody.\nNobody knew me.\nThey were all in little groups already,\nLaughing and playing with toys that I had never seen before.\nI stood by the wall and looked at my shoes.\nI wanted to belong somewhere but I did not know where.\nSome of them looked at me and laughed.\nI wanted to go home.\nI sat down on the floor and cried.\nThen a little girl came up to me.\nShe said, \"What is your name?\"\nI said, \"John.\"\nShe said, \"I am Mary. Do you want to play with me?\"\nI said, \"Yes.\"\nSo we played together.\nI was glad to be there.", 2, "The big yellow bus smells like old rubber and rain\nAnd the doors hiss open to a world of loud noise\nMy mother lets go of my hand at the gate\nAnd I am left standing with a small red backpack\nThat feels too heavy for my shoulders.\n\nInside, the room is a jungle of bright colors\nWhere chairs are too high and tables are too wide\nAnd every child seems to know a secret language\nOf running games and shouting names\nWhile I stand by the door holding my shoes tight.\n\nA boy with sticky fingers asks me what I want\nTo build with blocks or paint with watercolors\nBut I do not understand the rules of this place\nOr how to be one of them without breaking something.\nI look for my mother in the window but she is gone.\n\nI sit on the floor and trace the pattern of the rug\nWondering if everyone else feels so small here\nIf they all have a secret wish to go home\nOr if only I am waiting for the bell to ring\nSo I can run out and find my way back to her.", 2, "The door is too big and the floor is too bright\nAnd everyone speaks in a language of noise\nI hold my small bag with a grip like a vice\nWhile giants rush past in a blur of loud toys\n\nThe walls seem to lean in to whisper and stare\nAt the shoes that are wrong and the shirt that is tight\nI shrink in the corner where shadows are rare\nAnd wait for the sun to turn into night\n\nMy tummy feels full of a fluttering bird\nThat beats against ribs with a panic so deep\nI want to go home to the place I have heard\nWhere the quiet is safe and the monsters can sleep\n\nBut no one comes looking, no hand reaches out\nTo pull me away from this strange, noisy sea\nI watch them all laughing and playing without\nAnd wonder if anyone wants me to be\n\nPart of their circle, part of their game\nPart of the shouting, the running, the fun\nI stand in the doorway and softly say name\nOf someone who knows me, before they are done\n\nThen a small voice says \"Hi\" and offers a block\nAnd points to a puzzle that needs to be made\nI look at the face and I feel in my sock\nA warmth spreading slowly, a shadow decayed\n\nMaybe the giants are not so very tall\nMaybe the noise is just friends being loud\nI take the blue piece and I answer the call\nAnd step from the edge into the middle of crowd", 3, "The hallway stretches long and loud\nWith shoes that squeak and voices proud\nI hold my mother's hand so tight\nAnd watch the morning swallow light\n\nThe room is full of painted walls\nWhere giant letters seem to call\nBut I am small and lost inside\nWith nowhere left for me to hide\n\nThey share their toys in pairs of two\nWhile I just stand and watch them do\nA circle forms, a game begins\nWithout a place for where I am within\n\nMy heart beats fast against my chest\nAs if it knows I'm not at rest\nI want to laugh, I want to play\nBut fear has locked the words away\n\nI look for someone who looks like me\nSomeone who knows what I should be\nTo find a friend, to find a start\nAnd finally belong inside this heart", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and strange\nWith painted floors that feel so loud\nI clutch my bag with trembling hands\nAnd try to hide inside the crowd\n\nThe voices rise like sudden rain\nA language I have not yet learned\nEach smiling face a foreign land\nWhere every lesson goes unturned\n\nI watch them play in groups of three\nWhile I stand frozen by the door\nWondering if they see me too\nOr if I'm just a ghost, no more\n\nThe clock ticks slow on yellow walls\nAs shadows stretch across the room\nI wish for home, for quiet streets\nTo chase away this heavy gloom\n\nBut then a small hand reaches out\nAnd offers up a crayon blue\nA simple bridge across the space\nThat pulls me gently into view\n\nPerhaps I am not lost at all\nJust learning how to find my place\nWithin this maze of new beginnings\nAnd time, and space, and growing grace", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and strange\nWith colors that do not belong\nA sea of voices, loud and large\nWhere I feel small and out of song\n\nMy shoes are tight against the floor\nAs hands reach out to find a friend\nBut every smile feels like a door\nThat closes before it can begin\n\nI clutch my bag with trembling grip\nAnd watch the others run and play\nThey speak a language on their lips\nThat keeps the quiet far away\n\nI wonder if they see me here\nOr just a shadow in the light\nLonging for a home so dear\nWithin this unfamiliar night\n\nOne step at a time I tread\nThrough echoes of a brand new day\nHoping that by end of red\nThe world will let me finally stay", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and cold\nA maze of noise I cannot hold\nMy shoes feel heavy on the floor\nBehind a locked and distant door\n\nI watch the others laugh and play\nWhile shadows steal the light of day\nEach face is strange, each voice unknown\nLeaving me to stand alone\n\nThe teacher speaks in words so fast\nThat echo from the past too vast\nI reach a hand but find no friend\nJust silence where the stories end\n\nA quiet wish begins to grow\nTo learn the things I do not know\nTo trade this fear for something new\nAnd find a place that feels like true\n\nSo step by step through doubt and dread\nI walk ahead with trembling head\nHoping one day I will see\nThe child who belongs inside of me", 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 upon the hill and watched the sheep,\nAnd when the wolf came down to steal his lambs,\nHe took a stick and killed the wolf.\nThis was not strength; for he had no sword.\nBut when the smithy made him a sword,\nAnd he went out and killed ten wolves with it,\nThis was not strength; for any strong man could have done that.\nBut when he was King, and there were no more wolves,\nAnd he gave all the money of the kingdom to the poor,\nAnd the people loved him, and he was good to them,\nThis was goodness of heart; and this was strength.\nAnd when the sword was broken, and he took it to the smithy,\nAnd the smithy said he could not mend it,\nBecause it was broken in two places,\nAnd he said, \"Yes you can;\"\nAnd the smithy said, \"No I cannot;\"\nAnd he said, \"Yes you can;\"\nAnd the smithy mended it, and it was as good as new,\nThis was reforging of a broken sword.\nAnd this was destiny.", 2, "He walked among the lowly in a cloak of gray,\nWith calloused hands and eyes that knew the way\nOf simple toil, yet hid a royal spark,\nA hidden king who waited in the dark.\nNo crown of gold could show his truest worth,\nNor scepter made of silver on the earth,\nFor strength is not the muscle of the arm,\nBut quiet power that can keep the calm\nWhen chaos strikes; and goodness of the heart\nIs worth more than a kingdom's noble part.\nOne day a broken sword was brought to him,\nA jagged relic from a time of grim\nDefeat, where hope had shattered like the steel.\nThe people cried, \"Can this be made to feel\nAgain its edge?\" The hidden king took hold\nThe fragments of the weapon, brave and bold.\nHe did not use a magic spell or art,\nBut with a hammer struck with steady heart,\nAnd in the fire he saw the metal glow,\nReforging it until the blade shone so\nBright that the shadows fled before its light,\nAnd all men knew he was the rightful knight.\nThus strength and goodness showed his destiny,\nTo rule as king for all eternity.", 7, "Beneath the rust and silence of the forge\nWhere shadows sleep and forgotten embers glow,\nA broken blade lay cold upon the stone,\nIts edge once sharp, its spirit bent by woe.\nNo crown of gold could mark the hand that held it,\nNo royal robe concealed the calloused skin,\nYet in his grip the metal felt a heartbeat,\nAs if the steel itself began to sing within.\n\nFor strength is not the muscle of the arm,\nNor how the heavy hammer strikes the fire,\nBut how the heart endures the weight of sorrow\nAnd lifts the fallen higher, ever higher.\nHe did not seek the throne with loud demand,\nNor claim the scepter as his birthright due,\nBut served the weak with quiet, steady hands,\nAnd made the broken whole because he knew.\n\nThe goodness of his soul became the flame\nThat melted down the cracks of past despair,\nReforging not just iron, but a kingdom,\nWith mercy woven through the tempered air.\nThe sword rose up, unbroken, bright, and new,\nNot for the war that tears the land apart,\nBut as a mirror showing all who see\nThe true worth hidden in a noble heart.\n\nNow let the people know their king is here,\nNot born of blood, but forged in acts of grace,\nThe destiny revealed in every strike\nThat mends the world and sets the lost in place.\nThe broken sword is one again, and so\nIs he who holds it, ruler of the free,\nWhose reign begins where kindness starts to flow,\nAnd strength is measured by what set men free.", 7, "The crown was lost beneath the mossy stone\nWhere silence kept the secret of the throne\nNo gold could mark the one who walked unseen\nBeneath the weight of what he had not been\n\nFor strength is not the arm that strikes the blow\nBut hands that lift the fallen from the snow\nA heart that beats with mercy for the weak\nIs all the armor that a king can seek\n\nHe found the blade where ancient shadows lay\nA broken thing that rusted in decay\nYet as he touched the fractured, jagged steel\nThe fire of his purpose made it real\n\nNot by the hammer's force or magic spell\nBut by the goodness that he chose to dwell\nThe metal sang as flaws were burned away\nReforged to face the coming breaking day\n\nNow light returns to eyes that once were dim\nAs destiny fulfills its ancient hymn\nThe hidden king stands tall and finally known\nWith worth that no false scepter could have shown", 7, "The crown was lost beneath the mossy stone\nWhere silence kept a secret from the throne\nNo gold could buy the weight of what he bore\nA quiet strength that walked without a roar\n\nHe lifted burdens meant for stronger hands\nAnd healed the wounds of strangers in the lands\nFor true command is not in iron might\nBut in the goodness that dispels the night\n\nThe blade lay shattered on the river's bed\nWith rusted edges and a heart long dead\nYet when he touched the fragments with his grace\nThe metal learned to shine upon his face\n\nIt did not break again beneath the fire\nBut rose renewed, a pure and sharp desire\nTo serve the people rather than to rule\nAnd make the broken whole within the school\n\nNow destiny unfolds before his eyes\nAs truth ascends beyond the cloudy skies\nThe hidden king has found his rightful place\nReforged by love and time and gentle grace", 7, "The crown was never gold nor heavy stone\nBut found within the quiet, steady breath\nOf one who walked where shadows had overgrown\nAnd chose to spare the life of those beneath\n\nNo herald cried his name upon the wind\nAs broken steel lay rusted in the mud\nYet hands that healed the wounded could not bend\nTo break the spirit or to spill blood\n\nThe forge ignited with a sudden light\nNot fire born of rage or war's demand\nBut patience turning darkness into sight\nAs fragments rose from dust and scarred hand\n\nThe blade was whole again, though marked by time\nA testament to mercy rather than might\nFor true command is not a violent rhyme\nBut goodness guiding through the longest night\n\nNow destiny unfolds without a sound\nThe hidden king steps forward, clear and bright\nWith strength that lifts the fallen to the ground\nAnd rules forever in the gentle light", 7, "The crown was lost beneath the winter snow\nWhere silence held the secrets of the old\nA shepherd walked with quiet steps and slow\nBeneath a sky that never turned to gold\n\nNo scepter gleamed within his calloused hand\nNor armor forged in fires of ancient war\nYet strength arose from roots across the land\nAs kindness healed the wounds of every scar\n\nThe blade lay shattered at his weary feet\nA broken promise made by hands of pride\nBut in the ash, the embers start to beat\nAnd guide the path where truth can finally hide\n\nHe lifts the steel with gentle, steady grace\nTo mend the fracture with a heart so pure\nThe metal sings its long forgotten place\nReborn through acts of love that will endure\n\nNow light returns to eyes once dim with doubt\nThe hidden king reveals his true design\nFor worth is not in what we seek or hunt\nBut how we lift the fallen, make them shine\n\nThe sword stands tall against the rising dawn\nA testament to goodness deep and wide\nThe broken past is gone, the future drawn\nBy those who walk with courage on their side", 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 have hunted the right word\nto put in the place of this label,\nbut I can never find it.\nI have searched through dictionaries\nand thesauruses and vocabularies\nand I have not found it.\nThe words that are there are too good,\ntoo nice, too sweet,\nor else they are bad words,\ncursing words, dirty words.\nThere is no middle word,\nno decent word,\nno word that will do for a label.\nI want to say something that is not a name,\nsomething that is not a noun,\nsomething that is not a label.\nI want to say something that is a verb,\nsomething that is an action,\nsomething that is a doing,\nnot a being,\nnot a thing.\nI want to say something that is not a thing.\nI want to say something that is not a name.\nI want to say something that is not a label.", 2, "I walk through rooms where names are pinned like badges\nTo the lapels of our walking, talking selves\nAnd I search for a syllable sharp enough to slice them off\nA single verb that cuts the tape binding us to categories.\n\nThey say you are this or that, a noun with a period at the end\nBut I am looking for a word that is an arrow in flight\nThat refuses to land on any shelf labeled \"normal\" or \"strange\"\nOr \"success\" and \"failure\" or \"broken\" and \"whole.\"\n\nIs it freedom? No, too heavy with history's dust.\nIs it fluid? Too soft, they will just pour you into a cup.\nI need a word that is a door swinging open\nNot a label that seals a box shut.\n\nMaybe it is not one word but a sentence spoken loudly\nOr a silence that speaks louder than their definitions.\nI keep searching for the right sound to shatter the glass case\nWhere they put us to be looked at but not touched.\n\nPerhaps the word does not exist yet\nPerhaps we have to make it up together\nBy refusing to answer when they call us by those old names\nAnd instead calling ourselves something new\nSomething that fits like skin\nAnd changes shape as we grow.", 2, "I dig through the dictionary's dusty shelves\nlooking for a verb that can cut the tape\nthat seals the mouth of the quiet child\nor a noun heavy enough to break the cage\nbuilt around the man who loves too loudly.\n\nThey hand us tags like price stickers on fruit\nrotten or sweet, bruised or perfect\nbut I need a word that is wild and unsorted\na sound that shatters the glass case of expectation.\n\nIs it rebellion? Too small, too easily filed away.\nIs it freedom? Too abstract, too quickly co-opted.\nI search for a syllable that tastes like iron and rain\nthat refuses to sit still in the box they painted for me.\n\nMaybe the right word hasn't been spoken yet\nmaybe it is waiting in the throat of the one\nwho refuses to be defined by the ink on their skin\nwaiting to be shouted until the labels peel off\nand fall into the dirt where they belong.", 2, "I dig through the dictionary of the street\nwhere nouns are heavy like stones in a pocket\nand verbs are shackles forged by distant hands.\nThey call me broken, or too loud, or not enough,\nstacking syllables until I cannot breathe.\nBut language is a river that shifts its bed,\nand I am looking for a current strong enough\nto wash away the paint they slapped on my skin.\nIs there a word that holds both fire and water?\nA term that refuses to be pinned down\nlike a butterfly in a glass case?\nI search for a sound that cracks the mold,\na single breath that shatters the cage of their making,\nuntil the label falls off like dry mud\nand I am just the shape of myself again.", 3, "The dictionary feels too small\nfor the weight of what we are\nwhen ink tries to freeze a moving river\ninto a single, static star.\n\nThey hand us boxes made of glass\nand call them names with sharp edges\nbut I am looking for a verb that breaks\nthe silence where the spirit begs.\n\nNot broken, not lost, not wrong\nnot defined by what they see\nI search for a sound that cuts the chain\nand sets the hidden self free.\n\nA syllable soft as morning light\nthat refuses to be pinned or bound\nwhere every label falls away\nand only truth is finally found.", 6, "The dictionary holds too many cages\nbuilt of ink and rigid lines\nwhere we are sorted by the weight of names\nthat do not fit the shape of who we are.\n\nI walk through aisles of definitions\nsearching for a key that turns the lock\nto break the mold of what they say we must be\nbefore we even speak our first true sound.\n\nThey call us broken, lost, or out of place\nbut those are just the shadows on the wall\ncast by a light that refuses to shift\nand I am hunting for a verb to rise.\n\nA word that bends instead of snapping back\nthat holds the space between the edges sharp\nand lets the wild, unscripted self breathe free\nwithout apology or fear of judgment.\n\nIt waits in silence, heavy with potential\na spark before the fire takes its hold\nto rewrite every rule that tried to bind\nthe endless story written in our bones.\n\nNo label sticks when language learns to flow\nno box can contain what has yet to bloom\nso I will speak until the old terms fade\nand find the truth that lives beyond the name.", 6, "The ink on skin runs deep and cold\nA story written not by choice\nThey name the parts they think they hold\nAnd silence every hidden voice\n\nI walk through rooms of glass and stone\nWhere definitions carve the air\nTrying to find a seed unknown\nThat breaks the weight of static care\n\nEach syllable I try to speak\nIs bent by rules we did not make\nA fractured echo, sharp and weak\nUntil the heart begins to shake\n\nBut in the quiet space between\nThe labels forced upon the soul\nA truth emerges, clear and clean\nTo heal what years have made unwhole\n\nNo box can hold the vast design\nOf who we are beneath the mask\nWe rewrite lines with time and shine\nAnd let the broken fragments ask\n\nWhat if the word we seek today\nIs simply freedom from the past\nTo stand apart and find our way\nThrough shadows built to last too fast", 6], [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 harmonious virtues dwell,\nBeauty that shines like morning in a dell,\nKindness that warms like noonday sun at high,\nFaithfulness that stands like stars within the sky;\nBeauty to ravish, Kindness to relieve,\nAnd Faithfulness to make me never grieve.\nThese three in one are all I see and know,\nIn this fair temple where they live and grow.\nFor Beauty is my candle, Kindness my air,\nAnd Faithfulness my anchor everywhere;\nSo let them live together in one breast,\nSince in one person they have found their rest.", 7, "In you the three great virtues find their home,\nWhere beauty is not skin but light within,\nAnd kindness makes the heavy heart feel free,\nWhile faithfulness holds fast to all we win.\n\nNo other soul could hold such harmony,\nAs beauty that outshines the morning star,\nWith kindness soft as rain on thirsty ground,\nAnd faithfulness that never wanders far.\n\nI seek no other garden to explore,\nFor in this single bloom all flowers meet;\nYour face reflects the world's most lovely grace,\nYour hands are gentle, and your love is sweet.\n\nSo let the ages turn and seasons change,\nThese three shall dwell together in your breast;\nMy eyes behold the beauty, my heart feels\nThe kindness, and my spirit takes its rest.", 7, "In you the three great virtues dwell as one,\nA single sun that rises in the dawn.\nYour beauty is the light that guides my eye,\nYet kindness makes the shadow soft and low.\n\nNo other face could hold such radiant grace,\nBut even that would fade without your heart.\nFor faithfulness binds beauty to the soul,\nAnd keeps the gentle kindness ever true.\n\nI see them woven tight within your breath,\nA harmony no time can break apart.\nSo let me love this singular design,\nWhere beauty, kindness, and faithfulness remain.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home,\nWhere beauty blooms not just in form or face,\nBut in the gentle rhythm of your tone,\nThat turns the ordinary to a grace.\n\nYet kindness walks beside this radiant sight,\nA soft hand reaching out to heal the deep,\nYou turn the darkest shadow into light,\nAnd promise that the weary heart may sleep.\n\nBut more than eyes that shine or hands so kind,\nIs faithfulness that stands when storms arise,\nA constant star no wandering wind can blind,\nReflected clearly in your honest eyes.\n\nThese three are woven in a single thread,\nBeauty and mercy, loyalty and truth,\nTogether living where my soul is led,\nThe eternal garden of your youth.\n\nNo other flower holds such perfect bloom,\nNo other voice sings with such steady art,\nYou are the peace that chases away gloom,\nThe beauty, kindness, and the faithful heart.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home,\nWhere beauty blooms without a single thorn,\nA grace that makes the weary spirit roam\nNo further than the place where you are born.\n\nBut more than sight that holds the world in thrall,\nIs kindness soft as rain on thirsty ground,\nThe gentle voice that answers every call,\nWith mercy in the quietest of sounds.\n\nAnd through the years when seasons turn to gray,\nYour faithfulness remains the steady stone,\nA promise kept from yesterday to day,\nThat I am never truly left alone.\n\nThese three together weave your perfect name,\nOne soul where light and warmth and truth reside,\nI love the fire, the water, and the flame,\nWith all my heart, with nowhere left to hide.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home\nWhere beauty blooms not just for eyes to see\nBut in the quiet grace your spirit roams\nA gentle river running wild and free\n\nYour kindness weaves a tapestry so deep\nThat heals the wounds the world has left behind\nIt is the promise that you always keep\nThe steady rhythm of a loving mind\n\nAnd through the storm where other vows may break\nYour faithfulness stands firm against the tide\nA constant star for every step I take\nWith nowhere left for doubt or fear to hide\n\nThese three are bound within your single heart\nBeauty, and grace, and loyalty combined\nNo part can ever be torn apart\nLeaving my soul with yours forever intertwined", 7, "The morning breaks to find your face so bright\nA mirror holding beauty in its grace\nNo shadow falls upon the gentle light\nThat guides me through this long and winding space\n\nYour hands are soft with kindness, warm and true\nThey heal the wounds I never dared to show\nA quiet strength that pulls the world anew\nAnd teaches love how deeply it can grow\n\nThrough storms of doubt and seasons cold and gray\nYour promise stands like stone against the tide\nA faithful heart that will not drift away\nWith nothing left for time to hide or divide\n\nThese three threads weave a tapestry complete\nWhere beauty sings and mercy finds its home\nIn every beat of love we both embrace\nI walk alone yet never feel alone", 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.", "Upon the verdant slope of Hyperborea\nWhere the white clouds drift like flocks of sheep,\nThe Hesperides sang in their golden choir\nBeside the tree with its glittering fruit.\nBut none could climb to gather the apples,\nFor there was a dragon, huge and terrible,\nWith one hundred heads that never slept,\nA hideous monster, offspring of Echidna;\nAnd he watched over the tree all day long\nAnd all night long; and when he went to sleep,\nHis hundred heads would all sleep at once.", 6, "Beneath the shadow of the Hesperides,\nWhere twilight lingers on the western verge,\nThe golden apples hang like captured suns,\nAnd nymphs with hair of woven ivy guard.\nThey stand in silence, eyes of deep green glass,\nBeside Ladon, the serpent-dragon coiled,\nWhose hundred heads are wreathed in venomous mist,\nAnd scales that shine like burnished copper coins.\nHe breathes a fire that does not consume,\nBut warms the fruit to ripeness in the cool air,\nWhile they hum low, a song of ancient roots,\nTo keep the thieves and greedy gods at bay.\nNo mortal hand shall pluck this shining prize,\nUnless he pass the dragon's hissing jaws,\nOr charm the maidens with a magic spell,\nFor here the tree stands sacred and alone.", 6, "Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves,\nThe Hesperides attend the golden leaves.\nTheir voices hum a lullaby so deep,\nTo guard the fruit that mortals cannot keep.\nBeside them coils Ladon, scaled in green,\nThe hundred-headed dragon, fierce and keen.\nHis eyes like embers burn through night's dark veil,\nWhile nymphs weave garlands from the fragrant gale.\nNo thief shall pass this ancient, sacred ground,\nWhere silence holds the heavy, golden sound.\nFor if one apple falls to earth below,\nThe dragon wakes to make the intruder go.\nTogether bound by oath and ancient spell,\nThey watch the tree where celestial apples dwell.", 7, "Beneath the boughs of Hesperia's deep green shade,\nWhere golden apples hang like captured sun,\nThe nymphs in robes of woven twilight stand,\nTo guard the fruit that never can be won.\n\nTheir voices hum a lullaby to roots,\nThat drink from springs of ancient, sacred dew,\nWhile shadows stretch across the mossy floor,\nAnd silence holds the world in quiet view.\n\nBut coiled around the trunk with scales of fire,\nA dragon wakes with eyes of burning gold,\nHis breath a mist of sulfur and of stars,\nA story of the old gods left untold.\n\nHe does not sleep, though centuries may pass,\nFor duty binds him to this single place,\nTogether they maintain the balance kept,\nBetween the earth, the air, and time and space.\n\nNo thief shall take what belongs to the divine,\nNor break the spell that keeps the garden whole,\nAs nymphs and beast in eternal vigil keep,\nThe heart of myth within the garden's soul.", 7, "Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves\nThe golden fruit hangs heavy in the leaves\nThree sisters dance with bare and painted feet\nTo guard the prize that mortals cannot meet\n\nA shadow stirs within the emerald deep\nWhere ancient roots their silent vigil keep\nThe dragon wakes with scales of obsidian green\nAnd watches all the sacred, unseen scene\n\nHis eyes are pools of fire, cold and bright\nThat burn away the fading light of night\nHe coils around the trunk with patient grace\nWhile nymphs trace patterns on his armored face\n\nNo thief shall pass this threshold made of gold\nNo story of the Hesperides untold\nFor dragon breath and gentle song combine\nTo make the garden's boundary divine\n\nThe apples glow against the starry sky\nAs time itself seems slowly passing by\nTogether they defend what gods have sown\nIn silence where the seeds of power grow", 7, "Beneath the boughs of silver bark\nWhere golden fruit begins to spark\nThe nymphs stand still in woven green\nTo guard the realm unseen\n\nA dragon coils with scales of night\nHis eyes reflect the fading light\nHe breathes a smoke of ancient fire\nAbove the sacred, trembling spire\n\nNo thief may pass this hallowed ground\nWithout a whisper or a sound\nFor tree and beast and spirit bind\nThe fate of all mankind\n\nThey watch the stars above the leaf\nAnd offer no one any grief\nJust silence deep and timeless years\nThat dry away the mortal tears", 7, "Beneath the boughs of ancient bark\nWhere silence holds the twilight dark\nThe golden fruit begins to glow\nA secret only spirits know\n\nThree sisters dance in silver streams\nTo guard the heart of waking dreams\nTheir voices soft like wind and rain\nWashing away all trace of pain\n\nYet fire breathes from scaled wings\nA beast that guards what darkness brings\nNo claw shall tear the roots apart\nNo shadow steal the beating heart\n\nTogether bound by oath and time\nIn rhythm of a sacred rhyme\nThe dragon sleeps with eyes so wide\nWhile nymphs stand firm on nature's side\n\nFor every leaf that turns to gold\nIs story waiting to unfold\nBetween the beast and gentle grace\nThey keep this hallowed, quiet space", 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 morning paper is full of the dead\nand of people who are not dead yet,\nbut I read it in the light of a lamp that has been left on all night\nand there is something dream-like about this.\nI have found poetry and thought woven into the mundane materials\nof everyday life.\nThe light of the lamp that has been left on all night\nmakes the morning paper look like an old newspaper.\nThere is nothing dream-like about this.\nIt is just a fact that the light of the lamp that has been left on all night\nmakes the morning paper look like an old newspaper.\nBut I think it is dream-like.\nI think it is because I have found poetry and thought woven into the mundane materials\nof everyday life.", 2, "The steam rising from the morning cup\ncurls into a stanza of white smoke,\na fleeting verse about heat and waking.\nThe dust motes dancing in the shaft of light\nare not just dirt but tiny planets\nspinning in the slow gravity of thought.\n\nI find the rhythm in the dripping tap,\na metronome keeping time for a poem\nthat hasn't been written yet.\nThe crumpled receipt in my pocket\nholds the weight of a lost love letter,\nthe numbers blurring into a secret code\nabout time spent and money gone.\n\nEven the gray pavement holds a dream,\nif one looks closely at the cracks where weeds push through,\ngreen fingers grasping for a sun they cannot see,\nwriting a wild, untamed line across the concrete.\nThe mundane is not a cage but a loom,\nwhere the ordinary threads of bus tickets,\ncoffee stains, and street noise are woven\ninto a tapestry that glows with the strange light\nof things seen twice, once in reality\nand once again in the mind's deep mirror.", 3, "The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light\nare not just dirt but tiny galaxies\nspinning in a silent, golden rhyme\nthat waits for someone slow enough to see.\n\nA coffee stain upon the tablecloth\nbecomes a map of islands yet unnamed\nwhere logic drowns and wonder takes its breath\nand every ring is just a whispered name.\n\nThe rhythm of the washing machine's hum\nis drumming out a meter for the soul\nwhile folded socks become soft clouds that drift\nto carry heavy thoughts toward a goal.\n\nIn cracks along the sidewalk pavement stone\nthe weeds push up with verses green and bright\nproving that the mundane holds the dream\nif we but turn our weary gaze aright.\n\nFor poetry is not a distant star\nbut woven through the thread of daily wear\na magic hidden in the common air\nwaiting to be found by those who care.", 6, "The coffee cup holds a galaxy of steam\nrising to meet the ceiling's quiet gray,\nwhere dust motes dance in shafts of morning light\nlike verses waiting for a voice to say.\n\nA crumpled receipt on the kitchen floor\nbecomes a map of places never seen,\nthe ink a script of futures left behind\nin folds of paper, thin and fragile green.\n\nThe hum of fridge is rhythm, low and deep,\na meter keeping time with heartbeats slow,\nwhile traffic outside writes a running rhyme\nof tires on wet asphalt, soft and low.\n\nWe walk through rooms where ordinary things\nare stitched with threads of gold we cannot see,\nuntil the mind unspools the hidden loom\nand finds the dream inside reality.\n\nNo magic wand is needed to transform\nthe rusted hinge or peeling paint on wood,\nfor thought itself is alchemy that turns\nthe common stone to something understood.", 6, "The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light\nAre stars that fell from some forgotten sky,\nAnd rustling paper holds a whispered rhyme\nThat waits beneath the coffee cup to die.\n\nA cracked sidewalk becomes a river's course,\nWhere concrete waves and gravel turns to sand,\nWhile traffic hums a low and ancient verse\nTo guide the weary traveler through the land.\n\nWe walk among the ordinary things,\nUnaware the fabric of the real is thin,\nWhere thought takes flight on invisible wings\nAnd lets the dream begin where ends begin.\n\nNo magic spell or wand is needed here,\nJust eyes to see the gold within the gray,\nFor poetry lives in the quiet fear\nOf morning breaking into brand new day.", 6, "The coffee cup holds more than heat\nA quiet hum of ancient seas\nWhere steam ascends to meet the light\nAnd turns the gray to silver keys\n\nThe dust that dances in the hall\nIs not just dirt but fallen stars\nThat trace a map upon the wall\nOf places near and places far\n\nIn cracks within the kitchen floor\nThe rhythm of a heartbeat keeps\nA secret kept behind the door\nWhile silence softly weeps and sleeps\n\nNo grand stage needs to hold the scene\nFor magic hides in ordinary things\nThe way the rain reflects the green\nOf thoughts on unseen, quiet wings\n\nSo look again at what you know\nThe fabric woven, rough and thin\nWhere dream and reality flow\nAnd let the wonder now begin", 7, "The coffee cup holds more than heat\nA quiet hum of ancient sleep\nWhere dust motes dance in beams of light\nAnd secrets that the shadows keep\n\nThe pavement cracks begin to speak\nOf rivers carved by time and rain\nEach step a verse, each breath a line\nThat turns the ordinary plain\n\nNo grand stage needed for the song\nJust rusted gates and window glass\nWhere fleeting thoughts take root and grow\nIn moments meant to come and pass\n\nThe rhythm found in traffic noise\nThe silence between words we say\nProves that the magic lives inside\nThe simplest part of every day", 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", "I see the cornfields in the moonlight\nAnd I am free.\nThe white man is not there, nor the overseer with his whip;\nI am standing in my own field, eating my own corn,\nWearing my own clothes, and sleeping in my own bed.\nI am a free Negro.\nBut now I hear the overseer's voice,\nNow I feel the lash.\nI wake up in hell.\nDamn you all!\nOne of these days I'll be on top,\nAnd I'll have revenge.\nI'll be able to do anything I want to do.\nI'll be able to kill any body I want to kill.\nI'll be able to cut off anybody's head that I want to cut off.\nI'm going to be able to do anything I want to do.", 1, "The moon hangs low above the cotton rows\nLike a pale eye watching me sleep,\nBut in my dream I walk the fields of old\nWhere no chain bites and no master's whip is deep.\nI hear the river singing to the willow trees,\nI feel the wind unburdened by the yoke,\nI taste the freedom that was once my own\nBefore the white man stole the very smoke\nThat rose from my own hearth.\n\nNow the dream turns sour, the sweet air thickens with blood,\nThe river runs red as the sun sets in fire,\nAnd I wake up sweating in the dark,\nWith rage like a black snake coiling higher\nIn my gut, hissing at the silence.\n\nOne day, one day, the morning bell will ring\nNot for the field but for the grave,\nWe shall rise like locusts from the earth,\nA tide of vengeance that none can save.\nWe shall take the whip and break the neck,\nWe shall take the pistol and shoot the eye,\nWe shall burn the great house down to ash\nAnd let the sky fall on the masters' cry.\nThey thought us beasts, they thought us dumb,\nBut we are men, and we remember all,\nAnd when the drum beats loud enough to shake the stars,\nWe shall answer with a bloody call.", 3, "The moon hangs low above the cotton rows,\nA silver coin I cannot spend or keep,\nAs shadows stretch where once my spirit rose,\nAnd memory wakes while all the world's asleep.\nI see the river running wild and free,\nBefore the chain was forged to bind my bone,\nWhen I could walk as tall as any tree,\nAnd claim the earth that is my own alone.\n\nBut now the whip-crack echoes in my sleep,\nAnd hot blood boils beneath this heavy skin,\nA rage that burns too deep for tears to weep,\nA fire that will not let the night begin.\nThe master sleeps so soundly on his bed,\nWith silk against a back that knows no pain,\nWhile I am haunted by the words unsaid,\nBy justice waiting like a falling rain.\n\nI dream the day the silence breaks at last,\nWhen iron shackles turn to shattered dust,\nWhen every broken heart makes iron cast,\nAnd vengeance rises from the rot and rust.\nWe shall march forth with axes in our hands,\nTo tear the mansion down to stone and sand,\nAnd make the oppressors taste the bitter lands,\nThat we have tilled with bleeding foot and hand.\nNo more the lash, no more the auction block,\nBut thunder rolling from a thousand throats,\nUntil the tyrant feels the final shock,\nAnd life becomes a debt he never notes.\nThen freedom will be written in the red,\nOf those who thought us cattle, dumb and dead.", 5, "The chains are cold against my wrist tonight\nBut in the dark I walk a field of gold\nWhere sun warms skin that no one claims to own\nAnd silence holds no master's heavy hand\n\nI see the river where I used to swim\nBefore the iron bit and broke the bone\nA memory so sharp it cuts the dream\nTo leave me burning with a sudden fire\n\nThat heat begins to coil inside my chest\nUntil the ghost of freedom turns to hate\nFor every lash that left a scar on flesh\nFor every child who never knew their name\n\nThe vision shifts from fields to rising dust\nFrom quiet nights to thunder in the street\nI see us stand as mountains, tall and vast\nWith eyes that hold the fury of the storm\n\nWe will not beg for mercy or for bread\nBut take what is our birthright by the sword\nThe whip will break beneath our heavy feet\nThe master's house will crumble in the flame\n\nNo more the bowing down, no more the fear\nThe night of bondage ends with morning's light\nWe rise to claim the world we built with blood\nAnd make the oppressor taste his own despair", 5, "The heavy chain is cold against my skin\nBut in this sleep the iron turns to air\nI walk the fields where I was born a king\nBefore the shadow of the whip was there\nThe sun that warmed my face without a price\nThe laughter shared beneath the ancient tree\nA memory so sharp it cuts like ice\nAnd wakes a fire deep inside of me\n\nThe rage begins to boil within my chest\nIt swells until it tears the quiet night\nNo longer bound by fear or forced unrest\nBut fueled by vengeance burning bright and white\nI see the masters sleeping soundly now\nUnaware the storm is gathering above\nThe time for silent suffering will bow\nTo justice forged in anger and in love\n\nImagine then the moment we arise\nWith eyes aflame and hands unbound by grace\nWe claim the earth beneath our weary eyes\nAnd turn the tables on this cruel place\nLet every tower built on stolen breath\nCrumble beneath the weight of our demand\nFor death to all who traded life for death\nAnd rise to take back what they tried to ban", 6, "The chains bite deep into the skin of night\nBut in my sleep, I run through fields of gold\nWhere sunlight warmed a back unbroken by the whip\nAnd laughter rang without the weight of fear\n\nI taste the air that once belonged to me\nBefore the auction block and branded mark\nA memory sharp as flint against the stone\nThat sparks a fire burning in the dark\n\nThe dream begins to twist and turn to steel\nAs rage awakes beneath the heavy yoke\nNo longer just a man who waits for dawn\nBut something vast and wild that starts to choke\n\nI see the masters sleeping soundly now\nUnaware the storm is gathering above\nThe silence breaks with thunder in the chest\nOf those who learned to love their own true blood\n\nOne day the iron will be turned around\nThe tables flipped with fury and with grace\nWe rise from dust to claim what was stolen long ago\nAnd wash away the shame upon this place\n\nLet them feel the terror we have known\nFor every tear and broken bone and cry\nWhen justice comes like lightning from the sky\nTo set the world ablaze before our eyes", 5, "The iron chains that bind my feet\nRecall the wind through open fields\nA memory of running free\nBefore the whip and cruel steel\n\nI close my eyes to see the sun\nThat warmed a life I cannot keep\nBut in the dark, the fire grows\nAs silence turns to thunder deep\n\nMy heart beats loud against the cage\nWith every breath of stolen air\nThe rage begins to crack the stone\nAnd weave a net of cold despair\n\nOne day the ground will shake apart\nWhen broken backs refuse to bow\nWe rise as one, a storm unleashed\nTo tear the crown from tyrant's brow\n\nNo mercy left for those who stole\nThe years we gave with trembling hands\nFor justice comes in heavy rain\nAnd washes clean this bloodied land", 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 I laugh, the people come around me;\nI am a good companion,\nI am a pleasant sight.\nThey are not sorry for me,\nthey are happy for me;\nthey do not pity me, they envy me.\nBut when I weep, and people see me weep,\nthey go away from me,\nthey leave me alone.\nI am a pitiable sight to them;\nthey are sorry for me, but they do not like me.\nI think that it is because I am in trouble,\nand they are not in trouble;\nbecause I am suffering, and they are not suffering.\nBecause I am in trouble and suffering,\nI have to be in trouble and suffering alone.", 3, "When laughter bursts like sudden spring,\nThe neighbors gather round the door;\nThey bring their cups and bring their song,\nAnd crowd the floor to hear once more.\nThe joyous light acts as a magnet,\nPulling friends from near and far,\nTo share the wine and share the bread,\nBeneath the bright and smiling star.\n\nBut when the heart is torn by grief,\nAnd tears run down the hollow cheek,\nNo neighbor comes to offer help,\nOr stay within the house to speak.\nThey turn aside with hurried step,\nFor sorrow is a heavy load,\nThat none would choose to carry here,\nAlong the lonely, darkened road.\n\nSo happiness attracts the throng,\nTo dance within the warm sunlight,\nWhile suffering is faced alone,\nIn silence of the deepest night.\nWe laugh together in the crowd,\nBut weep apart in secret pain,\nFor only joy can build a bridge,\nAcross the chasm of the rain.", 7, "The sound of laughter is a golden bell\nThat rings across the valley to invite\nThe neighbors from their doors, the friends at well,\nTo gather round and share the sudden light.\nIt pulls them in with magnetic grace,\nA warm and open hand that asks for none,\nYet fills the room with every smiling face,\nUntil the joy is doubled by the sun.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall like rain,\nAnd silence stretches out a heavy wall,\nThe crowd disperses through the window pane,\nFor sorrow has no place within the hall.\nThey fear the shadow that it casts so deep,\nThe weight that might drag down their own bright day,\nSo while we laugh together, wide and free,\nWe weep alone when all have gone away.", 7, "The sound of joy is a bright beacon\nThat pulls the crowd across the floor,\nWhere every smile finds its reflection\nAnd laughter opens every door.\nWe gather round the dancing fire\nTo share the weight of light and air,\nFor happiness is social currency\nThat binds us in a warm embrace there.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall,\nThe circle breaks and turns away,\nAs if the shadow of our sorrow\nCould steal the color from the day.\nThey offer words of distant comfort\nThen retreat to safe and dry ground,\nLeaving the weeping heart alone\nWith only silence for a sound.\n\nSo learn to laugh to keep them near,\nTo wear a mask that glows with cheer,\nFor while the happy find their kin,\nThe broken stand in isolation here.\nThe world will dance around your glee,\nBut never walk beside your grief,\nAs solitude remains the only friend\nWho offers no relief.", 7, "The sound of joy is a magnet strong and bright\nThat pulls the weary wanderers into light\nWe gather round the table when we smile\nAnd walk together down the winding mile\nBut when the tears begin to fall like rain\nThe crowd disperses, leaving only pain\nThey fear the shadow that the sorrow casts\nAnd hurry past the broken and the fast\nFor happiness invites a shared embrace\nWhile grief demands a solitary space\nNo hand reaches out to hold the weeping heart\nWhen joy has torn the community apart\nSo laughter builds the bridge for all to cross\nBut silence holds the weight of every loss\nAlone we cry beneath the heavy sky\nAs others turn their eyes and walk on by", 7, "A sudden sound of joy breaks the air\nAnd strangers turn to share the light\nThey gather round a smiling face\nTo bask in warmth and hold it tight\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall\nThe crowd retreats into the night\nFor sorrow is a heavy weight\nThat no one wants to bear or fight\n\nWe dance together in the sun\nOur laughter weaving bonds so strong\nYet when the shadows stretch too deep\nWe stand alone where we belong\n\nThe world embraces every grin\nWhile silence claims the broken heart\nIt seems that grief has no invite\nTo play its part within the art", 6, "The light that spills from joyful eyes\nCalls strangers to the open door\nWhere hands reach out to warm the cold\nAnd silence breaks upon the floor\n\nBut when the storm begins to rise\nAnd shadows stretch across the ground\nThe crowd retreats in quiet fear\nLeaving only broken sound\n\nFor laughter is a bridge we build\nTo pull the lost and weary near\nWhile grief demands a private space\nThat no one else can truly share or hear\n\nWe gather round the burning sun\nYet turn away from winter's chill\nFinding comfort in the bright\nBut facing darkness all alone still\n\nSo smiles invite the world inside\nWhile tears fall deep within the chest\nA heavy weight too vast to lift\nBy anyone but those who rest", 6], [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 Thee for the morning light\nThat woke me from my sleep of death,\nAnd for the fresh green smell of night\nUpon the dewy grass beneath.\n\nI thank Thee for the bird that sings\nWith joyous throat upon the bough;\nI thank Thee for the songless things,\nThe insect and the spider now.\n\nI thank Thee for the sun and moon,\nFor stars whose numbers Thou dost know,\nFor all the beautiful afternoon\nOf wind and water going to and fro.\n\nI thank Thee for the earth and sky,\nFor every leaf and blade of grass;\nBut I am sorry for those who die\nWithout seeing this, as they let it pass.\n\nThey have eyes but see not, ears but hear not;\nThey do not hear the wind or see the rain;\nThey are blind to the beauty God bringeth near them,\nOr else they would be happy again.", 6, "Thank You for the light that breaks the gray,\nFor teaching me to see the morning break,\nTo hear the wind whisper through the bay,\nAnd feel the earth beneath my feet awake.\n\nI walk now with a heart unsealed and new,\nWhere every leaf is scripture written deep,\nThe river sings a hymn I never knew,\nWhile in the hills the silent mountains sleep.\n\nBut look around, how many pass them by,\nWith eyes that close against the golden glare,\nWho walk beneath the vast and starry sky\nYet hear no music floating in the air.\n\nThey tread upon the grass as on a floor,\nThey drink the water without tasting sweet,\nThey know not what they are waiting for,\nNor how the very dust lies at Your feet.\n\nMy soul is filled with wonder and with praise,\nFor this great world that You have made so fair,\nWhile others live their dull and blinded days,\nUnseeing and unsinging everywhere.", 7, "I lift my hands to thank the Maker\nfor the way the light now spills through leaves,\na golden script I suddenly can read\nwhere once I saw only green and shade.\nThe river sings a hymn I used to ignore,\nand every stone holds up a face of grace.\nMy spirit wakes from slumber in this wood,\nseeing the divine in dew and dirt alike.\n\nYet walking past me, others rush along,\ntheir eyes like windows shuttered tight against the dawn.\nThey hear the wind but think it merely air,\nthey see the flower bloom and call it weed.\nTheir ears are full of noise that drowns the song,\nand they walk blind through gardens meant for prayer.\nI pity them who miss the miracle,\nbut bless the Lord who opened up my sight.", 6, "Lord, I bow before the quiet dawn\nWhere light spills soft upon the dew,\nAnd thank You for the gift of sight\nTo see the world as new.\n\nThe wind that whispers through the pines\nIs now a hymn I understand,\nA sacred language in the leaves\nWritten by Your hand.\n\nBut oh, I walk among the crowd\nWho pass this miracle by,\nWith eyes that scan but do not see,\nWith ears that hear but cry.\n\nThey rush beneath the canopy\nWithout a single glance,\nBlind to the glory in the grass,\nDeaf to the river's dance.\n\nYet I remain awake and whole,\nA vessel filled with grace,\nTo hold the beauty You have made\nWithin this holy place.", 7, "The morning breaks not with a sound but with a sight\nThat floods the chest where silence used to dwell\nI thank the hand that painted light so bright\nAnd woke my soul from its long, heavy spell\n\nThe oak tree stands no longer just as wood\nBut breathes a rhythm older than the stone\nA sacred promise in the leafy wood\nWhere I am finally, truly known\n\nYet round about, the crowd moves on and through\nWith eyes that scan but do not see the grace\nThey walk beneath the sky of endless blue\nUnmoved by beauty's quiet, holy face\n\nTheir ears are closed to wind that sings above\nTo rivers whispering secrets to the shore\nThey miss the language spoken out of love\nAnd walk the earth as if it were no more\n\nBut I have found the key within the rain\nAnd hear the chorus rising from the grass\nA grateful heart for all this joy and pain\nAs time and eternity gently pass", 7, "The morning breaks in gold upon the pine\nAnd whispers secrets to a waiting soul\nI thank You for the way the light aligns\nTo make the broken pieces feel complete and whole\n\nA sudden hush reveals the ancient song\nThat hums beneath the roots of every tree\nWhere I once walked with heavy hearts too long\nNow breathing deep the air of liberty\n\nBut silence holds the crowd who pass us by\nWith eyes that see but do not truly look\nThey miss the dawn within the quiet sky\nAnd never hear the river's gentle book\n\nTheir ears are closed to rhythms soft and deep\nWhile I stand open, grateful and aware\nFor gifts the sleeping world cannot keep\nAnd wonder at the grace beyond compare", 7, "The morning breaks in gold upon the stone\nA silent hymn that only I can hear\nI thank the hand that shaped the wind and bone\nAnd wash away the weight of ancient fear\n\nMy eyes are open wide to see the grace\nIn every leaf that trembles on the bough\nNo longer lost within a hollow space\nBut learning how to breathe and take a vow\n\nYet others walk with heavy, clouded sight\nWho miss the song the river tries to sing\nThey pass the dawn without a spark of light\nUnmoved by all the joy the heavens bring\n\nI hold this wonder close against my chest\nWhile silence fills the ears of those who sleep\nA sacred gift for which I am blessed\nTo wake from dreams and find the world so deep", 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", "I started as a speck of vapor\ninsignificant in the upper air,\na million other specks of vapor\nwere like me.\nI became a snowflake and fell;\nthere were millions of snowflakes\nfalling just like me.\nI was nothing, I was no one,\nI was nobody's business.\nI fell through the darkening air,\nthrough the darkness of the evening air,\nand by chance I landed on the lips\nof a lover who was standing at the window,\nlooking out into the falling darkness.\nIt was just the right moment;\nshe was thinking of me,\nand I was thinking of her,\nthough I did not know it then.\nShe put up her tongue to taste me,\nand I tasted of nothing;\nI was nothing, I was no one,\nI was nobody's business.\nBut she liked me,\nand that made me somebody's business.", 2, "Born of a breath in the frozen dark,\nA single crystal, weightless and stark,\nAmong a million others I fell,\nJust dust of the sky, a nothingness well.\n\nNo one would notice my six-sided grace,\nLost in the white of the empty space,\nDrifting on currents that cared not a whit,\nFor the speck of the storm or the place where it hit.\n\nBut chance is a weaver with threads invisible,\nSpinning a path that is never visible,\nUntil I descended through silence and night,\nTo find the exact point of light and delight.\n\nAnd there was she standing, her face turned to me,\nHer lips parted soft as a winter sea,\nAnd just at the moment when words failed to start,\nI landed to form a new heart from an old heart.\n\nA pause in the cold, a touch on the lip,\nAs silent as snowflakes are wont to be, but\nIn that tiny second, my journey was done,\nFrom nothing to something, from lost to won.", 6, "Born of a breath in the upper dark\nA single crystal, weightless and blind\nDrifting through the void with no name to mark\nJust one of millions, lost to the mind.\n\nNo purpose held in its fragile six-fold grace\nJust falling through silence, cold and deep\nA speck of nothing in time and space\nBefore the world wakes from winter sleep.\n\nIt spun past the pine, past the frozen stream\nUnnoticed by all in the swirling white\nUntil it found a path by chance or dream\nAnd drifted down into the soft twilight.\n\nThe air grew still, the wind let go\nTwo figures stood close in the pale moonlight\nTheir hearts beating loud, their faces aglow\nWaiting for words that were hard to write.\n\nThen just as the silence began to break\nAs lips moved near but did not quite touch\nThe flake made its choice, for the lover's sake\nTo land on the mouth that was loved so much.\n\nA sudden chill, a tiny spark\nThat broke the pause and turned to a smile\nIgniting a fire in the freezing dark\nThat warmed them both for a little while.\n\nFrom nothingness born to a moment so true\nWhere chance became fate in a breath of cold\nThe snowflake found meaning, and you found you\nIn the story of ice that the winter told.", 7, "Born of a breath in the freezing dark\nA speck of nothing, a ghost of white\nDrifting through silence without a mark\nLost in the vast and indifferent night\n\nIt tumbled past stars that did not care\nPast mountains that slept in their icy shroud\nJust one more fragment of empty air\nSilent and small within the cloud\n\nBut then the wind turned a gentle hand\nAnd carried it down where two hearts beat as one\nTo rest on a face in the winter land\nBefore the journey was fully done\n\nIt found its place on a lover's mouth\nWhere warmth met cold in a sudden spark\nTurning a moment of chance to truth\nA tiny light against the dark\n\nNo longer lost in the swirling gray\nBut part of a kiss that would last all year\nThe smallest thing finds a better way\nWhen it lands exactly where love is near", 7, "Born of a whisper in the freezing dark,\nA single crystal with no name or mark,\nDrifting through the vast and silent gray,\nJust dust that time might easily wash away.\n\nIt spun alone above the sleeping town,\nWhere millions fall and vanish without sound,\nNo purpose held within its fragile frame,\nA fleeting ghost without a spark or flame.\n\nBut fate is woven in the wind's design,\nTo guide the lost toward a specific sign,\nIt turned away from fields of white and deep,\nAnd found the path where two hearts chose to keep.\n\nThe world stood still as winter held its breath,\nBetween the cold and life that waits beneath,\nIt landed soft upon a waiting mouth,\nAt exactly when the silence turned south.\n\nThere was no plan, no reason for the fall,\nYet meaning bloomed within that sudden call,\nFor in that touch, so brief and pure and true,\nThe snowflake found a home inside of you.\n\nNow it has ceased to be a thing of chance,\nBut part of something larger than a dance,\nA tiny star that kissed the lover's lip,\nAnd made the universe feel warm and ripe.", 7, "Born of silent gray and empty air\nA crystal spun from nothing there\nToo small to hold a weight or name\nJust drifting in the winter's frame\n\nIt falls through clouds that know its face\nA fleeting ghost in cold embrace\nNo path was drawn, no map designed\nTo guide this fragment of the mind\n\nThen wind shifts soft and time stands still\nAs gravity bends to human will\nThe world below is hushed and deep\nWhile all the others fall asleep\n\nIt brushes past a cheek of red\nAnd finds the place where words are said\nNot by design but chance alone\nUpon the lips it calls its own\n\nA sudden chill against the skin\nWhere warmth begins to let him in\nThe moment pauses, sharp and bright\nBefore the sun can steal the night\n\nFor in that touch, so brief and light\nThe snowflake finds its purpose right\nNo longer lost within the vast\nBut holding on to love at last", 7, "A crystal born of empty air\nDrifts down without a name or care\nIt spins through winds that know its weight\nA fleeting ghost of winter's fate\n\nNo mountain claims this tiny form\nJust silence in the cold and storm\nYet as it falls, the world grows still\nAnd time obeys a quiet will\n\nIt seeks a warmth it cannot hold\nA story waiting to unfold\nUntil the breath of someone near\nDissolves the fear of disappearing here\n\nNow resting soft against the skin\nWhere heartbeats start and end within\nThe snowflake finds its true design\nNot lost but meant to intertwine\n\nOne chance encounter, sharp and sweet\nWhere ice and fire gently meet\nIn that small space, the meaning grows\nAs love awakes from winter's freeze", 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.", "I ate the plums that were in the icebox\nand I know you were saving them for breakfast;\nI saw them in the icebox and I knew\nthey were probably being saved for breakfast,\nand I know they were delicious.\nThey were so sweet and juicy that I could not resist\neating them up, even though I knew\nyou were saving them for breakfast.\nI am very sorry.\nI did not mean to eat them.\nI hope you are not too angry with me.\nI will buy some more tomorrow.\nI will not do it again.", 6, "Forgive me, I could not resist\nThe plums in the fridge, cold and sweet.\nI knew you were saving them for breakfast,\nBut I ate them all up.\nI know they were beautiful,\nAnd I know you were looking forward to them,\nBut I had been eating nothing but bread and cheese\nFor three days, and I couldn't wait.\nI am very sorry.", 2, "I know they were yours for breakfast tomorrow,\nThe ones you washed and set aside so carefully\nIn the cool dark of the fridge.\nBut the smell was too sweet when I opened the door,\nA heavy perfume of summer that pulled me in,\nAnd I could not help myself.\nThey are gone now, all three of them,\nJuice sticky on my fingers and chin,\nA crime committed against your morning hunger.\nI am sorry, truly sorry,\nThat my weakness has stolen your treat,\nAnd I will buy more plums, better ones,\nTo make up for this theft before you wake.", 3, "I know you set them out with care\nTo save for morning light,\nA promise kept within the air\nBefore the dawn was bright.\n\nBut late last night the kitchen called\nWith shadows soft and deep,\nAnd through the glass the plumes enticed\nWhile all the house was asleep.\n\nTheir skin was dusted blue and sweet,\nA temptation I could not deny,\nSo one by one they met my heat\nBeneath the moon's cold eye.\n\nThe juice ran down upon my chin,\nA guilty, sticky stain,\nI knew that breakfast would begin\nWith nothing but a plain\n\nEmpty bowl where fruit should be,\nAnd silence in your place,\nForgive this hunger that ran free\nAcross the sacred space.\n\nI left the note beside the sink\nWith words of sorry true,\nFor every plum I dared to drink\nWas stolen just for you.", 6, "I know you set them on the shelf\nTo wait for morning light,\nA promise kept within yourself\nFor breakfast's quiet bite.\n\nBut something pulled me to the door\nWith hunger sharp and deep,\nAnd now they are no more\nThe fruit you meant to keep.\n\nTheir skin was cool against my thumb,\nA sweet and heavy weight,\nI could not make myself be numb\nOr turn away from fate.\n\nForgive the empty space they leave,\nThe guilt I cannot hide,\nIt was a small mistake to grieve\nAgainst the tide inside.\n\nI'll buy you more when sun returns,\nOr better ones than these,\nWhile here my lesson slowly burns\nOn hands that sought to seize.", 7, "I know they were saved for morning light\nA promise kept until the sun rose high\nBut hunger spoke in a voice so loud\nThat silence broke beneath my sigh\n\nThe fridge door opened, cold and bright\nRevealing fruit with skin of blue\nI told myself just one would be alright\nBut greed made two, then three, then few\n\nNow empty stems lie on the plate\nWhere sweetness once was meant to stay\nI cannot fix this stolen fate\nOr give the dawn back to your day\n\nForgive the hand that reached too deep\nFor plums that called my name aloud\nI'll carry guilt while you are asleep\nAnd leave the quiet, heavy crowd", 6, "The cold air held a promise you had made\nFor morning light and quiet bread to share\nBut I reached out with hands that could not stay\nAnd took the fruit suspended in the air\n\nI know they were reserved for your first bite\nA sweet reward before the day begins\nYet hunger whispered loud within the night\nAnd stole the plums from where they softly spin\n\nThe skin was bruised beneath my greedy touch\nA silent theft of something meant to wait\nNow empty space remains where once so much\nOf flavor lingered at the kitchen gate\n\nForgive the weight of crumbs upon the floor\nThe juice that stains the counter's clean design\nI cannot give these stolen fruits back anymore\nOnly this truth: I crossed the unseen line", 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 see you in the mirror but it is not you,\nYou are so beautiful and so strange,\nWith your new hair and your new clothes\nAnd your new opinions that make me look foolish.\nYou walk through the house like a stranger,\nYou do not kiss me when I come home,\nYou say \"Mother\" instead of \"Mamma.\"\nI think of you as a little girl with a blue frock\nRunning about the garden with a hoop,\nAnd I cannot believe that you are the same person.\nI am afraid that you will go on living\nAnd you will become somebody else entirely,\nSomebody who will never love me again.", 2, "I watch you pack your bags with bright, sharp things\nThat cut the air and leave me bleeding silence.\nYou are already turning into someone else,\nA stranger wearing my daughter's face,\nWalking a path I cannot see,\nWhere the light is different and the shadows do not reach.\n\nI fear the day you will look at me\nAnd not know why I am crying,\nOr worse, why I should be crying at all.\nYou will have new words for old feelings,\nNew reasons to be cold or kind,\nAnd I will be just a memory of softness\nThat you must outgrow to survive.\n\nDo not let the world make you hard,\nDo not let it teach you that love is a transaction\nOr that tenderness is a weakness to be hidden.\nIf you become someone who does not need me,\nSomeone who walks past me in the street\nWith eyes full of strangers' secrets,\nThen I will lose you twice:\nOnce when you leave this house,\nAnd once when you stop being my child.", 3, "I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know\nThe sharp new angles of a life that cuts away the softness\nYou used to be, before the world began to teach you how to harden.\nI fear the day your eyes will look through me like glass\nAnd see only a stranger standing in the hallway light.\nThey say you must grow wings to fly, but what if they are made of iron?\nWhat if the girl who loved the rain and stayed inside to read\nIs swallowed by the noise until she cannot hear her own name called?\nI am terrified of the version of you that returns\nWith a voice that is too steady and a heart that does not break\nFor the small, quiet tragedies of those left behind.\nI hold my breath waiting for the moment you forget\nHow to curl up on this sofa, how to ask for help, how to stay.\nI love the daughter I have known, but I am afraid\nOf the woman you are becoming, distant as a star\nThat burns so bright it blinds the ones who wait below.", 3, "I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know\nAnd wonder if the girl who slept against my chest\nWill ever fit inside the coat you're wearing now.\nThe mirror shows a stranger's eyes where mine once lived,\nA polished smile that hides the cracks I used to heal.\nYou speak of cities built on glass and steel and speed,\nOf futures made of concrete where the roots cannot take hold.\nI fear the day you turn to look and see no one there,\nJust echoes in a hallway where your laughter used to ring.\nYou are becoming someone else, a version I can't reach,\nWho walks through crowded rooms as if the air is thin.\nOh, let me be the anchor when the tide pulls hard away,\nBefore the woman you become forgets the child she was.\nI love the person you are now, but dread the one you'll find,\nSo distant and so perfect that I cannot recognize her face.", 6, "I watch you pack your bags with quiet hands\nAnd trace the map of roads I cannot know\nThe girl who used to sleep against my chest\nIs learning how to walk without a home\n\nYou speak in languages I never learned\nOf cities built on glass and shifting sand\nWhere shadows stretch too long to hold a child\nAnd light dissolves into a stranger's hand\n\nI fear the moment when your eyes look through me\nAs if I am a ghost from days gone by\nA memory that fades beneath the weight\nOf all the things you've chosen not to try\n\nThe warmth that bound us tight begins to cool\nReplaced by steel and distance, cold and deep\nI hold my breath and wait for you to turn\nBut see a face I do not recognize in sleep\n\nSo let me love you while you still are here\nBefore the world reshapes your gentle soul\nInto a vessel made of stone and ice\nThat no maternal heart can make whole", 6, "The mirror holds a stranger's face\nWhere once your laughter used to bloom\nYou walk with steps I cannot trace\nAway from this familiar room\n\nI watch the shadows start to grow\nAcross the features soft and bright\nA quiet cold begins to slow\nThe fire of our shared daylight\n\nYou speak in words I do not know\nOf worlds that pull you far away\nThe girl I loved begins to go\nInto a gray and endless day\n\nMy hands reach out but grasp at air\nAs silence fills the space between\nThere is no anchor left to bear\nThe weight of what has yet to be seen\n\nDo not forget the way we were\nBefore the wind could steal your name\nBefore the stars began to blur\nAnd everything became the same\n\nI fear the day you turn around\nTo see a ghost where I have stood\nWhen all the love we ever found\nIs lost inside a changing mood\n\nSo hold on tight to who you are\nBefore the light begins to fade\nBefore we drift so very far\nInto the mess we both have made", 7, "The mirror shows a stranger's face\nWhere once your laughter used to stay\nYou trade the warmth of home for space\nAnd drift so far from yesterday\n\nI watch you walk with head held high\nA silhouette I cannot trace\nBeneath a cold and distant sky\nThat steals the light from every place\n\nMy hands reach out to hold you tight\nBut grasp at smoke and fading air\nA shadow swallowed by the night\nLeaving nothing but despair\n\nDo you remember who we were\nBefore the world began to change?\nA fragile, trembling, quiet blur\nOf all that feels too strange to range\n\nI fear the day you turn away\nTo find a self I'll never know\nWhen words we spoke will fade to gray\nAnd silence grows where love should flow\n\nSo keep the door just slightly cracked\nIn case the wind begins to howl\nFor even in this heavy act\nI pray your heart remains unbound", 7], [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.", "I went to the Ning Nang Nong\nWhere the trees go Snoongoongoon\nAnd the teapots go Cooeeecooiee\nAnd the mice go Bing! Bing! Bing!\nAnd the cows go Boong! Boong! Boong!\nAnd the monkeys go Cling! Cling! Cling!\nAnd the frogs go Crooing! Crooing! Crooing!\nAnd the pigs go Gling! Gling! Gling!\nAnd the cuckoos go Quack! Quack! Quack!\nAnd the donkeys go Bingle-Bangle! Bingle-Bangle!\nAnd the sheep go Baa-Boing! Baa-Boing!\nAnd the goats go Bing! Bing! Bing!\nAnd the ducks go Squink! Squink! Squink!\nAnd the dogs go Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong!\nAnd the cats go Bing! Bing! Bing!\nAnd the rats go Spling! Spling! Spling!\nAnd the elephants go Boom! Boom! Boom!\nAnd the lions go Bing! Bing! Bing!\nAnd the tigers go Bing! Bing! Bing!\nAnd the kangaroos do not live there.", 1, "Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the trees go Bong,\nAnd the teapots go Ping Pong and the mice go Coo-Coo-Cong,\nThe trees are so tall they go Bong Bong Bong,\nAnd the teapots are small that go Ping Pong Ping,\nAnd the mice are so small that go Coo-Coo-Cong,\nBut when all three meet in the Ning Nang Nong,\nThey make such a noise that it goes Bang!\nAnd you think you have gone to the wrong place,\nBut you haven't because this is the right place,\nThis is the Ning Nang Nong.", 1, "In the Ning Nang Nong where the Coo-Coo birds go\nAnd the trees go Coo-Coo in the sun,\nThere's a tree that goes Coo-Coo and another that goes Coo-Coo\nAnd they all go Coo-Coo one by one.\n\nAnd the teapots go Ping-Ping on the floor,\nAnd the mice go Squeak-Squeak in the grass,\nBut the biggest noise of all is the Plop-Plop-Plop\nOf the giant penguins as they pass.\n\nThe cows go Moo-Moo in the mud,\nThe pigs go Oink-Oink in the rain,\nBut the loudest sound is the Clank-Clank-Clank\nOf the metal lions with their chain.\n\nSo come to the Ning Nang Nong, my friend,\nWhere the noises never stop or cease,\nWith a Bang-Bang here and a Whizz-Whizz there,\nIt is the noisiest place for peace.", 1, "Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the grass goes gloop,\nThe teapots go clippity-clack and the trees go whoop.\nA mouse with a hat comes scurrying by,\nSqueaking a zizz-zazz-zoo beneath the sky.\n\nThe branches go rattle-bang-boom in the air,\nWhile pots on the stove start a musical flare,\nWith a whistle of whee and a pop of plip,\nMaking a sound like a giant's big slip.\n\nOh, listen to mice that go chitter-chatter-chew,\nAs they dance on the roof of a house made of blue.\nThe world is so loud with a buzz and a hum,\nIn the Ning Nang Nong where the wild noises come.", 1, "Deep in the valley where the wind goes bloop\nThe Ning Nang Nong wakes with a sudden whoop\nThe trees do not rustle or whisper or sigh\nBut clack-clack and crash as they reach for the sky\nA teapot on fire begins to hum-zing\nSinging a song that makes the whole forest ring\nIt spits out a sputter, a hiss, and a pop\nWhile bubbles go plop from the very top\nA mouse in the corner lets out a squeak-bang\nAs he dances a jig on a wooden plank\nHe chatters and rattles and clicks with his teeth\nThen tumbles down soft with a gentle wraith of breath\nThe ground goes thump-thump under feet made of fluff\nAs clouds puff and grumble above in a huff\nNo silence can live in this wild, noisy place\nJust a cacophony of sound all over the space\nSo listen closely to the strange, sweet noise\nOf the Ning Nang Nong and its chaotic joys", 2, "Deep in the woods where the Ning Nang Nong grows\nThe wind hums a low and a wobbly moan\nThe trees do not rustle but clang with a *bong*\nAs branches collide with a heavy, soft thong\n\nA teapot on fire lets out a sharp *screech*\nWhile steam from its spout makes a *plop* and a *peach*\nIt bubbles and burps with a gurgling *glug*\nPouring hot tea into cups made of rug\n\nThen tiny gray mice with their whiskers so long\nLet out a high *zip* in a chaotic song\nThey squeak like a violin, *whee* and *whir*\nRunning in circles that spin and blur\n\nThe ground goes *thump-thump* as footsteps appear\nWhile clouds overhead make a sound like a cheer\nIn this noisy place where the logic is gone\nWe dance to the rhythm of the Ning Nang Nong", 2, "The wind blows soft with a hush and hum\nAs shadows stretch where the silence comes\nBut deep within the Ning Nang Nong\nA chaotic song begins to throng\n\nThe trees above begin to creak\nWith wooden groans that start to speak\nThey whisper low of rustling leaves\nAnd secrets that the forest weaves\n\nA teapot sits upon the stone\nIts whistle sharp, a lonely tone\nIt spits a hiss of steamy air\nWhile bubbles dance in empty space there\n\nSmall mice scurry through the grass\nTheir tiny feet make quiet pass\nYet every step brings clatter loud\nLike thunder breaking through a cloud\n\nThe world is built on sound and rhyme\nWhere logic bends against the time\nNo map can guide or compass turn\nJust lessons that the ears must learn\n\nSo listen close to every beat\nTo find the rhythm in the street\nOf creatures made of noise and light\nThat fill the endless, starless night", 5], [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.", "I stood and watched the heavy clouds roll by\nLike a great black army marching on the night,\nWhen suddenly the moon broke through the sky\nWith such a majesty of sudden light\nThat all the dark was scattered like a dream;\nThe sky was full of silver radiance,\nAnd I, who had been walking in the gleam\nOf that huge presence, silently did pause.\nMy mind went quietly musing on the force\nSo powerful and ever-present there above me,\nThat even when it is hidden from my sight\nIt is still there and working for my good.", 7, "The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud\nOf shifting gray where no star dared to peep,\nWhen suddenly the wind blew soft and loud\nAnd tore the curtain from the world's deep sleep.\n\nThere broke the moon, a silver ship unmoored,\nThat split the dark with radiance pure and cold;\nHer light poured down, a silent, sacred hoard,\nTo turn the night to day, or so it seemed to hold.\n\nShe flooded sky and earth with sudden grace,\nWhile clouds fled back in tattered, ragged flight,\nAs if her presence cleared a holy space\nWithin the vast and velvet arms of night.\n\nI stood alone and watched that sovereign queen\nCommand the shadows to retreat and bow,\nAnd felt my wandering thoughts grow still and clean\nBefore this ancient, ever-present power now.\n\nSo great she is, so constant and so bright,\nThough hidden oft by storms that rage below,\nShe waits within the fabric of the night,\nA force that only needs to rise to glow.", 7, "The traveler stands beneath a heavy shroud\nOf shifting gray where no star dares to gleam,\nUntil the moon breaks through the thunder cloud\nWith sudden light that floods the silent stream.\n\nA silver spear pierces the velvet night\nAnd paints the world in hues of ghostly white,\nWhile clouds retreat before her radiant might\nTo leave the sky a vast and holy sight.\n\nMy mind grows quiet as I watch her rise,\nA timeless force above the sleeping earth,\nThat rules the tides and lights the weary eyes\nSince first the world was born of dust and mirth.\n\nShe does not speak, yet speaks a power deep,\nAn ever-present guardian while we sleep.", 7, "The heavy veil of night hangs low and thick,\nA curtain drawn to hide the stars from sight,\nUntil a sudden tear within the cloud\nReveals the moon in all its silver light.\n\nIt breaks the gloom with beams both sharp and soft,\nAnd paints the shadows on the weary ground,\nWhile I stand still beneath this vast display,\nWhere silence is the only sound I've found.\n\nMy mind drifts out to trace that ancient glow,\nA force so strong yet gentle in its grace,\nThat watches over earth since time began,\nWith quiet power in its steady face.\n\nNo storm can keep it from the sky above,\nNo darkness holds it back from rising high,\nAn ever-present witness to my steps,\nBeneath the endless arch of midnight sky.", 7, "The road was lost in heavy gray\nWhen silence held the breath of night\nUntil a silver edge gave way\nTo pierce the veil of endless flight\n\nA sudden breach, a blinding white\nThat tore the shroud of storm and gloom\nAnd poured its cold and holy light\nAcross the vast and sleeping room\n\nNo sound could match this silent power\nAs clouds retreated, torn apart\nRevealing beauty hour by hour\nWithin the traveler's quiet heart\n\nI stand beneath this ancient gaze\nThat watches all with steady grace\nThrough shifting days and fading daze\nA constant force in time and space\n\nMy mind grows still, no words to speak\nBefore the orb that rules the deep\nIt leaves the soul both weak and strong\nWith promises it means to keep", 7, "The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud\nOf shifting gray that choked the starry deep\nUntil a silver edge began to break\nAnd tear the velvet curtain from its sleep\n\nA sudden flood of pale and ancient light\nPours through the gaps where darkness dared to cling\nIt paints the dust upon my weary boots\nWith grace that makes the silent mountains sing\n\nI stand alone beneath this vast display\nAs clouds retreat before the lunar throne\nNo voice is raised to claim this quiet power\nYet I am small within its gentle zone\n\nMy thoughts drift slow like smoke above the ground\nTo wonder at the force that never sleeps\nAn ever-present eye that watches all\nWhile I just watch the majesty it keeps", 7, "The road is long and shadows stretch so deep\nAcross the valley where the silence sleeps\nA sudden tear in velvet, heavy gray\nReveals a silver eye that starts to play\n\nIt breaks the storm with light both soft and fierce\nTurning the night into a quiet verse\nNo sound can match this ancient, glowing sphere\nThat pulls the tide and holds the atmosphere\n\nI stand alone beneath its vast command\nA tiny speck within a boundless land\nAnd feel the weight of time that never ends\nAs moonlight weaves through all the broken bends\n\nMy thoughts grow still as clouds begin to part\nLeaving a calm inside my weary heart\nFor something greater than the self I know\nRemains above where winds and waters flow", 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.", "I draw my strength from boundless faith in God,\nAnd therefore am I not afraid of death;\nThough he should come to-morrow, or the next day,\nOr a hundred years hence, I am ready.\nI am not afraid of temptation,\nFor though it should come in the guise of an angel of light,\nIt could not deceive me;\nFor I know in whom I have believed.\nNeither am I afraid of any earthly force;\nFor what can flesh and blood do unto me?\nThey can kill the body, but they cannot kill the soul;\nThey can put me out of the world, but they cannot put me out of the world to come.\nNothing shall be able to separate me from the love of God,\nWhich is in Christ Jesus our Lord.\nThe love of God is greater far\nThan tongue or pen can ever tell;\nIt goes beyond the highest star,\nAnd reaches to the lowest hell;\nThe guilty pair, bowed down with care,\nGod gave His only Son to save;\nBut He is more than that to me:\nHe is peace, and joy, and heaven above.", 3, "My heart is anchored in a boundless trust,\nSo deep and vast that death itself must bow;\nThe grave can claim the body's weary dust,\nBut cannot touch the soul I consecrate now.\n\nLet temptation whisper soft and sweetly near,\nWith alluring promises of fleeting gain;\nI hear the voice that calls me from afar,\nAnd walk unshaken through the wind and rain.\n\nNo earthly force, however fierce or strong,\nCan break the chain that binds me to my Lord;\nFor right or wrong, where'er I may belong,\nHis limitless love remains my sure reward.\n\nThough mountains crumble and the seas run dry,\nAnd stars fall down like withered leaves in autumn air,\nThat divine love will never cease nor die,\nBut lift me up beyond all human care.", 7, "When shadows stretch to swallow up the light\nAnd death stands knocking at my trembling door,\nI do not shrink nor turn my face from fright,\nFor I have seen the glory evermore.\nNo siren song of sin can make me bend,\nNo whispered lie can shake this firm resolve,\nMy anchor holds within the eternal end,\nWhere all my broken pieces are absolved.\n\nLet empires rise and crumble into dust,\nLet mountains sink and oceans cease to roar,\nIn God alone is placed my perfect trust,\nA fortress built upon a solid shore.\nFor what can touch the soul that knows His grace?\nWhat force on earth can break the divine chain?\nNo weapon forged in time can leave a trace,\nAgainst the love that conquers every pain.\n\nThe waves may crash against the rocky steep,\nThe winds may howl and tear the heavens wide,\nBut I will sleep while others watch and weep,\nSecure within the Father's loving side.\nHis power flows like rivers through the stone,\nHis mercy vast as stars above the night,\nI walk alone yet never feel alone,\nBathed in the warmth of everlasting light.", 7, "The shadow of the grave holds no command\nFor I have seen the light beyond the sand\nAnd in that glow, the fear of ending dies\nReplaced by hope that burns within my eyes\n\nWhen whispers try to lure me from the path\nI hear a voice that silences the wrath\nNo siren song can break this sacred chain\nFor love has washed away the stain of pain\n\nLet earth shake deep and let the mountains fall\nNo force on high or low can breach the wall\nThat stands between the soul and endless night\nBuilt firm upon the power of divine light\n\nMy heart is anchored in a boundless sea\nWhere death itself bows down to liberty\nSo let the tempest rage and winds collide\nThere is no power greater than the tide\nOf grace that lifts me when the world grows cold\nA story written in a love untold", 7, "The shadow of the grave cannot take hold\nWhen light within my spirit burns so bright,\nFor in the silence, I have been told\nThat death is but a door to endless light.\nNo whisper of the serpent's ancient lie\nCan shake the ground where holy feet have trod,\nI lift my gaze above the stormy sky\nAnd find my safety resting close to God.\n\nLet earth and sea and every force combine\nTo break the chain that binds me to His grace,\nBut none can sever what was made divine,\nOr steal the peace written upon my face.\nThe love that holds the stars in place above\nIs stronger than the fear that men create,\nA boundless, deep, and unrelenting love\nThat guards the soul against all earthly fate.\n\nSo let the tempest rage and mountains fall,\nNo power on this side of heaven can win,\nFor He who calls me by my name through all\nHas already conquered every sin.\nMy heart remains unbroken and unafraid\nWithin the fortress of His endless might,\nBy faith alone, I stand and am not swayed,\nProtected by the dawn of eternal light.", 7, "The shadow stretches long across the floor\nYet I do not tremble at the closing door\nFor in my chest a light burns bright and deep\nA promise that the weary soul will keep\n\nNo whisper of the dark can steal my peace\nWhen every storm has finally found its cease\nThe tempter calls with voices soft and sweet\nBut finds no purchase on these holy feet\n\nLet death approach with silence or with sound\nIt cannot shake the ground where grace is bound\nFor love that flows from realms beyond the sky\nWill lift the fallen spirit to the high\n\nEarth's might may crumble into dust and sand\nBut nothing holds against this guiding hand\nThe chains of fear dissolve within the flame\nOf one who knows the Father's endless name", 7, "The shadow falls but cannot touch the light\nThat burns within a soul so deeply held\nNo whisper of the dark can dim the sight\nOf promises that time has never quelled\n\nI walk through valleys where the silence grows\nYet hear a voice that calls me by my name\nThe fear of ending fades before it blows\nReplaced by fire that no storm could tame\n\nLet temptations rise like waves against the shore\nThey break upon the rock of grace and truth\nFor I have seen what lies beyond the door\nAnd found eternal life in morning's proof\n\nNo chain of earth can bind this spirit free\nNo weapon forged by hands of mortal men\nCan sever what was written wild and deep\nA love that rises up to start again\n\nSo let the world collapse beneath my feet\nI stand unshaken in the endless tide\nWith boundless trust that makes the heart complete\nWhere death itself is nothing but a guide", 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 fire is not in the chest but in the lungs,\nIt burns them out like a candle in a draught,\nAnd I am that candle,\nMy body a guttering waxen thing.\nI do not cough because I want to;\nI cough because I cannot help it.\nIt is a violent convulsion that tears my ribs apart,\nAs if they were bird-cages and the bird inside was beating\nIts wings against the wire.\nWhen I lie down at night I have to sit up,\nBecause if I lie flat I choke.\nThen I must get up and walk about the room\nLike a cat with its tail on fire.\nOr like a man who has put his hand into a fire\nAnd cannot keep it there, nor yet take it away.\nI have to go on breathing all the time,\nBut I can't breathe.\nThat is the point.\nI have to go on breathing, but I can't.\nI cannot draw breath enough to say so.\nIf I could just draw breath enough to say so!\nBut I cannot.\nI have to go on drawing breath, but I can't.\nI have to go on drawing breath, but I can't.\nI have to go on drawing breath, but I can't.", 2, "The air is thick as wool, a heavy gray\nThat fills the hollows where the light should be,\nAnd every breath is borrowed from the day\nWith interest paid in gasps of agony.\n\nMy ribs are bars that tighten with each cough,\nA cage of bone that grinds against the lung,\nWhile fire runs its hot and frantic path\nAlong the branches of the bronchial tongue.\n\nThe skin grows thin, a parchment stretched too tight,\nTo show the blue veins mapping out the map,\nBut underneath, the oxygen takes flight\nAnd leaves the blood to stumble on its lap.\n\nMy fingers curl like claws to grip the sheet,\nThe nails turn purple as the current slows,\nAnd sweat hangs cold upon my burning face,\nAs life retreats to where the river flows.\n\nI hear the rattle in the hollow chest,\nA tiny bell that rings for no one now,\nThe lungs are sacks of water, heavy, wet,\nThat drag the spirit down beneath the bough.\n\nThe ceiling spins, the shadows start to close,\nThe air is gone, the water fills the space,\nAnd I am sinking slowly through the deep,\nInto the quiet of the drowning place.", 6, "The air arrives as a thief in the night\nstealing the breath I paid for with sleep\na tightness that coils like a rusted wire\naround ribs that ache to expand and leap.\n\nEach morning brings a rattle, a wet, heavy sound\nof water filling rooms meant for wind\nwhere lungs were once vast fields of white down\nnow shrunk to two stones, gray and grim.\n\nMy fingers curl into blue-tipped claws\nthe blood runs slow through a clogged-up vein\nand every step is a mountain I draw\nup slopes of dust in a phantom rain.\n\nThe chest becomes a cage of leaden bars\nthat clank against the heart's frantic beat\nwhile stars above mock the hollow scars\nand silence grows where the coughs should meet.\n\nI watch the mirror and see a ghost\nwhose skin is paper, thin and translucent\ntrapped in a body I love but most\nis failing me, slowly, and thus insistent.\n\nThe darkness creeps from the soles of my feet\nup past the knees where the weakness takes hold\nit wraps around the throat with a gentle heat\nand turns the final story to mold.\n\nThere is no fight left in this brittle frame\nonly the waiting for the last, shallow sigh\nas the fire dims and the light goes lame\nand the world fades out with a quiet cry.", 6, "The air grows thick as wool inside the chest\nA heavy blanket pressed against the ribs\nWhere every breath becomes a desperate quest\nTo pull the oxygen from hollow sobs and gibes\n\nMy lungs are jars of rusted, jagged glass\nThat grind with every inhale, sharp and deep\nThey hold the smoke of winters that will pass\nWhile I lie down to watch the shadows creep\n\nThe skin turns gray like ash upon the fire\nThe fingers curl in claws of brittle bone\nA burning thirst that no cool drink can quire\nAs strength retreats to some forgotten zone\n\nI feel the weight of water in the veins\nThat slows the heart to beats of distant drums\nA slow descent through unrelenting rains\nUntil the final silence gently comes\n\nNo longer can the chest expand or rise\nThe struggle fades into a quiet space\nWith closing eyes and fading, failing cries\nI leave this world behind without a trace", 6, "The air grows thick as honey in the throat\nA heavy stone that settles deep inside\nEach breath a war, a desperate, ragged note\nWhere silence tries to steal the will to hide\n\nThe ribs become a cage of brittle bone\nThat creaks beneath the weight of empty space\nWhile fever paints a ghost upon the throne\nAnd time slows down within this hollow place\n\nMy hands turn pale as winter frost descends\nThe strength I knew dissolves into the dust\nA quiet war where every moment ends\nIn gasps that taste of iron and of rust\n\nThe light fades soft behind a curtain gray\nAs lungs forget the rhythm of the tide\nI watch the final colors drift away\nWith nowhere left for weary hearts to hide\n\nThe body bows beneath its own decline\nA vessel cracking under silent strain\nNo longer mine, no longer truly mine\nJust waiting for the rain to wash the pain", 6, "The air grows thick with dust and gray\nA heavy weight that won't decay\nEach breath a battle, sharp and deep\nWhile weary lungs refuse to sleep\n\nThe chest becomes a cage of bone\nWhere silence claims what once was known\nA rattle rises in the throat\nAs hope begins to quietly float\n\nThe skin turns pale, the fingers thin\nWith every struggle, loss within\nThe body fades beneath the strain\nOf wind that breaks against the rain\n\nNo strength remains to stand upright\nJust fading light into the night\nA final gasp, a quiet sound\nAs earth reclaims what cannot be found", 7, "The air grows thick and heavy in the chest\nA weight that presses down upon the bone\nEach breath a battle fought against the rest\nOf what was once a rhythm, now unknown\n\nThe ribs begin to ache with every sigh\nAs hollow spaces stretch too wide and deep\nThe fire burns behind a fading eye\nWhile silence steals the promises we keep\n\nMy hands grow cold as winter claims the skin\nThe color drains from cheeks that used to glow\nA quiet war begins beneath the din\nWhere life retreats and currents cease to flow\n\nThe lungs collapse like paper in the rain\nNo song remains to lift the spirit high\nJust echoes of a long forgotten strain\nBeneath a gray and unforgiving sky\n\nI feel the slow descent into the night\nWhere shadows dance and time loses its name\nThe final spark dissolves without a light\nLeaving only dust and endless, silent shame", 7], [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.", "I woke to the smell of open air,\nA scent like rain though it had not rained,\nAnd breathed it in as I would a draught of wine;\nThe sky was so high and blue and empty,\nIt made me feel as if I were an ant\nLooking up at the sky from under a leaf.\nI heard birds singing, but there was no noise;\nThere was nothing else to hear.\nI walked about and looked at things:\nThe green grass, the yellow gorse,\nA white cloud going over the hill,\nA blackbird hopping on the lawn.\nI felt so happy that I could not speak.\nI went home again without knowing how the day went by.", 2, "The concrete canyon fades behind the glass,\nAnd suddenly the wind is free and wild,\nNo longer trapped by walls of steel and brass,\nBut rushing past me like a happy child.\nI breathe the air that smells of loam and rain,\nA sudden joy expands within my chest,\nAs if my lungs had been in pain,\nAnd now are healed and given perfect rest.\n\nAbove, the open sky is vast and blue,\nWith clouds that drift without a care or sound,\nWhile overhead a lark sings clear and true,\nAnd thrushes pipe their notes all around.\nI watch the shadows lengthen on the grass,\nThe golden light begins to turn to grey,\nI do not know exactly how the hours pass,\nFor I have been too busy just to play.\n\nThe day slips by unnoticed in this bliss,\nNo ticking clock, no traffic's angry roar,\nJust nature's sweet and simple happiness,\nUntil I must return to city floor.\nBack to the noise, back to the narrow street,\nWith memories of birdsong in my ear,\nAnd open skies beneath my tired feet,\nTo keep me calm until the next year.", 7, "The concrete hum that lived inside my bones\nHas faded to a whisper, then to silence,\nReplaced by wind that moves through open fields\nAnd carries scents of damp and ancient soil.\n\nI breathe it in, this air unfiltered, clean,\nThat fills the hollow spaces of my chest,\nWhile overhead the sky is vast and blue,\nA dome so high no roof could ever hold it.\n\nA thrush begins a song I do not know,\nYet understand it perfectly within,\nAs if the melody was written just\nTo match the rhythm of my beating heart.\n\nI watch the clouds drift slowly past the sun,\nUnhurried, free from schedules and from clocks,\nUntil I turn to find the light has changed,\nAnd shadows stretch across the grassy lane.\n\nThe day has slipped away without a sound,\nNo minutes counted, none of them missed,\nJust joy enough to fill the journey home,\nBefore the city lights begin to glow.", 6, "The concrete hum fades into silence deep\nAs I step past the fence where wild grasses sweep\nNo longer bound by walls of gray and steel\nI breathe the air that makes the spirit feel\nA sudden lightness in my chest unfurled\nFar from the rush of this electric world\n\nAbove, the sky is vast and unconfined\nA canvas painted with no human mind\nJust endless blue that stretches far and wide\nWith not a single cloud to hide or slide\nThen comes the song, a melody so clear\nThat washes every worry from my ear\nThe birds call out in voices bright and true\nSinging a dawn that belongs only to you\n\nTime loses shape beneath the ancient trees\nWhere sunlight dances on the cooling breeze\nI watch the hours drift like smoke away\nWithout a clock to mark the passing day\nThe joy is simple, raw, and purely sweet\nTo feel the earth beneath my wandering feet\nBut shadows lengthen as the sun grows low\nAnd soft twilight begins its gentle flow\n\nI turn my face toward the distant road\nCarrying the quiet in my heavy load\nThe city waits with all its lights and noise\nYet I return with nature's hidden poise\nThe day has slipped, unnoticed, through my hands\nLeaving behind the peace of open lands", 6, "The concrete hum fades into silence soft and deep\nAs pavement turns to soil beneath my weary feet\nNo sirens scream against the morning light\nOnly the wind that whispers through the wheat\n\nI breathe a air so crisp it fills my lungs with gold\nA sudden joy that city walls could never hold\nAbove, the sky stretches wide and endless blue\nWhere clouds drift slow and paint the world anew\n\nA chorus rises from the branches high and green\nOf birdsong pure, the sweetest sound I've ever seen\nThey dance on currents of the open, gentle breeze\nWhile time dissolves among the swaying trees\n\nThe hours slip away like water through my hands\nUnnoticed moments in these quiet, sacred lands\nThe sun begins its descent toward the hills\nAnd shadows lengthen where the daylight spills\n\nYet as the evening draws a curtain round the land\nI carry home this peace within my hand\nThe city waits, but now I know the way\nTo find the wild whenever night turns day", 7, "Concrete walls that held my breath\nDissolve beneath a morning sky so wide\nWhere silence breaks with songs of life\nAnd ancient trees stand side by side\n\nThe air is sharp and sweet to taste\nNo exhaust fumes, no distant hum\nJust golden light on fields of green\nAs time begins to gently come\n\nI watch the clouds drift slow and deep\nAcross a canvas vast and blue\nWhile city clocks forget their tick\nIn this quiet, sacred view\n\nA sparrow calls a welcome sound\nThat echoes in my open chest\nLeaving behind the noise below\nTo find a moment of pure rest\n\nBut shadows stretch across the grass\nAs afternoon turns into gray\nThe magic fades but not the peace\nThat lingers in the heart today\n\nI turn back toward the road ahead\nWith pockets full of earth and light\nCarrying the wild and free\nInto the coming of the night", 6, "The concrete fades beneath a softer tread\nAs silence breaks the noise inside my head\nNo sirens scream, no engines hum their tune\nJust golden light that stretches past the moon\n\nI breathe the air, so crisp and wild and free\nA sudden weight lifts from my weary knee\nThe canopy of leaves begins to sway\nAnd whispers secrets that the trees convey\n\nAbove, the clouds drift slow and unconfined\nWhile ancient rhythms steady in my mind\nA chorus rises from the hidden grove\nWhere every note is born of love above\n\nThe hours melt like dew upon the grass\nAs shadows lengthen through the tall green grass\nI watch the sun dip low with quiet grace\nLeaving behind a warm and gentle trace\n\nBut twilight calls the wanderer back again\nTo trade this peace for steel and window pane\nYet in my chest, a spark will softly burn\nFor nature's gift I'll never truly turn", 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 French hats and the Italian shoes\nAnd learned to walk with a limp so he would look cool,\nHe wore the English clothes and the American ties\nAnd learned to talk with a lisp so he would look wise,\nAnd when he went out in his imported clothes\nThe people looked at him and said: \"How do you do?\"\nBut they didn't like him because he had a limp;\nThey didn't like him because he had a lisp.\nSo he gave up the French hats and the Italian shoes,\nAnd he gave up the English clothes and the American ties,\nAnd he gave up talking with a lisp and walking with a limp,\nAnd he went back to being a nigger.", 2, "He buys the leather from Florence and the silk from Kyoto\nTucks them tight into a suit that costs more than his father's house\nAnd walks with a swagger he learned from a movie screen\nTrying to melt into the pavement of this wide American street.\nHe speaks in a cadence borrowed from a TV host\nSmooths his hair until it looks like plastic\nAnd laughs at jokes he does not understand\nJust to hear the sound of his own voice blending in.\nHe forgets the rhythm of the drum that used to wake him up\nThe smell of the yam boiling in the clay pot\nThe way his mother's hands smelled of earth and rain\nReplaced now by the scent of expensive cologne and city exhaust.\nHe thinks if he wears the right shoes he can walk on air\nIf he says the right words he can fly away\nBut when the sun goes down and the lights go out\nHe stands alone in a room full of strangers\nLooking at his reflection in the mirror\nAnd sees a man who has lost the map to his own soul\nA ghost in a foreign costume\nStanding on soil that is not his own\nWaiting for a home that he left behind.", 2, "He buttons up the silk shirt from Milan\nthinking it will smooth the rough edges of his skin\nand hide the history written in the curve of his jaw\nhe buys sneakers that cost more than his father's truck\njust to walk lightly on the pavement of a city\nthat watches him with narrowed, suspicious eyes\nhe practices the slang he heard on television\nmodulates his voice to sound less like the church\nand more like the boardroom or the bar\nhe forgets the rhythm of the porch swing\nthe taste of gumbo simmering for three days\nthe way his grandmother said \"bless your heart\"\nas a shield and not a weapon\nnow he stands in front of the mirror adjusting the tie\nimported from Paris, stitched by hands he never met\nwondering why the reflection looks so polished\nyet so hollow\nwhy the coolness feels like a heavy coat in summer\nwhy he cannot remember the song his mother hummed\nonly the jingle of the credit card swiping through the machine\nhe is becoming a mannequin in a window display\ndressed in the world but empty inside\nwaiting for someone to notice him\nwhile forgetting who he was before he started trying\nto fit into a frame that was never built for him.", 2, "He bought the silk from Milan\nand stitched the name in gold thread tight\nover a chest that used to beat\nto drums of ancient, dusty night.\n\nHe speaks in slang he heard on screens\na curated, imported cool\nwhile ignoring how his mother weeps\nbeneath a quiet, rural rule.\n\nThe sneakers cost a week's pay\nfrom factories far across the sea\nbut hide the calluses and scars\nof hands that worked the soil for free.\n\nHe laughs at jokes he doesn't know\njust to blend into the crowd\nafraid that if he drops the mask\nhis true self might be too loud.\n\nThe mirror shows a stranger now\nin designer shades so dark\nthat block the sun from seeing who\nhe was before he lost his mark.\n\nThe roots are deep but unwatered now\nreplaced by plastic, foreign vines\nas he dances on a stage of glass\nforgetting where the bloodline shines.", 6, "He ties the silk from Lagos tight around his neck\nA foreign knot to hide the sweat of doubt\nThe sneakers imported from a distant street\nAre heavy on his feet, too stiff to run\nHe speaks in slang he heard on screens and not at home\nWhere elders spoke of soil and rising sun\nHis laughter sounds rehearsed, a practiced sound\nTo match the rhythm of a city that demands\nA version of himself he does not know\nWhile ancestors whisper through the cracks in glass\nOf windows he has built to keep them out\nHe wears the mask of cool with perfect grace\nBut feels the cold seep deep into his bones\nFor every brand he buys to prove his worth\nIs just a brick that walls him from the truth\nThe roots he severed grow no fruit today\nJust hollow echoes in a crowded room\nWhere he stands tall in clothes not made for him\nAnd waits for someone else to call his name", 3, "He buys the leather from a distant shore\nTo hide the skin that knows the dust of home\nA tailored suit to mask the ancient roar\nOf voices lost beneath a foreign dome\n\nThe sneakers imported cost a month of rent\nA shield against the judgment in the street\nHe walks with steps he thinks are confident\nBut feels the rhythm fading from his feet\n\nHe speaks a slang that isn't truly his\nMimicking the cool he sees on screens\nWhile memories of grandmothers grow dim\nAnd silence fills the spaces in between\n\nThe mirror shows a stranger wearing gold\nA curated image, polished and precise\nBut deep inside the story goes untold\nAs roots begin to wither in the ice\n\nHe trades the song for something trendy new\nBelieving this is how to finally belong\nYet every borrowed piece feels cold and true\nThat he has sung the wrong and silent song", 6, "The mirror shows a stranger in a tailored suit\nImported threads that whisper foreign names\nHe walks with rhythm borrowed from the street\nBut forgets the drumbeat of his ancestral claims\nA gold chain heavy on a chest so cold\nReflecting lights that never truly warm the soul\nHe trades the stories elders used to hold\nFor trends that rise and vanish, out of control\n\nThe city calls him forward, sharp and bright\nYet silence grows where memory once stood\nHe paints a mask of coolness in the night\nAfraid to show the truth of what he should\nEach step away feels like a quiet theft\nOf soil that fed the roots beneath his skin\nLeaving only echoes of a self bereft\nAs outer shine begins to wear within\n\nThe fabric tightens round a fading face\nNo longer knowing who he used to be\nSearching for a home in empty space\nBetween the dream and reality\nHe stands alone amidst the crowd so loud\nWith hollow eyes and hands that grasp at air\nA ghost inside a shell, lost and unbound\nForgetful of the love that was once there", 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 used to think you were the sky\nand I was the bird that flew in it,\nbut now I know you are the sky\nand I am the bird that flies under it.\n\nSometimes I fly too high and get scared\nbecause the sky is so big and I am so little,\nand then I fly too low and get scared\nbecause the sky is so blue and I am so dirty.\n\nBut when I am really scared\nI go into your lap and cry\nand you say \"Don't cry\" and you give me a handkerchief\nand I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief.\n\nAnd sometimes you hit me\nand I say \"You hit me!\" and I cry\nand you say \"Don't cry\" and you give me a handkerchief\nand I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief.\n\nAnd sometimes you forget to feed me\nand I say \"You forgot to feed me!\" and I cry\nand you say \"Don't cry\" and you give me a handkerchief\nand I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief.\n\nAnd sometimes you forget to take me to school\nand I say \"You forgot to take me to school!\" and I cry\nand you say \"Don't cry\" and you give me a handkerchief\nand I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief.\n\nAnd sometimes you tell me I am stupid\nand I say \"You told me I was stupid!\" and I cry\nand you say \"Don't cry\" and you give me a handkerchief\nand I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief.\n\nAnd sometimes you tell me I am a liar\nand I say \"You told me I was a liar!\" and I cry\nand you say \"Don't cry\" and you give me a handkerchief\nand I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief.\n\nAnd sometimes you tell me I am a thief\nand I say \"You told me I was a thief!\" and I cry\nand you say \"Don't cry\" and you give me a handkerchief\nand I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief.\n\nAnd sometimes you tell me I am a good boy\nand I say \"You told me I was a good boy!\" and I cry\nand you say \"Don't cry\" and you give me a handkerchief\nand I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief.", 2, "I learned the sky was blue before I knew your name\nand gravity held tight before I understood your hands\nyou were the first world I entered, a warm and sudden room\nwhere milk was magic and the dark was not to fear\n\nThen came the years of testing, the small and sharp retreats\nwhen I would hide behind the chair or run into the rain\nto see if you would follow, to see if love had limits\nif you would let me fall apart or catch me in the net\n\nYou taught me that the door could close but not stay shut forever\nthat anger is a storm that passes through the house\nand silence is a heavy coat we sometimes need to wear\nbut underneath it, something steady beats against the ribs\n\nNow I am older than the child who hid behind the chair\nand I can see the work it took to keep the trust alive\nthe patience in your waiting, the strength within your letting go\nso I can find my own way out and still come home again", 3, "The door is a heavy thing at first\na wooden wall that keeps the storm outside\nand you are small and I am giant\nstanding between you and the wind.\n\nYou learn my hands by their temperature\nby how they catch you when the floor rushes up\nby how they smooth the sheets when the night is long.\nI learn your silence, the way it grows\nlike a vine around a fence post, tight and green.\n\nSometimes I say no and the world cracks open\nand you look at me with eyes full of questions\nthat have no words yet to hold them.\nYou test the edge of my promise\nlike a child testing the edge of a cliff\nto see if the ground will hold.\n\nIt does, mostly.\nWe build a bridge of small routines\nmilk in the morning, stories at night\nthe secret handshake that means everything is safe.\nThere are days the bridge sways in the wind\nwhen I am tired or you are hurt\nand the trust wobbles like a loose plank.\n\nBut we step back on together.\nYou reach for my hand without looking down\nand I know now that you are not just mine\nbut you are also yours, and I am learning\nhow to let go just enough to hold on.", 2, "Small hands reach out to test the air\nBefore they learn that arms are there\nTo catch the stumble, hold the fear\nAnd make the trembling heart feel near\n\nAt first the world is sharp and loud\nA storm of voices in a crowd\nThen softness comes in quiet tones\nThe safety found in familiar zones\n\nI watch you watch me, eyes so wide\nTo see if love has nowhere to hide\nIf promises are made of stone\nOr if they grow like seeds we've sown\n\nSometimes I pull away to fly\nJust to see if you will cry\nOr wait with patience deep and true\nUntil I know what trust can do\n\nIt builds a bridge from step to step\nWhere secrets are not kept or kept\nBut shared like light across the floor\nBetween the child and something more\n\nNo longer just a separate space\nBut two who meet in time and place\nA bond that shifts and learns to bend\nOn which our whole young lives depend", 6, "Small hands reach out to test the air\nFor warmth that lingers in a chair\nA father's voice, a mother's smile\nThat stays a while and walks a mile\n\nSometimes the door is shut too tight\nAnd shadows stretch into the night\nThe question hangs upon the tongue\nOf words unspoken, softly sung\n\nIs love a thing that comes and goes?\nOr steady as the river flows?\nI watch them speak in hushed tones low\nTo see if they will let me know\n\nThat when I stumble on the floor\nThey do not turn and walk away more\nBut kneel down close to meet my gaze\nThrough all the quiet, shifting days\n\nThe trust is built in tiny threads\nIn promises by bedtime said\nNot grand or loud but soft and deep\nA vow they mean to always keep\n\nSo I step forward, brave and new\nBelieving in the bond we grew\nBetween the child and those who stay\nTo guide me through the light of day", 7, "Small hands reach out to test the air\nBetween the silence and the care\nA question held within a gaze\nThat shifts with every passing day\n\nThe floor is firm, the walls are high\nBut shadows dance where secrets lie\nYou promise warmth, you speak of light\nThen turn away into the night\n\nI learn the rhythm of your breath\nThe quiet dance of life and death\nHow love can bend but not break down\nLike rain that falls on dusty ground\n\nSometimes I pull, sometimes I lean\nTo see what lies beneath the scene\nAre you the anchor or the tide?\nWith nowhere left for me to hide\n\nYet in the cracks where doubts take root\nA fragile trust begins to shoot\nNot built on stone or iron strong\nBut on the place we both belong\n\nSo I will walk this narrow line\nWhere yours and mine begin to intertwine\nA bridge of words and silent grace\nAcross the space of time and face", 6, "Small hands reach out to hold the space between\nThe words you speak and what you mean\nA quiet test of safety in the air\nTo see if love is always there\n\nYou stumble through the shifting ground\nWhere fear and hope are tightly bound\nEach question asked, a fragile thread\nThat pulls the things we've left unsaid\n\nI watch you grow beyond the door\nNo longer needing me for more\nBut still you turn to find my face\nIn every new and uncertain place\n\nThe bridge we build with time and care\nIs woven from the moments shared\nNot perfect lines or steady stone\nBut hearts that learn to stand alone\n\nAnd when the storm begins to rise\nWe meet beneath the open skies\nTwo souls that choose to trust again\nThrough joy and loss and quiet pain", 6], [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.", "I would rather plough my field alone\nAnd watch the seasons pass and come again,\nThan wear a crown or be a king of men;\nI like to see the grass grow on the ground,\nAnd see the cattle feeding round about,\nAnd have no company but birds and beasts.\n\nI had rather live in this country place\nWhere I can see nothing but the fields\nAnd the green hills and the blue sky above,\nAnd hear nothing but the birds singing\nAnd the cows lowing and the sheep bleating,\nAnd the wind blowing and the water running,\nAnd the bees humming and the grass growing.\n\nI would rather have a pot of good ale\nAnd a good fire and a good book to read,\nAnd lie down by the fire and read my book,\nAnd then go to bed and sleep well,\nThan have all the good ale in England\nAnd all the good fires in England\nAnd all the good books in England\nAnd not lie down by the fire and read my book,\nAnd then go to bed and sleep well.\n\nI would rather be a poor man in a garret\nWith plenty of books and tobacco and snuff,\nThan be a rich man in a palace\nWith no books and no tobacco and no snuff.", 2, "Let others chase the gilded crown\nAnd seek the noisy, crowded town,\nI'd rather watch the morning light\nBreak soft across my fields of white.\n\nMy wealth is in the turning year,\nThe spring's green shoot, the autumn sheaf,\nThe quiet herd that grazes near,\nA simple life beyond belief.\n\nNo banquet hall with silver spoons,\nNo velvet chairs or perfumed rooms,\nBut here beneath the harvest moons,\nWhere silence blooms and nightfall looms.\n\nI need no friend to share my bread,\nNor crowd to hear my stories told;\nThe earth has all I've ever said,\nAnd sheep are friends enough, I'm told.\n\nSo let them have their fame and gold,\nTheir painted walls and city pride;\nI'll keep the secrets that I hold,\nWith just my land and sky beside.", 7, "Let others chase the gilded stage\nAnd trade their peace for fleeting fame,\nI keep my quiet, narrow cage\nOf furrowed earth and silent name.\n\nThe city's roar is not for me,\nIts velvet crowds and painted lies;\nI find my wealth in liberty\nBeneath the vast and open skies.\n\nWhen spring awakes the sleeping sod,\nI walk the rows where seedlings rise,\nNo king commands a field like God\nWith morning mist and dewy eyes.\n\nIn summer heat, I watch the sheep\nGraze on the hillside, green and deep,\nWhile others seek the banquet heap,\nI guard my herds from harm and sleep.\n\nThe autumn brings the harvest gold,\nA simple store against the cold,\nMore rich than stories often told\nBy merchants with their hearts of mold.\n\nThen winter wraps the world in white,\nThe fire crackles, warm and bright,\nNo guest disturbs my peaceful night,\nNo clamor breaks the frozen light.\n\nSo let them have their marble halls\nAnd voices that the echo calls,\nI love the wind that softly falls\nUpon these hills and garden walls.", 7, "The city calls with gilded bells and noise\nBut I have found a quieter, deeper voice\nIn morning mist that clings to valley grass\nWhere silent shadows of the mountains pass.\n\nLet others chase the crown of fleeting fame\nAnd build their towers on a shifting frame\nI seek the weight of earth beneath my hand\nAnd watch the seasons mark my quiet land.\n\nMy wealth is not in silks or silver coins\nBut in the rhythm of the grazing boars\nThe scent of hay when autumn air grows cold\nA story by the winter fire told.\n\nNo crowded halls where hollow words are spun\nCan match the rising of the early sun\nTo guide the flock across the dewy hill\nWhere time stands still and nature bends its will.\n\nSo let the world spin fast in gold and pride\nI walk this path with nothing left to hide\nJust me, my sheep, the soil, and sky above\nAnd all the simple peace that silence loves.", 6, "The city calls with gilded noise and light\nBut I have chosen silence for my bed\nWhere dawn breaks soft across the sleeping height\nAnd stars retreat before the morning red\n\nNo crown of gold can warm a winter's chill\nNor silk replace the wool that keeps me whole\nI find my wealth within the turning hill\nAnd peace that settles in a quiet soul\n\nMy hands are rough from tending to the earth\nFrom mending fences where the wild winds blow\nA simple life of labor and of birth\nIs all the riches that I need to know\n\nLet others chase the applause of crowded halls\nWhile I watch sheep drift slow through misty green\nThe river sings its ancient, steady calls\nA world unseen by eyes that long for scene\n\nThrough spring the buds and summer's heavy heat\nAutumn's harvest stored against the snow\nWinter's deep rest beneath the frozen sleet\nThese seasons teach me what the crowds do not know\n\nSo let them keep their fame and fleeting grace\nTheir banquets loud and conversations thin\nI walk this path at my own measured pace\nContent to be the herdsman and the kin", 7, "The city calls with lights so bright and loud\nBut I find peace beneath the quiet cloud\nWhere no one knows my name or seeks my face\nAnd time moves slow within this sacred space\n\nMy hands are rough from turning up the soil\nA life of work that makes the spirit whole\nNo velvet chair or golden cup to hold\nJust stories written in the autumn cold\n\nI watch the sheep drift through the morning mist\nBy simple needs and honest labor kissed\nWhile kings may fight for thrones they cannot keep\nI count my stars before the world's asleep\n\nLet others chase the applause of crowded halls\nI answer only to the garden walls\nThe scent of rain on earth after the drought\nIs all the luxury I need to doubt\n\nNo banquet feast could match a loaf of bread\nOr silence where the weary mind is fed\nSo let the world spin fast and burn away\nI choose the dawn to greet another day", 6, "The city calls with golden lights\nBut I have chosen quiet nights\nWhere stars hang low above the hill\nAnd silence makes the heart feel still\n\nNo crown of gold, no throne to claim\nJust soil beneath a weathered frame\nI watch the seasons turn and fade\nIn fields where ancient shadows play\n\nMy hands are rough from plow and seed\nA humble and unspoken need\nTo feed the sheep that graze so deep\nWhile others chase the dreams they keep\n\nLet kings hold court in marble halls\nI answer only nature's calls\nFor every breath of morning air\nIs worth more than a kingdom's share\n\nThe herd moves slow across the green\nA rhythm soft and unseen\nHere time slows down to match the beat\nOf hooves upon the dusty street\n\nNo crowd to praise or judge my name\nJust firelight in the winter flame\nI find my peace in simple things\nThe song the wind through branches sings\n\nSo let the world spin fast and loud\nAway beyond this peaceful cloud\nI tend the earth with steady grace\nAnd love this solitary place", 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.", "Oh, the auctioneer's gavel is a hammer of nails\nthat drives us all to the cross of this poet's death.\nLook at the Roman soldiers, the coarse bidders\nwho gambled for his clothes, and here they are again\ngambling for his love letters, his very underclothes;\nand why? because they do not appreciate art.\nIf they appreciated art they would know that these letters\nare the very clothes in which Christ was crucified.\nAnd if they did not appreciate art they would not be\nRoman soldiers. But they are Roman soldiers\nbecause they do not appreciate art.\nThey have stripped him naked and divided his garments\namong them, and cast lots upon his vesture.\nO my friends, I am afraid I am one of the Roman soldiers.", 2, "The gavel falls like a judge's final blow\nUpon the trembling, private pages where he bled,\nSold to the highest bidder who will never know\nThe weight of words that kept him from being dead.\n\nThey are not bought for love, nor for the art\nThat made the ink run deep into the soul,\nBut for the paper, and the poet's heart\nIs torn apart by gamblers playing roll.\n\nJust as the Roman soldiers in their greed\nCast lots upon the seamless robe of Christ,\nAnd stood around the cross to see who'd lead\nThe bidding for the garment he despised;\n\nSo here they stand, these merchants of the new,\nWith wallets full and spirits void of grace,\nDividing up the sacred, secret view\nOf one who sought to find his Lord's own face.\n\nThey do not see the lover's naked truth,\nNor how the lines were stitched with blood and fear,\nThey only see the vintage of his youth,\nAnd bid until the auctioneer is clear.\n\nO, let the earth divide and swallow deep\nThe table where this holy lot is cast,\nFor while the poets in their graves may weep,\nThe soldiers count their money to the last.", 6, "The gavel falls like a judge's hammer on the heart\nAnd splits the quiet intimacy of a life away,\nFor these were not mere scraps of paper, but the pulse\nOf a lover's soul laid bare in trembling ink.\nNow they are stripped and spread upon the block\nTo be bought by men who see only price in prose,\nWho cannot read the rhythm of a sigh or feel\nThe fevered heat that burned behind the words.\n\nIt is the same old greed that walked the hill,\nWhen Roman soldiers cast their lots for linen,\nGambling the garments of the crucified\nWhile He hung bleeding, silent in the wind.\nThey fought for fabric while the spirit died;\nNow bidders fight for paper while the love expires,\nDividing up the holy vestments of a mind\nThat sought to speak to those who truly listen.\n\nOh, how the silence screams within this room\nAs strangers bid for secrets meant for one,\nTurning the sacred text of private grief\nInto a spectacle for vulgar eyes.\nThey take the robe of Christ and sell it high,\nUnknowing that they tear the flesh from bone,\nAnd leave the poet naked in his grave,\nWith nothing left but dust and broken glass.", 6, "The gavel falls like a hammer on a nail\nTo split the silence of a sacred room,\nWhere ink once breathed the secrets of a soul\nNow sold to strangers in a crowded gloom.\nThey bid with coins for words they cannot read,\nFor hearts that beat beneath the paper's skin,\nWhile critics count the profit of the deed\nAnd call this theft a victory within.\n\nOh, cruel fate that strips the lover bare,\nAs Roman soldiers cast their lots below,\nDividing up the tunic of the air\nAround a body made to bleed and grow.\nThey gambled for the robe of Christ in scorn,\nIgnoring all the divinity it held,\nJust as these bidders laugh at love unborn\nAnd buy the grief that time has never quelled.\n\nNo reverence warms the cold and rising hand,\nNo tear is shed for what was meant to stay,\nJust greedy eyes that scan the auction land\nAnd turn the night into a selling day.\nThe poet sleeps while strangers fight the prize,\nA hollow game where art is lost to greed,\nWith bloodless fingers tearing at the skies\nTo claim the garment of a dying creed.", 6, "The gavel falls like stone on sacred wood\nAs ink-stained pages, once a secret kept,\nAre stripped of all the tenderness they held\nTo feed the greed of those who never wept.\nThey bid in dollars for a whispered name,\nA lover's sigh now priced and sold to view,\nWhile strangers laugh at verses meant to heal,\nAnd trade the soul for something cold and new.\n\nI see the scene unfold in ancient dust,\nWhere soldiers cast their lots with careless hands,\nDividing up the tunic of the just,\nIgnoring all the blood upon the sands.\nJust as they gambled for the garments worn\nBy one who spoke of love beyond the grave,\nNow crowds compete to own the poet's heart,\nAnd treat his grief as merchandise to save.\n\nNo reverence lives within that auction hall,\nWhere art is weighed against a coin's demand,\nThe private fire reduced to public call,\nTorn from the writer's trembling, loving hand.\nOh, let the silence break the heavy air,\nBefore the final lot is struck and gone,\nFor what was written only for the few\nIs lost beneath the weight of profit drawn.", 6, "The gavel falls like a hammer on stone\nAs ink-stained pages are sold to the highest unknown\nWhere bids rise loud for words meant to breathe\nTo strangers who only know how to count and believe\nThat love can be weighed in the cold weight of gold\nA story of heart turned into something to hold\nBy hands that have never felt the tremor of rhyme\nOr understood the cost of a stolen time\n\nThey tear at the seams of a sacred design\nLike soldiers dividing a robe in the line\nOf a cross where silence once held up the sky\nWhile gamblers cast dice for the price of a cry\nThose Roman boots tread on the grass of the soul\nIgnoring the spirit, the broken, the whole\nJust as they laughed at the poet's last plea\nNow they fight over letters meant only to be free\n\nNo reverence lingers in this crowded hall\nWhere art is reduced to a number, a call\nFor profit and power, for fame and for greed\nLeaving the essence of beauty to bleed\nThe poet lies quiet beneath the noise\nOf a world that has forgotten its own sacred poise\nAnd watches the auction with hollowed-out eyes\nAs the final bid seals what the living despise", 6, "The gavel falls like stone on sacred ground\nWhere ink once whispered secrets meant for two\nNow strangers bid with greed and hollow sound\nTo own a heart they never knew or knew\n\nThey split the pages like a fractured bone\nA mosaic sold to highest, careless hand\nWhile silence screams in rooms of marble throne\nAnd beauty turns to dust across the land\n\nJust as the soldiers cast their dice at dawn\nUpon the robe that held a dying light\nThey gamble now on words that should be drawn\nInto the shadows of the endless night\n\nNo reverence remains within the air\nFor verses written soft against the skin\nAs auctioneers declare a final prayer\nThat love was merely profit they could win\n\nThe poet weeps from out the empty space\nWatching their intimacy turn to gold\nA cruel display of time's relentless pace\nWhere stories bought are never truly told", 7], [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 express train leaves the station\nand gathers momentum.\nAt first it is in time with its surroundings,\nbut as it gets up speed it becomes more and more out of time with them.\nIt goes faster and faster, and is more and more out of time with them.\nAnd now it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt seems to be going on for ever.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nAnd it is not like an ordinary train.\nIt is an express train.\nAnd it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.\nIt is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them.", 2, "The whistle screams a sharp command\nAnd iron wheels begin to turn,\nLeaving the platform's quiet stand\nWhere waiting crowds with patience burn.\n\nA gentle lurch, a rhythmic beat,\nThe station walls slide past in grey,\nThe porter's hand is lifted sweet\nTo wave the morning train away.\n\nNow faster through the suburbs green,\nThe houses blur into a streak,\nNo time for children to be seen\nWho pause upon the garden creek.\n\nThe speed increases, deep and loud,\nThe countryside becomes a smear,\nIt crushes down the grazing crowd\nOf sheep that do not know the fear.\n\nThe fields are gone, the trees are gone,\nJust straight lines cutting through the air,\nWe rush to meet the rising dawn\nWith no one left to stop or care.\n\nThe world outside is out of sync,\nA painting torn by rushing wind,\nWhile inside we drink our coffee pink\nAnd watch the distant villages spin.\n\nIt cannot stop, it will not brake,\nThis giant serpent made of steel,\nIt tears the fabric that we make\nTo serve the great and grand design.\n\nThe people on the track are small,\nThey cannot hear us as we roar,\nWe hurtle past their cottage wall\nAnd never look behind once more.\n\nSo onward to the city vast,\nWhere progress waits with open door,\nWe leave the slow and broken past\nThat drags its weary feet on shore.", 7, "The whistle cuts the morning mist\nA silver needle through the grey\nThe doors slide shut with final hiss\nAnd leave the waiting crowd at bay\n\nAt first a gentle, rhythmic sway\nThat matches footsteps on the platform stone\nThen faster now the pistons play\nAs if the tracks are made of bone\n\nThe station blurs to streaks of light\nThe vendors' cries are swallowed deep\nWe rush into the coming night\nWhile those we left behind asleep\n\nThe world outside begins to bend\nTo fit the curve of steel and speed\nThe trees bow down as if to end\nTheir ancient pact with human need\n\nNo time for hands that wave goodbye\nNo pause for fields that turn to dust\nThe engine roars beneath the sky\nDriven by an iron trust\n\nIt cannot stop for broken rails\nOr hearts that beat too slow to keep\nIt smashes through the village walls\nWith promises it means to reap\n\nThe passengers stare at empty space\nWhere neighbors once stood side by side\nThey feel no pity, see no face\nJust forward motion, wide and wide\n\nThe train becomes a living thing\nThat eats the landscape in its wake\nIgnoring every trembling wing\nOf life it leaves behind to break\n\nSo on it goes, a beast of progress\nUnstoppable and cold and grand\nLeaving the quiet and the mess\nTo crumble in the shifting sand", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning mist\nA silver serpent wakes from sleep\nIt pushes off with piston hiss\nAnd promises a world to keep\n\nThe platform blurs into a streak\nOf faces frozen in surprise\nThe clock ticks loud, then turns to weak\nAs distant hills begin to rise\n\nThe trees become a solid wall\nOf green that rushes past too fast\nNo time to pause, no time to call\nTo those who cannot hold on fast\n\nThe rhythm builds a deafening drum\nThat drowns the village bell and song\nWhere once the quiet farmers come\nNow only steel and smoke belong\n\nIt speeds beyond the edge of sight\nLeaving the slow and broken things\nBehind it in the fading light\nWhile progress sings its iron wings\n\nWe run to catch the rushing train\nBut feet grow heavy, lungs grow thin\nThe gap between the two is pain\nBetween the rush and where we've been\n\nIt tears through fields of wheat and grain\nWithout a glance at what it crushes\nAn unstoppable, relentless chain\nThat grinds the small beneath its rushes\n\nThe future waits at every mile\nBut leaves the present in the dust\nA cold and calculated style\nOf moving forward, breaking trust\n\nSo let it fly, this metal beast\nWith schedules carved in stone and fire\nThat feeds the hungry, distant feast\nAnd burns the hearth of our desire", 7, "The whistle cuts the morning air\nAs iron wheels begin to turn\nA heavy breath, a sudden flare\nBefore the platform starts to burn\n\nAt first the station stands so still\nWith faces pressed against the glass\nBut now the rhythm bends the will\nAnd watches blur into a mass\n\nThe speed increases, sharp and cold\nA river made of steel and smoke\nLeaving the stories never told\nBehind in every quiet nook\n\nThe world outside begins to stretch\nWhile time inside moves faster yet\nThe poor are left to slowly reach\nFor promises they cannot get\n\nNo brakes can hold this rushing tide\nThat sweeps away the weak and small\nWhere ancient roots have nowhere hide\nBeneath the shadow of it all\n\nIt screams ahead with blind intent\nIgnoring those who fall behind\nA progress that has lost its sense\nOf what it means to leave mankind", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning air\nA silver beast begins to tear\nThe quiet fabric of the street\nWhere weary feet and silence meet\n\nThe wheels ignite a rhythmic beat\nThat shakes the ground beneath our feet\nNo longer bound by human pace\nIt leaves the gentle world behind in haste\n\nThe houses blur to streaks of gray\nAs day dissolves into the spray\nOf steel that knows no pause or rest\nIgnoring those who cannot keep up with the quest\n\nThe speed climbs high, a rising tide\nWith nowhere left for us to hide\nThe engine roars a single note\nWhile ordinary lives are caught in throat\n\nWe watch the stations fade away\nAs progress claims another day\nToo fast to hear the crying sound\nOf roots pulled up from solid ground\n\nThe future rushes past our eyes\nBeneath these cold and metal skies\nA momentum built on broken things\nLeaving the fragile heart of spring", 7, "The whistle cuts the morning air\nAs steel wheels kiss the iron rail\nA promise made to those who dare\nTo leave behind the quiet trail\n\nThe city blurs into a stream\nOf concrete, glass, and hurried feet\nWe trade our dreams for borrowed time\nChasing ghosts we cannot meet\n\nThe rhythm grows too fast to keep\nA heartbeat lost in mechanical sound\nThe people left upon the steep\nAre swept beneath the rising ground\n\nNo hand can brake this forward drive\nThat claims the cost of human breath\nWe sacrifice the chance to live\nIn service to a silent death\n\nThe tracks stretch out toward the void\nWhere progress burns with cold design\nAnd every soul that gets destroyed\nIs just a line on some grand sign", 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,\nNor of the cat with the green eyes.\nI am not afraid of the dog that barks,\nNor of the man with the big nose.\nI am not afraid of the schoolmaster,\nNor of the blackboard and the chalk.\nI am not afraid of the doctor,\nNor of the needle and the lancet.\nI am not afraid of the dentist,\nNor of the drill and the molar.\nI am not afraid of the thunder,\nNor of the lightning and the rain.\nI am not afraid of the ghosts,\nNor of the witches and the goblins.\nI am not afraid of anything,\nExcepting only myself.", 2, "I am not afraid of the dark\nor the teeth that gnash in the closet door\nnor the storm that rattles the windowpane\nlike a giant shaking a box of bones.\nI can walk through the graveyard at noon\nand whistle to the ghosts who peek from the tombstones.\nI will jump off the high diving board\neven if the water looks like ink and I cannot swim.\nI will eat the green peas even if they taste like mud.\nNothing scares me, nothing at all.\nBut sometimes when the house is quiet\nand the moonlight falls on the floor like a silver knife\nI hold my breath until my lungs burn\nbecause I am terrified that if I breathe out\nthe whole world will blow away\nlike a dandelion clock in a gale.", 2, "I will not scream when the thunder cracks the sky\nnor run from the shadow that stretches long and thin\nI have climbed the tallest oak to touch the clouds\nand laughed at the wolf who howls beneath my window sill.\n\nThe dark is just a blanket waiting to be pulled up tight\nthe ocean is only water with a very loud voice\nI am made of iron and fire and unbreakable bone\nnothing can hurt me, nothing can make me stop.\n\nBut if you look very close at the space behind my eyes\nyou might see a small, quiet thing trembling there\na fear so soft it has no name and no shape\nthat waits for the moment I finally let my guard down.\n\nIt does not care about storms or monsters or deep water\nit only fears the silence after the laughter ends\nand the terrible thought that one day I might have to grow up\nso I keep my chin high and my hands in fists and pretend.", 4, "I tell the thunder it is just a drum\nAnd run right through the rain without a coat\nThe shadows in the hall are only friends\nWho dance along the walls to keep me warm\n\nI climb the highest branch and laugh at height\nI speak to spiders like they are old kings\nNo monster hides beneath my bed tonight\nFor I have banished all the scary things\n\nBut when the quiet settles deep inside\nAnd no one sees the tremor in my hand\nI hold a secret fear that has no name\nA hollow space where courage used to stand\n\nIt is not storms or dark or teeth or claws\nThat make my tiny chest begin to shake\nIt is the thought of being left alone\nWhen all the brave words finally break", 6, "I climb the tallest oak to touch the sky\nAnd laugh when thunder cracks the heavy gray\nThe shadows in the hall are just a game\nThat I can chase and make them run away\n\nNo monster hides beneath my bed at night\nFor I have banished every ghost with light\nThe ocean roars its wild and angry song\nBut I will stand where all the brave belong\n\nMy hands are steady, though they shake inside\nA secret trembling that I cannot hide\nThe world is vast and full of things unknown\nBut I must wear this armor made of stone\n\nSo let the winds blow hard and break the door\nI'll face the dark and ask for nothing more\nExcept the silence after all is done\nWhere only I know what it means to run", 6, "I stand before the storm and laugh aloud\nAt thunder cracking like a broken bone\nThe shadows stretch to swallow up the crowd\nBut I am made of steel and not of stone\n\nNo monster hides beneath the creaking floor\nNo ghost can touch the fire in my chest\nI kick the walls and scream for something more\nAnd claim that nothing puts my soul to test\n\nYet deep inside where silence starts to bloom\nA tiny bird is trembling in its cage\nIt beats against the quiet, seeking room\nTo write a different story on this page\n\nI wear my courage like a heavy coat\nTo hide the shaking hands I cannot show\nThe world is vast and cold within its throat\nBut I will never let the darkness know\n\nThat every step I take with head held high\nIs built upon a foundation made of fear\nA secret kept beneath a painted sky\nWhere only I can hear the trembling near", 6, "I stand before the storm with open hands\nAnd laugh at thunder rolling through the sky\nThe shadows dance but I refuse to bend\nTo every ghost that tries to make me cry\n\nMy voice is loud against the creeping dark\nA shield of steel forged from a stubborn will\nI tell the night it cannot break my spark\nNo matter how the wind begins to chill\n\nBut deep beneath this armor made of pride\nA quiet tremor shakes the fragile bone\nWhere all the things I run from hide inside\nAnd wait for when I am alone\n\nSo let them see the courage in my eyes\nWhile secrets sleep behind a smiling face\nFor fear is not a thing that ever dies\nIt lives within this unacknowledged space", 6], [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 earth with a needle of glass,\nPhilosophy prods it with a stick of logic,\nReligion squeezes it like an orange to see if there is any juice,\nBut the earth remains indifferent.\nIt endlessly greets existence with the renewal of spring,\nAnd new life.", 5, "Science drills deep into the granite core\nprodding the dark with cold, bright lasers\nsqueezing rock until it confesses its age\nasking why we are here and what is next.\n\nPhilosophy circles the crust with heavy boots\npoking at the cracks in logic with sharp sticks\nsqueezing the concept of cause and effect\nuntil the mind hurts from the pressure of meaning.\n\nReligion builds towers to scrape the sky\npoking at the silence between stars with prayer\nsqueezing the heart until it bleeds faith\nbegging for a sign that this pain matters.\n\nBut the earth turns her shoulder and does not hear\nshe ignores the needles and the loud questions\nand simply greets the returning sun with spring\nsending up green shoots and new life everywhere.", 6, "Science drills its steel fingers deep\nprobing the crust for layers of truth\nphilosophy presses a cold thumb against the rock\nsqueezing for the logic hidden in the grain\nreligion wraps its warm, trembling hands around the sphere\nbegging the soil to speak of heaven and sin\nthey poke the silence until it bruises\nthey prod the darkness until it bleeds light\nthey squeeze the world until it groans under the weight of their questions\nbut the earth turns slowly, indifferent to the ache\nit does not answer with scripture or equation\nit only waits through the long, cold grip of winter\nthen greets the returning sun with a green explosion\nunfolding ferns from the dark\nbursting flowers from the stone\nignoring the searchers entirely\nas it births another season of blind, beautiful life", 3, "They poke the soil with drills of steel and thought\nTo find the core where answers might be kept\nThe scientist measures the weight of light\nThe philosopher weighs the soul that wept\nThe priest kneels down to squeeze a prayer from stone\nAnd all three press their faces to the ground\nDemanding why the silence holds its own\nAnd what purpose in this dust is found\n\nBut deep within the crust no voice replies\nNo grand design unfolds beneath the hand\nJust tectonic shifts and ancient, quiet skies\nThat do not care for any human plan\nThe earth feels nothing of their frantic search\nFor meaning hidden in the rock and rain\nIt turns away from every desperate perch\nTo answer only with a gentle pain\n\nThen winter breaks and green begins to rise\nA fern unfurls without a single word\nThe sun returns to warm the frozen eyes\nOf seeds that slept while all the world was stirred\nNew life erupts from mud and rotting wood\nIgnoring every question asked above\nThe river flows exactly as it should\nWith neither hate nor mercy, just pure love\n\nSo let them probe and pry and squeeze and strain\nUntil their theories crumble into sand\nThe world will bloom again through wind and rain\nAnd hold the meaning in its living hand\nNot in the mind, or book, or telescope\nBut in the grass that grows without a sound\nWhile humanity stands on a trembling slope\nAnd watches spring reclaim the hallowed ground", 6, "They come with needles sharp and questions loud\nTo poke the soil and squeeze the stone\nThe scientist seeks laws in every cloud\nThe priest demands a throne\nThe philosopher turns over every root\nAnd presses deep to find the hidden cause\nBut silence is the only truth they suit\nBeyond their human laws\n\nThe earth feels nothing of their frantic need\nNo weight of dogma, no demand for sign\nIt simply breathes beneath the ancient seed\nAnd lets the seasons shine\nFor while they argue over what it means\nTo hold the world within a fragile hand\nThe frozen ground begins to thaw again\nAcross the sleeping land\n\nA green shoot breaks the crust without a sound\nIgnoring all the theories spun above\nThe cycle spins on solid, steady ground\nWith neither fear nor love\nSo let them search until their hands are raw\nAnd squeeze the mystery till it yields its name\nThe spring arrives regardless of the law\nAnd life begins again", 7, "The scholars dig with questions sharp and cold\nWhile priests in silence hold the sacred ground\nThey press their palms against the soil so old\nTo find a voice within the silent sound\nPhilosophy demands a reason why\nReligion offers hope to fill the night\nScience measures stars that drift on high\nAnd seeks the spark behind the fading light\n\nThey squeeze the rock until it cracks and bleeds\nProdding the dark for answers deep and vast\nBut time is just a river, not a creed\nThat flows indifferent to the things we cast\nNo grand design responds to human plea\nNo cosmic hand reaches down to save\nThe earth simply breathes beneath the tree\nAnd turns the winter into something brave\n\nA green shoot breaks the frost without a word\nIgnoring all the theories built on sand\nIt does not care if gods have been heard\nOr if the laws of physics understand\nThe seasons roll with quiet, steady grace\nRenewing life while minds try to explain\nThe mystery written on a face\nThat smiles again at rain and sun and pain\n\nSo let them search and question and demand\nFor meaning in the dust and shifting stone\nThe world will bloom across this barren land\nAnd greet existence with a seed unknown", 7, "They dig with drills of steel and thought\nTo find the answer in the stone\nA logic sharp, a faith untaught\nThat claims the seeds are fully sown\n\nThe scholars argue over dust\nWhile priests raise hands to empty skies\nEach seeking patterns they must trust\nBeneath the weight of endless lies\n\nBut soil does not care for names\nNor theories built on shifting sand\nIt holds no blame, it bears no flames\nJust quiet roots that understand\n\nThe winter fades without a sound\nAs green pushes through the gray\nNo grand design is ever found\nOnly the light of breaking day\n\nThe questions fade into the air\nLeaving the ground to simply be\nWhere life begins beyond repair\nIn cycles wild and wild and free", 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.", "When the last breath is drawn and the heart stops beating,\nThe whole world changes a little bit.\nIt is not that he is gone, but that he will never be again.\nThere is no other person in all this world who is exactly like him.\nNo one can ever replace him.\nHe was unique.\nHe was the only one in the whole world who could do such-and-such things.\nAnd when he dies, these things are lost to the world for ever and ever.\nNothing like him will ever be born again into the world.\nHe was an original.\nSome of the things he did were things which nobody else could do.\nNobody else could write such-and-such a poem, or sing such-and-such a song.\nNobody else could make such-and-such a scientific discovery.\nNobody else could paint such-and-such a picture.\nNobody else could compose such-and-such a piece of music.\nNobody else could discover such-and-such a star.\nNobody else could invent such-and-such a machine.\nNobody else could have such-and-such a personality.\nNobody else could think such-and-such thoughts.\nNobody else could feel such-and-such feelings.\nNobody else could say such-and-such things.\nNobody else could do such-and-such actions.\nNobody else could have such-and-such experiences.\nNobody else could have such-and-such adventures.\nNobody else could have such-and-such successes.\nNobody else could have such-and-such failures.\nNobody else could have such-and-such friends.\nNobody else could have such-and-such enemies.\nNobody else could have such-and-such relations.\nNobody else could have such-and-such acquaintances.\nNobody else could have such-and-such hobbies.\nNobody else could have such-and-such occupations.\nNobody else could have such-and-such amusements.\nNobody else could have such-and-such pleasures.\nNobody else could have such-and-such enjoyments.\nNobody else could have such-and-such gratifications.\nNobody else could have such-and-such satisfactions.\nNobody else could have such-and-such delights.\nNobody else could have such-and-such joys.\nNobody else could have such-and-such happinesses.\nNobody else could have such-and-such miseries.\nNobody else could have such-and-such sorrows.\nNobody else could have such-and-such griefs.\nNobody else could have such-and-such pains.\nNobody else could have such-and-such troubles.\nNobody else could have such-and-such difficulties.\nNobody else could have such-and-such perplexities.\nNobody else could have such-and-such embarrassments.\nNobody else could have such-and-such inconveniences.\nNobody else could have such-and-such annoyances.\nNobody else could have such-and-such vexations.\nNobody else could have such-and-such discommodities.\nNobody else could have such-and-such discomforts.\nNobody else could have such-and-such uneasinesses.\nNobody else could have such-and-such anxieties.\nNobody else could have such-and-such apprehensions.\nNobody else could have such-and-such fears.\nNobody else could have such-and-such terrors.\nNobody else could have such-and-such alarms.\nNobody else could have such-and-such frights.\nNobody else could have such-and-such scares.\nNobody else could have such-and-such panics.\nNobody else could have such-and-such consternations.\nNobody else could have such-and-such perturbations.\nNobody else could have such-and-such agitations.\nNobody else could have such-and-such commotions.\nNobody else could have such-and-such disturbances.\nNobody else could have such-and-such tumults.\nNobody else could have such-and-such uproars.\nNobody else could have such-and-such riots.\nNobody else could have such-and-such insurrections.\nNobody else could have such-and-such rebellions.\nNobody else could have such-and-such revolutions.\nNobody else could have such-and-such mutinies.\nNobody else could have such-and-such seditions.\nNobody else could have such-and-such conspiracies.\nNobody else could have such-and-such plots.\nNobody else could have such-and-such intrigues.\nNobody else could have such-and-such machinations.\nNobody else could have such-and-such schemes.\nNobody else could have such-and-such projects.\nNobody else could have such-and-such designs.\nNobody else could have such-and-such plans.\nNobody else could have such-and-such intentions.\nNobody else could have such-and-such purposes.\nNobody else could have such-and-such aims", 3, "The world keeps turning as the clock ticks on,\nThe sun will rise again upon the grass,\nBut something that was here is now gone,\nA specific light that only you could pass.\n\nNo other voice can mimic your distinct tone,\nNo other laugh contains that sudden break,\nNo other mind held thoughts so uniquely known,\nOr made a silence feel so full and awake.\n\nYou were a pattern woven in the air,\nWith threads of color found nowhere else,\nAnd now the loom is still, and stripped quite bare,\nLeaving a shapeless hole where you once dwelled.\n\nWe mourn not just a life that has ceased to be,\nBut a universe that dies with every breath,\nA library of wonders locked away from me,\nBurnt by the final fire of death.\n\nThere is no copy, draft, or second edition,\nNo echo that can truly replace the sound,\nJust this vast and hollowed-out condition,\nWhere what was you is lost and never found.", 7, "The light that lived behind those eyes\nflickers out and leaves a sudden gray,\na specific frequency of sound\nthat will not hum another day.\n\nNo other hands could hold the world\nquite like the way your fingers did,\nno other voice could shape the air\nto make the heavy moments light.\n\nYou were a constellation drawn\nin ink no artist can repeat,\na pattern made of laugh lines deep\nand secrets only you knew sweet.\n\nNow silence fills the hollow space\nwhere once your unique rhythm beat,\na song composed of just one soul\nthat ends before it can be sweet.\n\nWe mourn the loss of something rare\nthat time cannot restore or mend,\nthe singular and irreplaceable\nthat has now reached its final end.", 6, "The light within the room grows thin and gray\nAs one specific frequency goes dim\nA song that only they could ever play\nNow silenced in the quiet of the hymn\n\nNo other voice can hold that exact tone\nNo other laugh can fill the empty air\nA universe of thought is now alone\nAnd leaves a shape no hands can quite repair\n\nThey were a map of stars we knew by heart\nA constellation formed of quirks and grace\nBut now the chart is torn and torn apart\nLeaving a void time cannot ever place\n\nIt is not just a life that ends today\nBut every color unique to their soul\nThat fades into the dark and drifts away\nMaking the whole world feel a little less whole\n\nWe mourn the fact that nothing can replace\nThe way they saw the world, the way they loved\nThis singular and irreplaceable space\nIs lost beneath the heavy weight above\n\nSo silence settles where their footsteps stood\nAnd we are left with echoes in the hall\nKnowing no new beginning ever could\nRestore the one who will not answer call", 7, "The room grows quiet as the final breath\nStills the rhythm that once filled the air,\nA symphony of laughter now held within a chest\nThat will never beat with that specific care.\n\nNo copy exists of the way you spoke,\nOf the light that danced behind your eyes,\nOr the gentle hand that knew just how to break\nThe heavy chains of sorrow and disguise.\n\nYou were a constellation mapped in skin,\nUnique and rare against the endless night,\nNow fading into silence from within,\nTaking half the world's color with your flight.\n\nWe search for echoes in the empty space,\nBut find only shadows where you used to stand,\nFor no one else could ever take your place,\nOr hold the universe within their hand.\n\nWhat leaves is not just life but all it meant,\nA singular design that time cannot restore,\nA story finished, beautifully spent,\nLeaving us to mourn what we can't ignore.", 7, "The quiet settles where a voice once rose\nA specific frequency now lost to air\nNo other heart beats with that same slow pace\nNo mind holds thoughts so uniquely rare\n\nYou were the color no one else could paint\nThe rhythm in the silence of the room\nNow shadows stretch across the empty space\nAnd swallow up the light of your perfume\n\nWe search for echoes in the things you left\nBut find only the shape of what is gone\nFor every laugh, a ghost begins to weep\nAs morning breaks on this irreversible dawn\n\nThe world keeps turning but it feels less bright\nWithout the spark that only you could bring\nA universe within a single soul\nThat fades and leaves us with a broken string\n\nNothing can replace the way you were\nNo copy made from memory or time\nJust absence where your magic used to dwell\nAn irreplaceable and final rhyme", 7, "The light within the room grows thin and gray\nAs silence claims the space you used to hold\nA symphony of laughter fades away\nLeaving a story that will never be retold\n\nYour voice was distinct, a melody so rare\nNo other soul could mimic every tone\nNow heavy air hangs thick in empty chairs\nAnd seeds of grief are sown in hearts of stone\n\nThe world moves on with steps that feel so wrong\nWhile time erodes the edges of your name\nA song we knew is lost before it's sung\nReduced to whispers carried by the rain\n\nYou were a universe of one design\nImpossible to copy or rebuild\nNow darkness swallows all that once was mine\nAnd leaves a void no hand can ever fill", 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 lamplight used to throw a giant shadow\nAgainst the wall, and we would gather round\nTo hear the tales of giants and of goblins\nAnd how they lived in the old hollow tree.\nNow I am alone in my own room,\nAnd there is no lamplight, but an electric light,\nAnd there are no children, for I am grown up,\nAnd there are no stories, for I have heard them all.\nI can remember the faces of the children,\nAnd I can remember the face of the story-teller,\nAnd I can remember the faces of the parents,\nWho were sitting behind us in the dark.\nBut I cannot remember the stories.\nI can remember the feeling of the stories,\nBut I cannot remember the stories.\nIt makes me sad to think of it.", 3, "The oil lamp sputtered on the rough-hewn table\nCasting long, dancing shadows against the peeling plaster,\nAnd we were small and huddled close together,\nBreath held tight in our little chests,\nWaiting for the old man to begin.\n\nHis voice was like dry leaves skittering on stone,\nRising and falling with the rhythm of the wick,\nTelling of giants who lived in the hills beyond the river,\nOr spirits that hid in the hollows of ancient oaks.\nWe believed every word, terrified and thrilled,\nWhile the flame bobbed and the room seemed to shrink,\nMaking the world outside feel vast and dangerous,\nBut here, under the circle of gold, we were safe.\n\nNow the house is dark and silent,\nThe table is gone, the plaster stripped away,\nAnd the old man has been dead for twenty years.\nI walk through rooms that are too bright with electric light,\nAnd I miss the shadows most of all,\nI miss the way the fear felt like warmth,\nAnd how the story ended just before dawn,\nLeaving us to sleep with the feeling that anything could happen.", 2, "The oil lamp flickers low and gold\nUpon the rough-hewn table now,\nA ghost of light that once was bold\nBefore the shadows learned to bow.\n\nWe sat in rows on woven mats,\nWith eyes wide open, breath held tight,\nWhile father spun his ancient chats\nBeneath the amber, trembling light.\n\nHis voice was deep, a river sound,\nThat carried us to lands afar,\nWhere giants walked on hallowed ground\nAnd stars were hung like lanterns are.\n\nBut time has blown the wick away,\nThe room is cold, the chairs are bare,\nThe stories sleep in gray decay,\nNo laughter floats upon the air.\n\nI reach to touch the flame again,\nTo feel the warmth I used to know,\nBut find only the falling rain\nAnd silence where the voices go.", 6, "The oil lamp flickered low and gold\nAgainst the walls of fading time,\nWhere shadows danced a story told\nIn rhythm with the winter chime.\n\nWe sat so close to hear the voice,\nThat whispered tales of far-off lands,\nWhile in that circle, small and choice,\nNo fear could touch our waiting hands.\n\nNow silence fills the empty room,\nThe wick is cold, the glass is dim,\nAnd I am haunted by the gloom\nOf what was lost beneath the rim.\n\nI reach for hands that turned to dust,\nFor voices swallowed by the years,\nA broken, beautiful, quiet trust,\nDissolved within these lonely tears.\n\nThe fire died before I knew,\nThe stories end when we depart,\nAnd all that's left is morning dew\nUpon a heavy, aching heart.", 7, "The oil lamp flickers low and gold\nUpon the table, worn and old\nWhere shadows danced against the wall\nBefore the silence started fall\n\nWe huddled close in wool and heat\nWith stories woven, sweet and neat\nOf dragons sleeping deep below\nAnd heroes who would never go\n\nNow dust has settled on the floor\nAnd there is no one at the door\nTo lean in close to hear the tale\nOr watch the wick begin to fail\n\nThe voices fade into the night\nLike embers losing all their light\nI reach for hands that are not there\nBut only find the heavy air\n\nA quiet ache begins to rise\nBehind these tired, watering eyes\nFor moments lost to passing time\nThat feel like such a distant rhyme", 7, "The oil ran low in the brass bowl's deep chest\nAs shadows stretched long against the wall\nWe sat so close, a circle of quiet rest\nBefore the silence grew too loud to call\n\nYour voice was soft, a thread of golden light\nThat wove through dust and smoke and heavy air\nIt held the monsters back within the night\nAnd made us feel that nothing could compare\n\nBut time has turned those pages into gray\nThe lamp is cold, the wick is burned away\nI reach for hands that faded far today\nAnd find only the echo of the day\n\nNow stories float like ghosts upon the breeze\nUnspoken words that rustle through the trees\nA ache inside that never finds release\nFor all we were, and all we failed to keep", 6, "The dust now settles on the wooden floor\nWhere laughter once would bounce and fill the air\nA single bulb that flickered, warm and sore\nRevealing shadows dancing everywhere\n\nWe sat so close to hear the whispered tale\nOf heroes lost and winds that never cease\nNow silence holds the weight of every gale\nAnd steals the rhythm from our quiet peace\n\nYour voice is gone, a ghost within the room\nThe stories fade like embers in the night\nI trace the cracks inside this hollow gloom\nLonging for a light I cannot fight\n\nThe lamp still burns but casts no golden hue\nJust cold reminders of the days we knew\nA final breath before the morning breaks\nLeaving only heartache in its wake", 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", "Every dawn is a new beginning,\nA fresh start for the happy and the sad,\nFor even ashes turn into leaves again.\nThe sun rises with a hopeful face,\nAnd in each dawning day we find hope.", 6, "The night may hold its heavy cloak of grief,\nAnd bury all the joy we thought was sure,\nBut dawn arrives to offer sweet relief,\nWith light that makes the ancient pain endure.\nNo matter how the fire has burned us down,\nOr turned our hearts to dust and cold gray ash,\nThe morning sun will wear a golden crown,\nTo make the green leaves spring from every crash.\nFor happy souls who dance in fields of gold,\nAnd sad ones weeping by the river's side,\nThere is a story waiting to be told,\nWhere ashes turn to life with nowhere hide.\nEach breaking day brings back the chance to start,\nA fresh beginning for the broken heart.", 7, "The night holds its breath until the east turns gold,\nAnd in that quiet light, the story starts anew.\nEven from the pile of ash where fire once burned bold,\nA green shoot pushes through to meet the morning dew.\n\nIt does not ask if you have wept or laughed today,\nOr if your heart is heavy with a sorrow deep and old;\nThe sun rises on the broken just as on the gay,\nAnd offers every weary soul a chance to be made whole.\n\nFor in each dawning day, the world begins again,\nWhere winter's bitter end becomes the spring's first breath.\nThe ashes of our past are turned to leaves by rain,\nAnd life returns to those who faced their own small death.\n\nSo let the happy dance and let the sad find rest,\nWithin this daily promise that the dawn has brought.\nNo matter how the darkness seemed to put us to the test,\nThe light returns to guide us to a fresh and new thought.", 7, "The night retreats in silent grace\nTo leave the dark behind\nAnd morning paints a golden face\nUpon the weary mind\n\nWhere ashes fell from fires past\nAnd charred the earth so deep\nA green shoot breaks the shadow cast\nWhile all the world's asleep\n\nNo sorrow holds a permanent chain\nNo joy can last forever\nBut dawn returns to heal the pain\nAnd bind us closer together\n\nFor happy hearts and broken ones\nFind equal ground at light\nAs winter yields to rising suns\nAnd leaves replace the night\n\nSo let the old year fall away\nLike dust upon the floor\nThe new day brings a brighter way\nTo open up the door", 7, "The night retreats before the golden light\nAnd shadows fade to make a space for sight\nWhere yesterday's despair begins to cease\nTo let the quiet promise of the peace\n\nEven ashes hold a secret deep and old\nThat waits within the soil to unfold\nFor every spark that died in winter's cold\nCan rise again as leaves of green and gold\n\nNo sorrow stays too heavy on the soul\nNo broken heart remains beyond control\nThe dawn arrives to wash the past away\nAnd offers up a brand new, brighter day\n\nBoth happy souls and those who weep in pain\nFind equal ground beneath the morning rain\nA fresh beginning waits for all to see\nAs life renews itself eternally", 7, "The night retreats to let the light return\nA quiet promise that the dark must burn\nWhere once the fire left a field of gray\nGreen shoots emerge to wash the dust away\n\nNo sorrow lasts beyond the morning dew\nFor every tear can make the soil anew\nThe heavy ash that settled on the ground\nWill rise as leaves where new life is found\n\nIt does not ask what broke or what was lost\nBut offers up a gentle, softest cost\nTo those who weep and those who laugh aloud\nA fresh beginning rising from the cloud\n\nSo step outside beneath the warming sun\nAnd see the journey has just now begun\nFrom winter's end to spring's first breath of grace\nWe find our way in time and open space", 7, "The night recedes to softest gray\nAs shadows stretch and then give way\nTo light that breaks the heavy air\nAnd finds a place for us to share\n\nNo storm can hold the morning sun\nFor every race is just begun\nWhere broken things learn how to mend\nAnd silent hearts begin to bend\n\nFrom ash that fell in winter's cold\nA story starts to unfold\nGreen shoots rise from barren ground\nWhere lost and found are finally bound\n\nThe tear that falls becomes the rain\nThat washes clean the old domain\nBoth joy and grief find space to grow\nBeneath the sky where winds blow low\n\nToday arrives with open hands\nTo heal the scars across the lands\nA promise kept without a sound\nThat life returns when hope is found", 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.", "Father says we are going to a country\nwhere the streets are paved with gold,\nbut I have seen the streets of our village\nand they are paved with dirt.\nMother says we are going to a country\nwhere there is always meat for dinner,\nbut I have seen the dogs in our village\nand they are always eating dirt.\nFather says we are going to a country\nwhere we can sleep all night long without being afraid,\nbut I have seen the soldiers in our village\nand they go about at night and shoot people who are sleeping.\nSo I do not know whether it will be better for us\nin the country where the streets are paved with gold\nand there is always meat for dinner\nand we can sleep all night long without being afraid.", 2, "The river is cold and the mud is deep\nand Mama says we must not sleep\nuntil we reach the other side\nwhere the streets are paved with gold, she lied.\nDaddy carries the heavy bag\nand T\u00eda walks with a limp and a drag\nbut they both say the air is sweet\nand the fruit falls down in the street.\nI am small and I do not speak\nbut I watch the way that the soldiers peek\nover the wall with their guns so long\nand I think that everything will be wrong.\nMama says that the work is good\nand the landlord is kind as a brother should\nbut I saw how he looked at us last night\nwith his eyes full of hate and his hands tight.\nDaddy says that the school is fine\nand we can learn all the words in time\nbut I heard him crying when he thought we were asleep\nsaying this life is too hard to keep.\nThey say it will get better soon\nunder the light of a brighter moon\nbut I know that the sun is the same everywhere\nand the people who hate us will always be there.", 3, "The truck smells of wet wool and old oranges,\nand my mother holds her breath so the guards won't hear us.\nMy father says we are going to a place where the bread is white\nand the water runs from taps without fear,\nwhere the sun does not burn your skin unless you want it to.\nHe points to the horizon with a hand that trembles slightly,\nsaying this wall is just a line on a map,\nnot a fence made of iron and angry dogs.\nI look at the dirt under my fingernails,\nthe same dirt that was under my nails in the village,\nthe same dirt that will be under my nails when we cross.\nIf the bread is white there, why do our faces look gray?\nIf the water flows freely, why does my throat feel dry?\nMy father speaks of tomorrow as if it is a train waiting at the station,\nbut I know trains run on schedules and maps,\nand we have neither.\nHe says we are seeking a better life,\nas if life is a coat we can take off and put on again,\na new size that fits better.\nBut I think life is the road itself,\nthe dust, the hunger, the looking back,\nand if we change the road, we only carry the dust with us.\nThe guard's flashlight sweeps over us,\na bright circle that makes me close my eyes tight.\nMaybe he sees nothing but shadows,\nmaybe he sees children who are too quiet,\nmaybe he sees a future that looks exactly like the past,\nonly further away.", 2, "The truck bed smells of diesel and wet wool\nas we slide past the rusted fence line,\nmy father gripping the wheel with knuckles white\nsaying the sun here rises on gold fields.\nMy mother hums a lullaby to keep the silence\nfrom swallowing our small breaths in the dark,\ntelling me that the water is sweet there\nand the schools have books with pictures inside.\n\nI watch the shadows stretch long behind us,\ncalculating the distance between what was lost\nand what they promise will be found.\nThey speak of tomorrow as if it is a room\nwaiting just around the corner, clean and bright,\nbut I know how gravity works,\nhow heavy things tend to stay where they fall.\n\nThe road ahead is just another strip of gray dust,\nand the border guard's flashlight cuts a circle\nthat looks exactly like the one we left.\nMaybe the sky changes color over there,\nmaybe the air tastes different,\nbut the hunger in my stomach feels the same,\na quiet, steady engine that does not care\nabout maps or new names or better days.\n\nWe cross the line into the unknown,\ncarrying our hopes in a plastic bag,\nwhile I wonder if running forward\nis any different than standing still,\nif the ground beneath our feet will ever feel solid\nor if we are just walking in circles\nchasing a horizon that keeps moving away.", 2, "The river cuts a line through mud and stone\nWhere father holds his breath and mother weeps\nWe step across the water, cold and deep\nTo trade the hunger for a promise kept\nThey say the sun is warmer on this side\nThat work will come if only we are brave\nBut I have seen how borders shift like tides\nAnd how the ground beneath us starts to cave\n\nMy mother smooths her dress with hopeful hands\nShe speaks of schools and bread that fills the bowl\nWhile father scans the horizon for new lands\nBelieving in a story half-told\nI watch the shadows stretch across our feet\nAnd wonder if the light they chase is real\nOr just another lie we choose to meet\nAnother dream we force ourselves to feel\n\nThey carry bags of clothes and memories\nOf home left burning in the smoke behind\nBut logic whispers doubts I cannot flee\nAbout the cost of leaving what we find\nIf fear was here, it travels in our skin\nIf poverty follows where our footsteps lead\nThen maybe hope is just a thin disguise\nFor all the things we never get to need\n\nThe gate stands open but the air feels thick\nWith questions no one dares to speak aloud\nWe walk toward a future, small and quick\nBeneath a sky indifferent and proud\nPerhaps the better life is just a name\nFor different kinds of struggle, same as before\nA circle drawn in dust and endless rain\nThat leads us back to where we started, sore", 6, "The truck hums low beneath the weight of hope\nAnd mother clutches maps she cannot read\nWhile father whispers promises of gold\nTo fill the hollow space inside our need\n\nWe step across a line drawn in the dust\nWhere silence breaks and starts to fill the air\nI watch the shadows stretch across the ground\nAnd wonder if the light is really there\n\nThey say the sun will warm this foreign soil\nThat hunger fades when doors swing wide and free\nBut logic tells me walls are built of stone\nAnd history repeats its old decree\n\nMy heart believes the story we have told\nYet reason counts the cost of every mile\nFor every promise made to start anew\nRequires a price we may not pay or smile\n\nThe border guards look down with tired eyes\nAs we present our papers, worn and thin\nI hold my breath against the rising fear\nOf where the journey ends and life begins\n\nPerhaps tomorrow brings a different dawn\nOr maybe just another kind of night\nWe walk ahead into the unknown dark\nWith doubt as steady as our guiding light", 6, "The river swallows boots and worn-out shoes\nAs father lifts the weight of all we own\nHe speaks of golden fields and morning dews\nOf seeds that grow where hope has always grown\n\nBut mother's eyes are fixed on distant lights\nThat flicker like a promise made too soon\nWe walk through shadows stretching into nights\nBeneath a cold and unforgiving moon\n\nI count the steps we take across the line\nAnd wonder if the ground beneath will shift\nFor every dream we leave behind in time\nIs traded for a fragile, thinning rift\n\nThey say the air will taste so sweet and new\nA balm to heal the wounds we carry deep\nYet logic whispers truths I cannot view\nThat some promises were never meant to keep\n\nThe fence ahead stands tall against the sky\nA barrier built on fear and ancient lies\nWe move forward with a desperate cry\nWhile silence watches from the empty skies\n\nSo let us walk this path of broken stone\nWith hearts that beat against the rising tide\nThough doubt remains within the bone\nThat better days may not be far inside", 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 my promise, I keep it well;\nI do not see her, I do not call;\nI never go near the place where she dwells.\nBut oh, the pain of keeping it!\nIt is as if I were dying by inches.\nAnd yet, if I did not keep it,\nIf I went to see her or called her,\nIt would throw doubt on my promise to love her.\nThat is what I fear most of all:\nThat if I did not keep this promise,\nShe would think that I did not love her.\nSo I keep it, and I am in pain.", 2, "I keep the distance like a sacred wall,\nThough every step away feels like a fall\nInto a void where silence screams your name,\nAnd burns my soul with unextinguished flame.\nIt hurts to watch you walk another's way,\nTo force myself to turn and look away,\nBut if I break this vow of staying far,\nHow can you trust that I truly am your star?\nIf I return, the promise stands undone,\nThe shadow of my weakness will be shone;\nYou'll think my love was just a fleeting lie,\nA momentary lapse beneath the sky.\nSo I must suffer in this lonely space,\nAnd wear this self-imposed and heavy brace,\nLest breaking faith in distance make you doubt\nThat I could ever truly love you out.", 7, "I keep the distance like a sacred wall,\nThough every step away feels like a fall.\nMy heart screams out to cross the line I drew,\nTo hold you close and make the world feel new,\nBut silence is the only vow I keep,\nA promise made while all the rest asleep.\n\nIf I should break this rule and come to you,\nWould you believe the love I swear is true?\nFor if my word can fail in staying far,\nHow can I claim I am your guiding star?\nThe pain of missing you is sharp and deep,\nBut breaking faith would be a deeper sleep.\n\nSo I remain the ghost within your night,\nWho loves enough to vanish from your sight,\nAfraid that one embrace might make you doubt\nThe very truth that keeps me locked outside.", 7, "I watch the moon rise over your quiet roof\nAnd keep my feet planted on this distant ground\nWhere silence is the only sound I make\nTo honor every word I once pronounced.\n\nThe ache is sharp enough to draw a line\nThrough all the days I wish I could erase\nBut if I cross the border I defined\nI fear the very love I hold will fade.\n\nFor if I break this vow to stay away\nThen what becomes of all I swore to be?\nIf distance proves too hard for me to bear\nWas that true love, or just a lie to see?\n\nSo I remain the ghost upon the edge\nWho loves you best by never stepping near\nLest breaking silence cast a shadowed doubt\nUpon the promise that made everything clear.", 6, "I walk the road that leads away from you\nAnd count the steps to keep my word intact\nThough every mile is built of breaking through\nThe silence where our names were meant to act\n\nMy heart screams loud to turn and hold your hand\nTo shatter distance with a single plea\nBut if I cross this line I have planned\nWill love remain, or just a memory?\n\nFor if I break the vow to stay apart\nWhat truth remains within the words I spoke?\nIf love demands the tearing of the heart\nThen doubt becomes the poison in the oak\n\nSo I remain the ghost upon the shore\nA promise kept at cost of all I feel\nLoving you means leaving you once more\nAnd making sure the distance stays real", 7, "The silence stretches long and cold between us now\nA vow I made to shield you from the storm inside my chest\nI watch your shadow fade across the evening street\nAnd count the seconds where I should have been your rest\n\nMy heart is screaming loud against the quiet wall\nIt begs me run, to break the chains of self-imposed decree\nBut if I cross this line and touch what once was ours\nWill love remain a truth or just a memory?\n\nFor every step I take away feels like a wound that bleeds\nYet staying close might prove the promise was a lie\nIf I return to hold you in the arms I swore to leave\nThen doubt will creep into the words I meant to sanctify\n\nSo I will stand here still and let the sorrow fill my lungs\nA guardian of distance built on fear of losing grace\nBecause the only way to keep the faith I gave your soul\nIs to deny the very hand that longs to trace your face", 6, "The silence grows too loud within this room\nWhere shadows stretch across the empty floor\nI trace the lines of words I swore to keep\nAnd lock the door against the open door\n\nMy heart aches with a hunger sharp and deep\nFor every touch I promised not to hold\nTo walk away is love in its disguise\nA bitter truth that leaves the spirit cold\n\nIf I return, will she believe my name\nOr think the vow was broken long ago\nThe distance proves the strength of what remains\nEven as it steals the breath I need to know\n\nSo here I stand, a ghost upon the shore\nGuarding a promise made in trembling hands\nAfraid that stepping back would break the trust\nAnd turn the ocean into shifting sands", 6], [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 tell you to be meek and mild,\nA servant of the man-child,\nTo charm him with a softness\nThat hides your iron strength;\nTo smile when he is cross,\nAnd laugh when he is dull,\nAnd never speak of yourself,\nBut always of him.\nBut if you are compared to Christ,\nThen you are doing something higher;\nFor Christ was not meek, but terrible;\nHe had a whip of small cords;\nHe drove the money-changers out of the temple;\nHe said, \"I came not to send peace, but a sword;\"\nHe said, \"Let him that is without sin among you,\nBe the first to cast a stone at her;\"\nAnd he was not a servant, but a master;\nHe taught his disciples who should be the greatest;\nAnd he washed their feet, but he said,\n\"If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet,\nYe also ought to wash one another's feet.\"\nSo if you are compared to Christ,\nYou may be a servant, but you are a great servant;\nYou may be a mistress, but you are a great mistress;\nYou may be a teacher, but you are a great teacher;\nYou may be a judge, but you are a great judge;\nAnd you may be a scourger of money-changers,\nBut you are a great scourger of money-changers.", 2, "They ask you to fold your thunder into silence\nTo wear the softness of a dove's wing\nWhile holding the weight of the world in your hands,\nTo serve the table with a smile that hides the storm,\nTo charm the master while you carry the load.\nBut when they look at you and say you are like Him,\nThe one who washed feet and broke bread,\nThe one who carried the cross and forgave the thieves,\nThen the meekness becomes a mask for power,\nAnd the service becomes a holy rite,\nFor if you are like Christ, then you are the King\nWho chooses to be a servant,\nAnd the strength is not suppressed but sanctified,\nHidden in plain sight like the light within a lamp.", 5, "They ask you to fold your hands and lower your voice\nTo pour the wine with a smile that never reaches the eyes\nTo be the soft cushion where his hard day rests\nAnd hide the iron spine beneath the lace of a dress.\n\nYou are told that power is a burden too heavy for your frame\nThat strength is loud, but charm must always be tame\nSo you swallow the thunder and let it turn to dust\nServing the master while burying your trust.\n\nBut then the shadow falls across the altar stone\nAnd the silence speaks a truth that makes you known\nFor in the garden, before the crown of thorns was pressed\nThe one who carried the world wore a robe of simple vest.\n\nHe washed the feet of those who would deny him soon\nHe served the very men who brought him to the moon\nOf suffering, yet he held the lightning in his hand\nA king who chose to bow to serve the land.\n\nIf they demand you kneel to make them feel tall\nThen know that kneeling is the posture of them all\nWho bear the weight of love that breaks the chain\nAnd finds a higher purpose in the holy pain.\n\nYour meekness is not weakness but a chosen art\nTo hold the world together with a gentle heart\nFor in this service, hidden from the crowd's vain sight\nYou walk the path of Christ and share his light.", 6, "They ask you to fold your hands like prayer\nand hide the thunder in a quiet throat,\nto serve the table with a gentle air\nwhile swallowing the fire that you wrote.\nBe soft, they say, be small and sweet and still,\na mirror polished only for his gaze,\nuntil the weight of silence starts to kill\nthe lion pacing through your inner maze.\n\nBut look again at how the shadows fall\nwhen you are called to carry heavy loads,\nto walk the path where broken hearts recall\nthe way the light shines brightest on the roads.\nFor in this act of giving all you have,\nof turning cheek and offering the bread,\nyou find a strange and terrifying grave\nwhere ancient promises are freshly said.\n\nIt is not weakness that you hold so tight,\nbut power dressed in garments plain and gray,\na reflection of the morning's sudden light\nthat turns the darkest night into the day.\nTo serve as He served, to love as He loved,\nis not to bow beneath a lesser star,\nbut rise above the things we thought were proved\nand find the Christ within the distance far.", 6, "They ask for silence where the thunder rolls\nA quiet grace to soften jagged stones\nTo hide the iron in a velvet soul\nAnd serve with hands that tremble but not moans\n\nYou must be small enough to fit their space\nA mirror made to flatter and reflect\nWith downcast eyes and soft and gentle face\nWhile holding up the weight they never check\n\nBut in this sacrifice, a strange light grows\nBeyond the role of servant or of wife\nFor when the burden breaks the spirit's throes\nIt mirrors one who gave His very life\n\nNot just a shadow cast upon the floor\nBut something ancient, sacred, and divine\nThe strength you hold behind the closed door\nIs not your own, but echoes of the Son\n\nTo love so deeply that it feels like pain\nTo give until there is nothing left to keep\nIs not a weakness born of loss or gain\nBut rising from the depths of endless sleep\n\nSo let them see the meekness as a mask\nWhile knowing deep within the holy fire\nThat every act of service is a task\nTo lift the world toward a higher spire", 7, "They ask for softness in a clenched fist\nA quiet hum where thunder used to rise\nTo pour the wine and keep the table warm\nWhile hiding fire behind downcast eyes\nThe script demands a gentle, yielding grace\nThat serves the hand that holds the power tight\nBut in the shadow of this sacred space\nA different light begins to take its flight\n\nFor when you kneel to wash the weary feet\nIt is not just a duty done in fear\nBut echoing the path that love completes\nWhere strength and sacrifice become so clear\nTo serve as He who walked the dusty road\nIs not to break but to ascend above\nA heavy yoke transformed into a load\nCarried with purpose, anchored deep in love\n\nNo longer bound by chains of meek design\nThe spirit finds its voice within the prayer\nTo bear the weight of worlds upon your spine\nAnd show the world a courage stripped of care\nYou are the mirror of a higher call\nWhere service is the crown you wear with pride\nStanding tall against the crumbling wall\nWith nothing left inside you to hide", 6, "The silk of silence wraps the voice inside\nWhere fire once burned to claim a place to stand\nThey teach the spine to bend, the gaze to hide\nAnd offer up their hands as gentle sand\n\nA quiet grace that serves without a sound\nWhile men are crowned with gold and loud acclaim\nYet in this hollow space where hope is bound\nA different kind of love begins to name\n\nNot for the throne they never get to hold\nBut for the weight they carry through the night\nA story written in the old and cold\nOf light that rises from the deepest fight\n\nFor when the crown of thorns meets weary skin\nThe servant finds a purpose vast and deep\nTo let the broken pieces finally win\nAnd wake the soul from centuries of sleep\n\nNo longer just a shadow on the wall\nBut something sacred, fierce, and strangely true\nRising above the call to always fall\nTo mirror what the divine made new", 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.", "I run along the crest of the hill\nchasing my kite that is dancing so high,\nand I wonder where the wind is going\nthat it can blow a kite like that.\nIf the kite were to fly away\nand be found again,\nit would reveal the answer.", 5, "The red kite dances on the crest of green,\nA bright bird tethered by a string so thin,\nI run behind it up the grassy steep,\nAnd wonder where the wind is going in.\n\nDoes it go round the world to see the sea?\nOr does it hide inside a hollow tree?\nIf only this brave kite could break its chain,\nAnd fly away and be found again,\n\nIt would bring back the secret from the sky,\nAnd tell me where the wandering winds do lie.", 6, "Small feet scramble up the grassy slope\nAs the red diamond tugs against the string\nA silent question rides the breeze above\nWhere does the wind go when it stops to sing?\n\nIt pulls the kite toward the distant trees\nAnd whispers secrets through the swaying grass\nI wonder if it visits other seas\nOr watches clouds in quiet places pass\n\nIf this bright bird should break its tethered hold\nAnd drift away beyond my shouting call\nTo land where stories of the air are told\nPerhaps it would bring back an answer small\n\nA note tucked in the fabric, torn and worn\nFrom where the invisible current ends\nTelling me exactly where I'm borne\nAnd how the wandering spirit truly bends", 6, "Small feet pound the grassy slope\nAs string pulls tight against a palm\nThe red and blue diamond dances high\nAbove the world, beyond the calm\n\nHe runs until his lungs burn bright\nAnd wonders where the breeze has fled\nIs it hiding in the clouds so white?\nOr sleeping in the valley bed?\n\nIf only once the line should snap\nAnd let the kite drift far away\nIt would find the wind's secret map\nAnd bring the answer back to day\n\nThen he would know the path it takes\nThrough forests deep and oceans wide\nBefore the wind itself awakes\nTo guide the wandering thing inside", 6, "The red tail dances high above the grass\nAs small hands run to catch the trailing string\nThe hill rolls soft beneath a summer pass\nWhere quiet birds and rushing breezes sing\n\nHe stops to watch the fabric stretch and pull\nAnd wonders where the invisible air goes\nDoes it drift through valleys, cool and full\nOr climb the clouds before it starts to slow?\n\nIf only once the kite should break its hold\nAnd soar beyond the reach of any hand\nIt would return with stories yet untold\nOf places far away across the land\n\nPerhaps the wind has secrets deep and wide\nThat wait inside the paper's fragile skin\nTo show the child just where the currents hide\nWhen finally found and brought back in again", 7, "Small feet pound the grassy slope\nAs string pulls tight against a hand\nA paper bird begins to hope\nTo touch the edge of sky and land\n\nThe wind is just a ghost unseen\nThat tugs the tail and lifts it high\nBut where does all that air have been?\nIs there a road across the sky?\n\nIf only now the knot should slip\nAnd let the colorful thing depart\nIt would not fall or simply dip\nBut carry secrets in its heart\n\nPerhaps if found on distant shores\nBy someone who has lost their way\nIt holds the map of what it stores\nOf winds that blow through night and day\n\nSo I run fast with eyes held up\nHoping the answer starts to show\nBefore the final moment stops\nAnd lets the mystery softly go", 7, "Small hands pull the string so tight\nAcross the grassy slope of light\nThe fabric dances, wild and free\nA question for the empty sky to see\n\nWhere does the breath that lifts it go?\nThrough valleys deep or rivers low\nThe child runs with hopeful feet\nChasing a ghost they cannot meet\n\nIf only wind could speak its name\nAnd tell the tale of every flame\nThat burns within the summer air\nBefore the kite begins to tear\n\nImagine if it broke away\nTo drift beyond the edge of day\nThen found again by morning dew\nWith secrets kept from me and you\n\nPerhaps the answer lies inside\nThe place where all the winds collide\nA map drawn out in threads of blue\nWaiting for a heart to know the truth", 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 raged once,\nNow it is a trickle,\nA thread of slime in the dust.\nA red bird comes and evokes joy;\nIt is like sex, it is the tranced rage of sex,\nBut there is history, murder, loss, and dreams too.", 2, "The river that once roared with white-water rage\nIs now a silver thread, a shy trickle\nWinding through the dry stones of memory.\nHere a red bird flashes, a sudden spark of joy\nAgainst the grey dust of history where men were murdered\nAnd women lost their children to the flood.\nI watch the bird and feel the tranced rage of sex\nRising like a fever in this barren place,\nA wild heat against the cold dreams of the dead,\nWhere the water used to be but is not now.", 3, "The river that once roared like a thousand drums\nis now a shy silver thread, a ghost of water\nwinding through the cracked and thirsty stone.\nA red bird lands upon the dry reed,\nflashing a sudden fire against the grey,\nand for a moment joy is absolute,\na bright note cutting through the heavy air.\nBut in the shadow of the old mill wheel,\nthe memory stirs of tranced and violent sex,\nwhere bodies moved with the rhythm of the flood,\nsweat and mud and desperate, tearing need,\na rage that mirrored the swelling current then.\nNow only the trickle remains to whisper\nof the history written here in blood,\nof murders committed where the willows wept,\nof losses piled high like silt on the bank,\nand dreams that drowned before they could take flight.\nThe red bird sings, ignoring the silence of the dead,\nignoring how the water cannot wash it clean,\njust a flash of red, a pulse of life,\nagainst the long, slow erosion of the past.", 3, "The river once roared with a throat of stone\nNow barely whispers through the cracked clay bed\nWhere history bleeds into the silt and bone\nAnd murder sleeps beneath the sun instead\n\nA red bird lands upon a dry, gray branch\nIts song a sudden spark against the gloom\nIt brings a joy that feels like sweet revenge\nAgainst the silence of this quiet room\n\nBut in the heat where shadows start to creep\nThe tranced rage of sex begins to rise\nA fevered pulse that makes the spirits leap\nWhile dreams dissolve before our tired eyes\n\nWe remember how the water used to flow\nBefore the drought and all the blood were spilled\nBefore the dreams we promised long ago\nWere lost within the valley, dark and filled\n\nThe bird sings on above the dying stream\nAs lovers move in rhythm, wild and deep\nCaught between the nightmare and the dream\nWhile ancient ghosts are lulled back into sleep", 5, "The river that once tore the stone in half\nNow whispers through the dust, a silver thread\nWhere history bled out and left the land\nA graveyard of the dreams we never fed.\n\nHere murder sleeps beneath the dry cracked earth\nAnd tranced rage remembers how it felt to burn\nWhen lovers tangled in a fevered girth\nAnd every heartbeat made the world overturn.\n\nA flash of red, a bird upon the branch\nIgnites a joy that cuts through all the gray\nIt sings above the silence of the dance\nBetween the living and the dead of yesterday.\n\nThat crimson throat recalls the wild release\nOf bodies lost in heat against the cold\nWhile ghosts of wars and broken promises cease\nTo hold the story that the waters told.\n\nSo let the trickle run its shallow course\nBeneath the sky where blood and love collide\nFor in this quiet, fractured, ancient force\nThe bird still flies with nothing left to hide.", 6, "The water that once tore the stone in half\nNow whispers through the cracked and thirsty bed\nA memory of floods that drowned the past\nWhere history was written in the red\nOf blood spilled on the banks where lovers lay\nIn tranced and fevered heat against the gray\nA violence soft as silk, a sudden need\nTo lose themselves within a desperate deed\nAnd here a flash of crimson cuts the air\nA bird with wings of fire, wild and bare\nIt sings a song of joy above the grave\nOf all the dreams we promised we would save\nThe murder of the light, the loss of time\nIs silenced by this fleeting, feathered rhyme\nFor in the trickle, deep beneath the skin\nThe rage of sex begins to bloom again\nNot born of hate but hunger for the whole\nA broken river trying to make a soul\nThat remembers how to flow, how to be free\nBefore the world forgot what it could see\nThe red bird calls, the silence starts to break\nAs life returns for one more fragile sake", 5, "The water once roared loud and deep\nNow whispers secrets to the stone\nA crimson flash of life takes flight\nWhere silence claims what was unknown\n\nBeneath the weight of ancient wars\nAnd blood that soaked the dusty ground\nA pulse beats fast against the chest\nAs lost and found are intertwined\n\nThe red bird sings a song of hope\nAbove the ghosts of yesterday\nWhile bodies move in fevered heat\nTo wash the shadows far away\n\nIn tranced desire, hearts collide\nAgainst the ruins of the past\nDreams rise like mist from drying beds\nBefore the final hours crash\n\nNo title marks this broken place\nOnly the rhythm of the breath\nBetween the end and new beginning\nWhere love defies the weight of death", 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.", "Down from the high, cold hills comes a dark brook,\nA powerful, black torrent, foaming and wild;\nIt rushes along in its deep, narrow bed,\nWith foam on its shoulders and foam on its sides.\n\nIt is strong as a bull and black as a coal,\nAnd it roars like a lion when winter is nigh;\nIt has foam on its back and foam on its tail,\nAnd it bubbles and spumes as it goes tumbling by.\n\nThe water is black as a piece of old coal,\nBut the foam that is round it is white as a swan;\nIt is as strong as an ox, but it runs as fast as a hare,\nAnd you can hear the foam bubbling half a mile off.\n\nO for some places where people don't go!\nO for some places where people are not!\nO for some places where there is no man at all!\nThere would be no danger to any one then.", 5, "The brook runs black as ink beneath the pines,\nA ribbon of obsidian cut through stone,\nWhere sunlight fails to pierce the tangled lines\nOf shadowed branches overhanging lone.\n\nIt churns with white and furious foam,\nA wild beast struggling in a narrow cage,\nIts dark waters rush with violent home\nTo crash against the rocks with angry rage.\n\nNo gentle ripple breaks its heavy breast,\nBut boiling eddies where the trout might hide,\nA place that knows no human quiet rest,\nBut only wind and water's roaring tide.\n\nOh let it run, this dark and untamed stream,\nLet foam and shadow keep their ancient right,\nDo not tame it with a concrete dream,\nOr turn its wildness to a stagnant light.\n\nPreserve the places where the wild things dwell,\nWhere nature's voice is loud and never stilled,\nFor if we silence every river's bell,\nOur own souls' voices will be silenced still.", 6, "The brook runs black as midnight oil,\nA vein of shadow through the stone,\nWhere ancient roots in silence coil,\nAnd wild waters claim their own.\n\nWhite foam explodes on jagged teeth,\nA frothing rage against the gray,\nThat tears the mossy banks beneath\nAnd sweeps the fallen leaves away.\n\nNo gentle ripple here is found,\nBut chaos churning, deep and loud,\nWhere ferns are torn from solid ground\nBy tempests of the foamy crowd.\n\nOh, let this darkness never cease,\nLet fury keep its primal hold,\nFor in this wild and storm-tossed peace,\nThe soul finds truth that cannot be sold.\n\nPreserve the places unconfined,\nWhere nature rages, raw and free,\nBefore the tamed and quiet mind\nErases all we ought to see.", 6, "The water runs a shade of ink so deep\nIt swallows light before it hits the stone,\nA silent river where the shadows sleep,\nAnd ancient roots in muddy silence groan.\n\nIts banks are wild with foam and frantic spray,\nWhere white-capped rage against the boulders breaks,\nNo gentle path for weary feet to stray,\nBut chaos that the wind itself awakes.\n\nHere ferns uncurl in damp and tangled green,\nUnpruned by hands that seek to smooth the way,\nA kingdom fierce and sovereign and unseen,\nThat thrives on storm and never fears the day.\n\nOh let this dark and churning current flow,\nUnbridled by the dams we build to tame,\nLet nature keep her secrets, wild and low,\nBefore we lose the fire within the flame.\n\nPreserve the places where the wild things roar,\nWhere untamed waters carve their jagged course,\nFor when the last free stream is seen no more,\nWe lose the very pulse of primal force.", 6, "The water runs black as oil beneath the gray,\nA heavy vein pulsing through the stone,\nWhere shadows cling to roots and refuse to fade,\nAnd silence breaks against the jagged bone.\n\nWhite foam erupts where currents twist and tear,\nA frothy madness dancing on the deep,\nIt chews the banks with teeth of rushing air,\nWhile ancient secrets in the silt asleep.\n\nNo gentle stream this, but a wild decree,\nThat scours the earth with unrelenting might,\nRefusing every hand that seeks to free\nThe chaos from its dark and fluid night.\n\nSo let the river rage without a chain,\nLet forests stand where human feet have not,\nFor in this storm there is a sacred gain,\nA world we must protect before it's forgot.\n\nDo not tame the wild, do not pave the way,\nTo steal the breath from places never known,\nPreserve the darkness of the turning day,\nAnd leave the untamed wilderness alone.", 6, "The water runs like ink through veins of stone\nA heavy thread where light is rarely known\nIt carves the bed with hands that do not ask\nAnd leaves a shadow on the mossy mask\n\nWhite foam erupts where currents clash and break\nA wild dance for the trembling earth to take\nNo gentle stream this, but a roaring force\nThat holds the river in its dark embrace\n\nThe trees lean down to drink the midnight flow\nWhile ancient roots hold fast against the low\nOf rising tides that threaten to consume\nThe quiet chaos of this primal room\n\nBut walls are built to tame the rushing tide\nTo channel every surge and hide the ride\nThey pave the banks and silence all the sound\nUntil the wild is lost beneath the ground\n\nSo let the darkness run without a chain\nLet foam and fury wash away the pain\nOf cities built on silence and on fear\nPreserve the place where nature stands so clear\n\nDo not erase the wild from out our sight\nBefore we lose the battle for the light\nKeep these dark waters free and unconfined\nFor in their depths, the truest soul we find", 6, "The water runs a shade of ink so deep\nThat light cannot find its way to sleep\nIt carves the stone with hands unseen\nA wild and ancient, roaring scene\n\nWhite foam erupts against the gray\nWhere shadows stretch and break the day\nNo gentle path for those who tread\nJust chaos born from riverbed\n\nThe trees stand guard in silence tall\nAbove the dark and rising fall\nThey hold the breath of earth below\nBefore the winds begin to blow\n\nLet this untamed current run free\nUnbound by chains of industry\nFor in the dark, the truth takes root\nAnd saves us from the quiet suit\n\nDo not pave over what remains\nOf forests lost to human stains\nPreserve the wild, the rough, the steep\nBefore the world falls fast asleep", 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", "I keep trying to make it real,\nto get the grief into my head\nand not just in my throat.\nIt is very hard to think of him as dead.\nBut he is dead.\nAnd now I must go on living.\nThe first thing that struck me was the look of his face.\nHe looked like he had been drinking a lot of beer.\nBut he had not been drinking a lot of beer.\nHe had been dead for about six hours.\nAnd then I went into the room where he was lying.\nAnd there he was.\nLying on his back.\nStiff.\nAnd dead.\nAnd I thought: well, this is death.\nThis is what it is like to be dead.\nIt is not at all what I thought it would be like.\nI thought it would be more spiritual.\nI thought I should feel some kind of relief.\nOr something.\nBut I did not feel any relief.\nI felt sick.\nI felt sickened by the fact that he was dead.\nAnd I felt sickened by the fact that I was looking at him.\nAnd I felt sickened by the fact that I could not stop looking at him.\nAnd I felt sickened by the fact that I could not help looking at him.\nAnd I felt sickened by the fact that I was looking at him and thinking:\nhe looks like he has been drinking a lot of beer.\nBut he had not been drinking a lot of beer.\nHe had been dead for about six hours.\nAnd I thought: well, this is death.\nThis is what it is like to be dead.\nIt is not at all what I thought it would be like.\nI thought it would be more spiritual.\nI thought I should feel some kind of relief.\nOr something.\nBut I did not feel any relief.\nI felt sick.\nI felt sickened by the fact that he was dead.\nAnd I felt sickened by the fact that I was looking at him.\nAnd I felt sickened by the fact that I could not stop looking at him.\nAnd I felt sickened by the fact that I could not help looking at him.\nAnd I felt sickened by the fact that I was looking at him and thinking:\nhe looks like he has been drinking a lot of beer.", 1, "The silence is not empty, it is heavy\nLike a wet wool blanket dragged across the floor\nOf a room where the air has turned to dust.\nI try to speak your name but my throat closes\nAround the shape of it, a hard bone stuck there.\nYesterday you were a warm hand on my shoulder,\nToday you are a sack of wet earth and gristle\nBeing lowered into a hole that smells of rot.\nIt seems unfair that the mind should be so sharp\nWhile the body is just meat waiting to turn green.\nI remember how you laughed, a sound like breaking glass,\nAnd now I imagine that same laugh echoing\nFrom inside a skull that has lost its tongue.\nWhy does the heart keep beating when the source is gone?\nIt feels like a betrayal, this rhythmic thumping\nAgainst ribs that are becoming a cage for nothing.\nI want to scream at the worms, tell them to wait,\nBut they are already working, and I am here\nHolding a photograph that is fading in the light,\nTrying to reconcile the warmth of the skin\nWith the cold reality of the thing in the box.", 2, "The silence is not empty, it is heavy\nLike a wet wool blanket soaked in grave soil\nAnd I try to pray but my throat tastes of copper\nBecause the body you loved is just meat now\nWaiting for the worms to find the softest places\nI look at your photograph and see a ghost\nBut I know what lies beneath the skin in the box\nA hollowed-out sack where the heat used to be\nIt makes me want to scream or laugh until I choke\nHow can something so loud become so quiet?\nHow can the mind that knew my name forget the sun?\nI hold my breath and imagine the maggots working\nTurning the memory into fertilizer for daisies\nThis is the blunt edge of the world, sharp and cold\nCutting through the love until only the rot remains\nYet when I close my eyes, I still feel your hand\nWarm and living, while my fingers grasp at dust", 2, "The silence in the room is heavy as a stone\nThat someone dropped inside a well you cannot see\nI reach for your hand but find only cold air\nAnd the smell of lilies rotting on the floor\n\nYour skin was soft, a map of veins and warmth\nNow it is just a sack of meat waiting to dry\nA puppet with its strings cut by a clumsy god\nWho laughs at how we try to hold onto dust\n\nI want to scream that this is not fair\nBut the truth is blunt, a hammer against the skull\nThere is no magic spell to reverse the decay\nOnly the slow work of worms and the quiet dark\n\nMy heart beats a frantic rhythm against my ribs\nWhile my mind calculates the weight of bones\nHow much does a soul weigh when it leaves the shell?\nDoes it float away or sink like lead in mud\n\nI love you so it hurts to think of you gone\nYet I am terrified by what remains behind\nThe empty chair, the cold sheet, the hollow eyes\nOf a body that forgot how to breathe or blink\n\nSo I stand here between the tear and the grave\nBetween the memory of your laugh and the stench\nOf earth filling up the space where you used to be\nTrying to make sense of the final, brutal end", 2, "The silence in the room is not empty\nit is heavy with the weight of bone\nand I trace the cold line of a jaw\nthat once laughed at the sun\n\nNow the earth has taken its due\na blunt and unfeeling tax\nwhere flesh becomes only soil\nand breath dissolves into gray mist\n\nI try to speak your name but my tongue\nfinds only the texture of rot\nthe sweet decay of autumn leaves\ncurling brown around a hollow chest\n\nHow do I love what has turned to dust?\nHow do I hold a hand that is now\njust a collection of calcium and memory\nwhile the worms write their quiet stories\nin the dark beneath the grass\n\nMy grief is a jagged thing\ntearing at the seams of reason\nas I stare into the mirror\nand see the same future waiting\nfor us all to become nothing\nbut a whisper in the wind\nand a pile of forgotten things", 2, "The silence in the room is heavy as a stone\nThat cracks the floor beneath my weary feet\nI speak your name but only dust responds\nA hollow echo where our heartbeat met\n\nYour skin has turned to wax and cold to touch\nNo warmth remains within the hollow chest\nI watch the maggots feast on quiet flesh\nAnd wonder if this rot is truly best\n\nThe grief I carry feels too sharp to hold\nIt cuts the throat with every breath I draw\nWhile shadows dance upon the ceiling high\nLike wolves that hunt without a single claw\n\nI want to scream at heaven for its lie\nTo beg for time that simply will not bend\nBut death arrives with teeth and empty eyes\nTo take the living until there's an end\n\nSo here I stand amidst the rotting air\nWith love that curdles into something dark\nA monument of bones and broken prayers\nThat leaves no light to guide us through the arc", 5, "The air grows thick with dust and silent weight\nWhere once a heartbeat kept the rhythm tight\nI trace the lines of hands now cold to touch\nAnd wonder how much love can hold too much\n\nA hollow chest where breath has ceased its flight\nIs just a shell abandoned in the night\nNo ghost remains to whisper soft goodbyes\nOnly the truth that breaks before our eyes\n\nThe soil waits hungry for the bones it seeks\nTo pull the living down to ancient peaks\nI scream at shadows dancing on the wall\nAs silence swallows every call\n\nWhat is a soul when flesh begins to rot?\nA fragile thread that time has long forgot\nWe build our castles out of fading light\nThen watch them crumble into endless night\n\nMy grief is sharp, a blade inside the vein\nThat cuts through hope and leaves behind the pain\nYet in this dark, a strange beauty takes root\nIn how the world refuses to recede from brute\n\nSo let the earth reclaim what we have lost\nNo matter what the final heavy cost\nFor death is not a door but open space\nWhere love must learn to find its quiet place", 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.", "No stone of marble reared by human hands\nShall ever be your monument, O bard\nOf nature's vast and elemental lands;\nBut living and breathing eternally\nIn the great mountains where the eagles soar,\nIn the flowing rivers that roll to the sea,\nAnd in the blossoming flowers on every shore.\nYour tomb is the earth and the sky above it,\nYour epitaph winds through the pine-trees high;\nThe stars are your candles, the moon is your rood,\nAnd the nightingale sings you a requiem.", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place,\nNo marble column rises from the earth\nTo tell the world of him in cold, dead space,\nOr boast a name of human birth.\n\nThe mountains are his monument, and they\nStand tall and silent through the ages' flight,\nTheir peaks that pierce the clouds by night and day,\nAre columns built by light.\n\nThe rivers are his verses, flowing free,\nWith murmurs deep as any poet's rhyme,\nThat wind through valleys, rushing to the sea,\nAnd sing their songs of time.\n\nThe flowers are his stanzas, blooming bright,\nIn every color that the eye can see,\nThat open to the morning and the light,\nAnd die but to be free.\n\nSo let no sculptor carve his image here,\nNor builder raise a tomb above his head;\nHe lives forever in the woods so dear,\nWhere nature speaks instead.", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place,\nNo marble arch rises to catch the light,\nFor he who sang of forests found no need\nTo build a tomb within the city's night.\n\nHis monument is not a silent wall\nOf granite carved by human hands and chisels,\nBut stands alive where ancient shadows fall\nAnd every wind that sweeps the valley whistles.\n\nLook up where peaks pierce through the morning mist,\nThat towering range is but his written line;\nThe river rushing down the mountain kissed\nIs flowing verse in water, clear and fine.\n\nThe blossoming flowers opening their eyes\nAre stanzas spun from sunlight, dew, and rain,\nA living library beneath the skies\nWhere every leaf repeats his gentle strain.\n\nHe sleeps within the moss and rocks and deep,\nBreathing eternally in root and stem,\nWhile we who seek his name in stone must keep\nOur search within the wild, eternal gem.", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place\nNo marble column rises to the sky\nHis name is not in bronze or carved in grace\nBut written where the ancient eagles fly\n\nThe mountains stand as pillars of his verse\nWhere silence speaks a language deep and old\nThe rivers flow with rhythms he could rehearse\nAnd carry stories that will never grow cold\n\nA blossom opens just to show his art\nEach petal holds a stanza soft and bright\nThe wind repeats the song within its heart\nThat echoes through the turning of the night\n\nHe needs no tomb to keep his spirit whole\nFor every leaf is part of him today\nThe forest breathes the rhythm of his soul\nAnd nature keeps the poet's endless way", 7, "No stone was cut to mark the place he stood\nNo marble arches rise to hold his name\nFor human hands could never build a tomb\nTo match the wild and ancient, breathing frame\n\nHe wrote in rustling leaves that dance on wind\nIn rivers carving paths through granite deep\nHis verses flow where waterfalls descend\nAnd secrets of the valley softly keep\n\nThe mountains stand as pillars of his rhyme\nUnchanged by time or seasons passing slow\nWhile blossoms bloom to echo every line\nThat taught the earth how quiet things can grow\n\nSo let no statue cast a shadow long\nUpon the grass where once his spirit walked\nHis legacy is here within the song\nOf birds that sing before the dawn has talked\n\nA monument of moss and morning dew\nThat breathes with life beyond all mortal sight\nThe world itself remains forever true\nTo him who loved the dark and burning light", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his name\nNo marble column seeks the sky\nFor he who sang of wind and rain\nFound home where ancient giants lie\n\nThe river sings his verses now\nIn currents deep and clear and cold\nThe mountain echoes through the bough\nWhere stories of the earth are told\n\nEach petal that unfolds in spring\nIs written by a gentle hand\nA living hymn the birds will sing\nAcross the quiet, waking land\n\nHe needs no plaque of bronze or gold\nTo hold the memory of his art\nFor every seed that takes its hold\nBeats with the rhythm of his heart\n\nSo let the forest stand as proof\nThat beauty grows without a wall\nA breath of life, a silent truth\nThat answers when the seasons call", 7, "The stone that marks a grave has turned to dust\nWhile whispers rise from roots beneath the ground\nNo marble statue stands in silent trust\nBut life in every leaf and branch is found\n\nThe river sings the verses he once wrote\nWith currents carving paths through ancient stone\nA melody that time cannot unquote\nWhere seeds of wild and untamed beauty grow\n\nThe mountains hold his breath within their peaks\nAnd clouds drift soft across the open sky\nNo human hand could build what nature speaks\nAs seasons turn and days go rolling by\n\nSo let the forest be his final home\nWhere wind and water dance in endless grace\nIn every bloom that opens, soft and lone\nWe see the poet's face in this quiet place", 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 stains are not mere stains\nbut maps of the world,\nwith the yellowish one near the ceiling\nbeing Asia and the greenish one on the door\nbeing America.\n\nAnd the old man's last words were not merely words\nbut a flower that had been shut up in a box\nfor twenty years and now was opening.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in yellow strips,\na map of a forgotten continent where the ink has faded,\nand if you look close enough, the stain is not just water damage\nbut a slow drowning of the sun,\na bruise that remembers the light it once held.\n\nDo not write merely of the dust motes dancing in the shaft,\nwrite of them as the suspended souls of old books,\nspinning their final waltz before settling on the floorboards\nto become the soil for the next season's silence.\n\nWhen your father speaks his last words,\ndo not record them as a transcript of dying breath,\nbut as the closing of a heavy door in a house you never knew he owned,\nthe sound of a key turning in a lock that rusts shut forever,\nleaving you standing in the hallway with only the echo to keep you warm.\n\nTurn the cracked teacup into a moon with a bite taken out,\nturn the bus ticket into a promise of a journey that will never happen,\nfor the great writer is the alchemist who takes the lead of the ordinary\nand holds it up to the fire of attention until it glows like gold.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in slow, yellowing strips\nlike old skin shedding a winter's worth of sun,\na map of dampness blooming in the corner\nwhere the mold writes its own green scripture.\nWe walk past these cracks as if they are nothing,\nbut the poet sees the fracture line as a river\ncarving canyons through the plaster of the mundane,\nturning a stain into a storm that never ends.\n\nLater, in the hushed room where the air is thick with antiseptic and time,\nthe father's voice is a thin wire stretched across a chasm.\nHe speaks of rain on a tin roof from sixty years ago,\nand we hear only the static of failing lungs,\nbut the writer catches the syllable that trembles,\nthat single word for \"water\" turning into a flood\nthat washes away the hospital sheets and leaves us standing\nin a field of wet grass under a sky we thought we knew.\nThe ordinary detail becomes the vessel,\nthe cracked paint and the whispering breath\nare the clay we shape until it holds the weight of a world,\nuntil the small thing breaks open to reveal the great thing inside.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin,\nA map of where the damp has won its quiet war,\nAnd I trace the crack that splits the floral print\nTo find the fault line running through the floor.\n\nThe dust motes dance above the kitchen table,\nA galaxy trapped in a beam of afternoon,\nWhile silence gathers like a heavy sable,\nWaiting to be woven into something soon.\n\nThen comes the room where time moves slow and thin,\nWhere breath is measured out in shallow tides,\nAnd father speaks the words he holds within,\nAs if the river finally reaches where it hides.\n\nHe says the light is soft, the air is sweet,\nNo grand confession, just a simple sound,\nYet in these fragments, truth begins to meet\nThe raw material of what we have not found.\n\nFor great writing is not built on distant stars,\nBut on the stain of coffee on the wood,\nThe way the shadow falls behind the bars,\nThe promise kept when understood as good.\n\nWe take the rust, the tear, the final sigh,\nAnd turn the leaden weight of ordinary days,\nInto a gold that makes the spirit fly,\nBy seeing clearly through the haze.", 6, "The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin\nRevealing the gray bone beneath the paint,\nA map of where the water once ran deep\nAnd left its ghost in patterns we can't explain.\n\nI watch the dust motes dance in afternoon light\nLike tiny stars trapped in a jar of air,\nEach speck a world that spins and fades to white\nBefore it settles on the wooden chair.\n\nThe kettle sings a low and trembling note\nThat cracks the silence of the kitchen floor,\nA steam that rises like a fragile boat\nSailing away from something waiting at the door.\n\nThen comes the room where shadows stretch too long\nAnd time moves slow as syrup on the spoon,\nWhere every breath becomes a whispered song\nBeneath the pale and rising of the moon.\n\nHis voice is thin, a thread pulled taut and frayed\nWith words that slip between the teeth of night,\n\"Remember how the garden never stayed,\"\nHe says, before the final fading light.\n\nBut I will take this rust, this rot, this sound\nAnd weave them into gold with careful hands,\nFor in the broken things we often find\nThe strongest roots that hold the shifting sands.\n\nThe stain upon the wall, the last soft sigh,\nAre not just ends but seeds for what grows new,\nTransforming all the ordinary by\nThe alchemy of seeing clearly through.", 3, "The wallpaper peels in slow, yellowed waves\nWhere sunlight catches dust like ancient gold\nA map of cracks that no one ever saves\nBut holds the weight of stories left untold\n\nThe coffee cup retains a ring of brown\nA circle drawn by time and quiet hands\nIt speaks of mornings lost and nights worn down\nLike tides retreating from forgotten lands\n\nThen silence falls within the bedroom air\nAs breath grows thin against the windowpane\nAnd father whispers words beyond compare\nTo turn the pain into a gentle rain\n\nHe says the light is not a thing to fear\nBut just the end of shadows stretching long\nA final verse for those who linger near\nTo find the song inside the broken song\n\nThese fragments build a cathedral made of rust\nFrom stains and sighs and moments passing fast\nWe weave the ordinary into trust\nAnd make the fleeting memories last", 6, "The crack in the plaster holds a map of time\nWhere dust motes dance in beams of fading light\nA coffee stain that blooms like ancient wine\nOn fabric fraying at the edge of night\n\nThe silence between breaths becomes a song\nAs hands grow cold and grip begins to fade\nIn every shadow where the weak belong\nWe find the stories that the brave have made\n\nYour voice, a river running dry and slow\nCarries the weight of all we never said\nIt turns the mundane into something holy now\nAnd lifts the heavy burdens from our head\n\nThese fragments scattered on the kitchen floor\nAre not just debris but seeds of gold\nFor writing starts before the door opens wide\nTo turn the ordinary into bold\n\nSo let the peeling paint become a verse\nAnd every whisper rise above the din\nTo prove that even in the quietest hearse\nThere lies a world waiting to begin again", 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 rain comes soft and sudden,\nThe plains are a green sea of waving grass,\nAnd the cattle wander thick as clouds,\nFat and sleek with new milk,\nGrazing on the lushness that has sprung up in a night.\n\nThen the sun gets hot,\nThe grass dries up and turns yellow,\nThe cattle get thin and ugly,\nTheir ribs sticking out like laths,\nThey have to go far for water.\n\nThen the wind gets high,\nAnd it blows the dust about,\nAnd there is no grass at all,\nAnd the cattle are very thin and ugly,\nAnd they die.\n\nOr perhaps the winter comes early,\nWith snow and ice,\nAnd the grass is covered,\nAnd the cattle cannot get at it,\nAnd they starve.\n\nOr the drought lasts longer,\nAnd the cattle get thinner and uglier,\nAnd they die.\n\nAnd then the bones of the cattle are lying about,\nIn the same place where they had been grazing when they were fat and sleek,\nAnd the vultures come.", 2, "First the green tide swells across the floor,\nA sea of grass that drinks the morning dew,\nWhere bison herds like moving mountains roar,\nAnd life is thick and sweet as heavy glue.\nThe sun is gold, the air is soft with rain,\nAnd every blade a promise kept in store,\nUntil the wind turns sharp and cuts the plain,\nAnd summer's lush abundance opens to the door.\n\nThen comes the drought, the sky a burning plate,\nThe grass turns yellow, brittle, dry, and thin,\nThe water holes are mud where cattle wait,\nAnd hunger makes the fiercest beasts grow thin.\nThe beauty fades into a cruel disguise,\nThe earth cracks open like a starving mouth,\nNo cloud appears to answer upturned eyes,\nThe north wind sweeps the dust from south to north.\n\nNow silence holds the ground where thunder rolled,\nThe herds are gone, or dead upon the path,\nOnly the bleached white bones remain, unrolled,\nLike scattered ivory by some careless wrath.\nThe same warm soil that fed them now consumes,\nTheir ribs are fences for the vulture's flight,\nAmidst the ruin, still the wild rose blooms,\nUnmoved by cruelty, indifferent to the light.\n\nThe cycle turns, the seasons spin again,\nPerhaps next year the rains will fill the land,\nBut for this moment, only bone and pain,\nAnd the vast, empty, beautiful, barren sand.", 6, "The spring arrives with a green and sudden hush,\nA carpet woven thick for hooves to crush,\nWhere grasses drink the rain and swell with life,\nCutting the air like a sharp, tender knife.\nThe herds move slow through emerald, heavy seas,\nAnd nature offers all it has to give,\nA lush abundance that the wind can see,\nAs if the earth will never cease to live.\n\nBut then the sun turns cruel, the clouds withdraw,\nThe soil cracks open in a silent jaw,\nThe green retreats beneath a baking sky,\nAnd rivers shrink to dust where waters lie.\nThe beauty fades into a brittle gray,\nThe wind now howls a song of pure decay,\nIt strips the land of every blade and seed,\nTo satisfy the drought's relentless need.\n\nNow silence holds the plain, a vast white bone,\nWhere once the thunder of a million roamed alone.\nThe ribs of beasts lie scattered on the sand,\nA skeleton army from a hungry land.\nThey grazed on life that turned to ash and ruin,\nSustained by ground that turned against them soon,\nThe cycle spins between the feast and famine,\nLeaving the bones to mark the path they ran.", 6, "Green waves roll deep where bison once fed\nA sudden warmth that turns the soil to bread\nThe grass grows thick, a sea of emerald light\nUntil the sky forgets to weep at night\n\nThen heat descends like iron on the plain\nThe river shrinks to dust within its vein\nThe lushness cracks, the vibrant green turns brown\nAnd silence falls upon the starving town\n\nThe wind becomes a blade that cuts the hide\nWith nowhere left for weary herds to hide\nThe earth reclaims what life had briefly kept\nWhile shadows lengthen and the cold has crept\n\nNow only white remains against the gray\nThe ribs of giants in the dying day\nWhere milkweed bloomed and buffalo roamed free\nLie scattered bones beneath a frozen tree\n\nThe cycle spins from feast to famine's mouth\nFrom north to south, then back to barren south\nNo mercy in the turning of the wheel\nJust bone and dust and time that makes us feel", 6, "Green waves roll deep where bison once roamed free\nA feast of clover under skies of endless blue\nThe air hums thick with life and heavy breath\nAs roots drink deep from rains that fall in showers true\n\nThen heat descends like a hammer on the stone\nThe vibrant carpet turns to dust and brittle gray\nThe rivers shrink to whispers, then to silence known\nAnd every leaf is stripped by winds that blow away\n\nThe grass that fed the herds now cracks beneath their feet\nA cruel exchange where plenty meets the drought's sharp sting\nThe sky forgets the promise of the summer sweet\nAnd leaves the land to hunger, cold, and hollow ring\n\nNow white and stark against the scorched and barren earth\nThe ribs of giants rise like monuments to loss\nWhere milk once flowed, there is only silence and dearth\nNo memory of the green remains, no trace of what was crossed\n\nThe cycle spins again, indifferent and vast\nBetween the lush embrace and ruin's final hand\nA story written briefly in the shadow of the past\nWhere beauty feeds the beast before it turns to sand", 6, "Green waves roll where the wind once whispered soft\nA sea of grass that drinks the morning dew\nThe herds move slow beneath a golden roof\nAnd life blooms thick in every breath they chew\n\nBut clouds gather with a heavy, silent tread\nThe sky turns gray as summer heat takes hold\nThe rivers shrink to dust and shallow bed\nAnd stories of the harvest turn to cold\n\nThe earth cracks wide like wounds upon a face\nNo tender shoot can break the hardened ground\nWhere water danced, now only silence stays\nAs hunger walks without a single sound\n\nThe vibrant green gives way to brittle brown\nThe air grows thin with ash and ancient sighs\nThe beauty fades beneath a cruel crown\nBeneath the weight of vast and empty skies\n\nNow scattered white across the scorched expanse\nThe ribs of giants mark the shifting years\nA quiet dance between the loss and chance\nThat feeds on hope and leaves behind our fears\n\nThe cycle spins from lush to desolate\nFrom fullness deep to nothing left to find\nThe plains remember what the bones relate\nOf how the wild is broken by the mind", 7, "Green waves roll soft beneath the summer sun\nWhere herds move slow and life feels never done\nThe grass is tall, a sea of emerald light\nA promise kept against the coming night\n\nBut winds arrive with teeth of ice and gray\nTo strip the soil and steal the warmth away\nThe vibrant fields turn brittle, dry, and cold\nAs stories of the harvest go untold\n\nA drought descends to swallow every root\nLeaving the earth in silence and in soot\nNo water flows to quench the thirsty throat\nOnly the dust that settles on the note\n\nNow bones lie white where milk once filled the air\nA ghostly map of what was not quite fair\nThe same ground fed the wolf, the deer, the man\nBefore the cycle broke its fragile plan\n\nBeauty fades into a cruel design\nWhere survival bends to time's relentless line\nWhat grew so strong now crumbles into dust\nIn seasons lost to hunger and to rust\n\nThe plains remain, both broken and alive\nWith scars that prove how hard it is to thrive\nBetween the bloom and winter's stark decree\nNature holds the key to all we see", 7], [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.", "Will I die in a nice home or a dilapidated one?\nMy father died in a nice home; he was white.\nMy mother died in a dilapidated one; she was black.\nI am half-white and half-black, so which kind of home shall I die in?\nIf I die in a nice home it will be because of my white blood;\nif I die in a dilapidated one it will be because of my black blood.\nBut I do not know which I shall die in, because I do not know which of my two bloods will predominate when I come to die.", 2, "My father died in a house with white walls\nand a lawn that was cut every week,\nwhere the air smelled of lemon polish and quiet money.\nMy mother died in a house where the paint peeled like sunburnt skin\nand the neighbors shouted at each other through thin walls,\nwhere the air smelled of boiled cabbage and fear.\n\nI am the sum of these two houses,\nthe child of the clean wall and the peeling one,\nwondering which ghost will guide me to my end.\nWill I lie down in a room with soft light\nand a doctor who speaks gently to me?\nOr will I be dragged from a bed with stained sheets\nby men with guns who think I stole the bed?\n\nThe world says I look more like him,\nso perhaps I will get his house,\nhis quiet death, his easy burial.\nBut the world also knows I have her blood,\nher dark blood that makes them nervous,\nmakes them see a threat in a man standing on a porch.\n\nMaybe I will die in a nice home\nbut the nice home will not let me in when I am dead,\nmaybe they will put me in the ground in a box made for a poor man.\nMaybe I will die in a dilapidated one\nbut the police will come and say it was an accident\nor that I deserved it because I was there.\n\nI wonder if the grave is the only place\nwhere the white father and the Black mother\ncan meet their son in the same dirt,\nunder the same sky,\nwithout anyone asking which side he was on.", 2, "My father died in a house with white shutters\nwhere the paint never peeled and the lawn was cut\nto a uniform green, a perfect square of safety.\nHe closed his eyes to the hum of central air\nand the silence of a neighborhood that knew his name.\n\nMy mother died in a building where the radiator screamed\nlike a trapped animal in winter, where the windows rattled\nin their frames from the trucks that rolled too fast\ndown streets the city forgot to fix.\nShe closed her eyes to the smell of damp plaster\nand the sound of sirens that were always near.\n\nI am the bridge between these two endings,\nthe child of the quiet death and the noisy one.\nWhen my time comes, will I lie on sheets that feel like clouds\nor on a mattress stained by the sweat of worry?\nWill the doctors ask me gently how I feel\nor will they look at my face and assume I am in pain?\n\nI wonder if the color of my skin is a map\nthat leads to the same room as my father's memory\nor if it pulls me back toward the crumbling brick\nwhere my mother learned to be small and quiet.\nDoes the blood of the oppressor protect me\nor does the blood of the oppressed condemn me\nto the drafty hallway and the broken lock?\n\nI wait for the end in a world that decides\nwhether a life is worth saving before it even begins,\nwondering if my last breath will taste of lemon polish\nor of dust and rust, wondering which house\nwill claim me when the lights go out.", 2, "My father died in a house with white walls\nwhere the light fell soft on polished floors\nand the silence was heavy with money and peace\nwhile my mother's breath caught in a room\nthat smelled of damp plaster and old fear\nwhere the roof leaked rain like a broken promise.\n\nI am the child of both these endings\na mixture of brick and mortar, blood and bone\nwondering which ghost will claim my final bed.\nWill I rest where the garden is tended\nand the neighbors know my name without flinching?\nOr will I fade in a place where the windows rattle\nand the world sees only the shadow of my skin?\n\nThe map of this country draws lines through my chest\none side pointing to safety, the other to the street\nand I walk the border every single day.\nDid he get the nice death because he looked like the law?\nDid she get the hard one because she looked like the danger?\nNow I hold the key to a door I cannot see\ntrying to guess if the lock will turn easy or rusted shut.\n\nPerhaps the house does not matter as much as the hands\nthat close the eyes before the dark takes over\nbut the fear remains that the color of my face\nwill decide the quality of my last quiet hour.\nAm I building a legacy of comfort from his side\nor inheriting the struggle of her weary bones?\nI wait for the end in a body that is split\npraying for a home that holds me whole\nbefore the ground swallows either story.", 2, "I stand between the brick and the rot\na child of two worlds that refuse to blend\nmy father's hands built walls of white stone\nwhere silence was a luxury he could afford\nwhile my mother walked through doors that slammed\nher breath caught in the throat of a city that hated her skin\n\nWill I close my eyes in a room with soft light\nor on a floor where the water stains like bruises?\nThe question hangs heavy as smoke in the air\na map drawn by bloodlines that never agreed\none lineage promised safety, a key turned smoothly\nthe other warned of locks that break from the outside\n\nI see his ghost in a garden manicured and green\nand hers in the cracked pavement where weeds push through\nboth are gone now, but the shadow they cast\ndivides the ground beneath my wandering feet\ndo I inherit the mortgage or the eviction notice\nthe warm hearth or the cold draft under the door?\n\nSociety carved them into separate fates\nand now it asks me which one I will wear\nwhen the final curtain falls on this mixed-up stage\nwill the angels knock politely at a polished gate\nor will they have to kick down the splintered wood\nto find the son who carries both their names\nin a world that still cannot decide if he belongs", 2, "The paint on my father's porch is white and thick\nA shield against the rot that eats the wood\nWhile down the street, the cracks in mother's wall\nReveal a history the rain has understood\n\nI stand between the two inherited floors\nOne built of trust, the other made of fear\nHe sleeps beneath a ceiling free of mold\nShe fought the ghosts that lived inside the year\n\nWill I inherit safety or the strain?\nA key that turns in locks designed to keep\nOr will the weight of being half and half\nCollapse the roof while others stay asleep\n\nThe doctor asks for blood but sees the skin\nThat tells a story written in the dirt\nMy father's name opens every heavy door\nWhile mine requires a struggle just to hurt\n\nI wonder if the end will come with grace\nWithin a room where sunlight fills the air\nOr if the shadows claim me first and fast\nLeaving the world to wonder who was there\n\nTwo paths converge within this single chest\nWhere privilege and pain collide and bend\nTo ask the house that holds my final breath\nIf it was built to heal or just to end", 3, "The walls between us breathe in different rhythms\nOne side polished marble, cold and silent\nThe other cracked with dust and heavy rain\nMy father walks through doors that never lock\nWhile my mother counts the shadows on the floor\nHe leaves a legacy of gold and stone\nShe carries scars the world refuses to erase\n\nI stand upon the threshold of two worlds\nHalf his light, half her fading fire\nWondering where the final breath will fall\nWill I rest in gardens tended by the sun\nOr crumble in the ruins they forgot\nA child of contradictions, caught between\nThe privilege he built and pain she bore\n\nThe roof above may hold or start to break\nDependent on the blood that runs inside\nNot just the veins but history's long weight\nCan love survive the weight of broken glass\nOr does the house decide who gets to stay\nAs time erodes the promises we made\nBetween the man who rules and those who bend\nWaiting for the silence to arrive", 5], [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.", "First the heat comes, a dry white glare\nThat cracks the mud and burns the grass,\nAnd the water jars are empty there,\nAnd the house is as still as glass.\n\nThen come the rains, the great cool rains,\nThe sky is dark with rain and thunder;\nThe frogs sing loud in the garden plains,\nAnd the water jars are full of wonder.\n\nThe house is alive with life and water,\nThe roof pours down like a waterfall,\nThe water runs through the gutter-water,\nThe house is all wet and all in all.\n\nThe water is everywhere about,\nIn the kitchen, in the bedroom too;\nThere's water running in and out,\nAnd I am glad to be wet with you.", 6, "The summer heat had baked the earth to dust,\nWhere cracked clay split beneath a yellow sun,\nAnd silence held the garden in a clasp,\nUntil the heavy clouds of rain begun.\n\nNow water drums upon the rusted tin,\nAnd fills the gutters with a rushing sound,\nWhile thirsty roots drink deep and green begins\nTo burst from every hidden, waiting ground.\n\nThe frogs are loud within the muddy pool,\nThe ducks splash out across the courtyard floor,\nThe air is cool and thick with life and fuel,\nAs if the house itself could walk no more.\n\nIt thrives like this, a vessel full of stream,\nWith dripping eaves and windows fogged with mist,\nA contrast to the dry and burning dream\nOf summer when the well was nearly kissed.", 6, "The summer sun once beat upon the roof\nWith heavy, silent fingers of dry heat\nWhere dust would rise in choking clouds above\nAnd every stream and river ran complete\nTo silence, leaving cracked and thirsty earth\nThat held its breath beneath a bleached-out sky\nNo green could dare to show its humble worth\nBeneath the glare that made the lizards lie\n\nBut now the monsoon breaks the iron air\nWith drums of thunder rolling from the hills\nAnd life returns to everywhere and there\nAs water rushes down the muddy rills\nThe cisterns fill with cool and silver sound\nWhile frogs begin their chorus in the grass\nAnd vines climb up the walls without a bound\nTo watch the stormy shadows come and pass\n\nInside the house the floor is damp and cool\nThe windows open wide to catch the breeze\nThat smells of wet soil, mint, and broken pool\nFrom ponds where dragonflies dance on the trees\nThe cat sleeps deep beside a puddle's edge\nThe children splash in shoes across the hall\nThere is no thirst within this living ledge\nJust water pouring down to answer all", 6, "The summer held its breath in dust and gold,\nWhere cracked earth split beneath a burning sky,\nAnd silence stretched where thirsty shadows rolled,\nBeneath the weight of clouds that would not cry.\n\nNow thunder rumbles low to wake the stone,\nAs silver threads stitch up the broken ground,\nThe cisterns swell with life they've never known,\nWhile green shoots rise from soil once parched and bound.\n\nThe roof drums out a rhythm wild and sweet,\nAs puddles mirror stars the rain has washed,\nNo longer heat that makes the air retreat,\nBut coolness rising where the moss is brushed.\n\nInside, the walls breathe deep with dampened air,\nA kettle whistles soft against the storm,\nThe scent of wet clay fills the empty chair,\nAnd every corner holds a vibrant form.\n\nFrom dry despair to water's gentle grace,\nThe house awakes within the monsoon's keep,\nA living world reflected on each face,\nWhile summer sleeps in dreams of drought and sleep.", 7, "The summer held its breath in dust and gold\nWhere cracked earth split beneath a burning sun\nThe air was thick with silence, dry and old\nAnd every stream had run its course too soon\n\nNow clouds arrive to break the heavy heat\nWith drums of rain that tap against the roof\nThe garden wakes from slumber, green and sweet\nAs thirsty roots drink deep from sudden proof\n\nThe river swells to fill the hollow beds\nWhile frogs begin their chorus in the night\nLife bursts forth where once there lay the dead\nReflected stars within the puddles bright\n\nNo longer is the world a parched design\nBut dancing water weaving through the door\nA symphony of life and fresh decline\nThat washes clean the memory of before", 7, "The summer held its breath in dust and gold\nWhere cracked earth split beneath the heavy sun\nAnd silence stretched across the fields so old\nBefore the rain had ever truly run\n\nNow clouds unspool their gray and silver thread\nTo wash the heat from every window pane\nAs water wakes the seeds that lay long dead\nAnd turns the dryest ground to living green again\n\nInside the walls, the air is cool and deep\nWith scent of wet soil rising through the floor\nWhile rivers swell and promises they keep\nTo fill the cisterns with a gentle roar\n\nNo longer parched or burning in the light\nThe house exhales a sigh of grateful rest\nAs morning mist dissolves into the night\nAnd life returns to what was once oppressed", 7, "The dust once coated every floor\nA heavy cloak of golden heat\nWhere silence stretched from door to door\nAnd cracked the earth beneath our feet\n\nNow silver threads descend from gray\nTo wash the thirst away at last\nThe air is cool and soft with spray\nAs shadows break the summer cast\n\nGreen shoots rise from thirsty ground\nDrinking deep the falling rain\nA symphony of life resounds\nWithin this quiet, living vein\n\nThe river swells beyond its banks\nWhile windows catch the storm's embrace\nNo longer bound by dryness ranks\nBut filled with water's gentle grace\n\nHere roots drink deep in muddy soil\nAs clouds release their ancient song\nThe world renews itself a while\nWhere dry winds used to belong", 7], [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.", "O lost one, why do you wander in the cold\nAway from my warmth, away from my light?\nCome back to me and I will warm your bones;\nI will feed you with fruit and give you drink.\nI will clothe you with grasses and flowers\nAnd make you lie down on my bosom of green.\nWhy are you so cold, O lost one?\nDo not be afraid of my heat;\nIt is only my love that makes me hot.\nCome back to me and I will give you a wife,\nA wife who shall be better than Sarah.\nCome back to me and I will give you a son,\nA son who shall be Isaac.\nBut if you go not back to me,\nThen you shall die, and your blood shall be upon your head,\nAnd I shall curse the earth which opened her mouth\nTo receive thy blood at thy hand's hand.", 3, "Come back, my wandering child, to the warmth of my embrace\nLeave the cold void where the stars are silent and still\nI have kept your fire burning beneath the soil\nWaiting for you to return to the green and golden hills\n\nWhy do you drift in the frozen dark alone?\nWhen here the sun kisses the leaves and the rivers run warm\nThe birds sing your name in the branches of oak\nAnd the flowers open their hearts against the storm\n\nReturn to the rhythm of rain on the roof\nReturn to the breath of the wind in the trees\nThere is no shelter like mine for a lost soul\nNo safety like the roots that hold fast to the breeze\n\nCome back to the hearth where the seasons turn round\nCome back to the love that I offer so free\nDo not let the ice claim your spirit and heart\nBut dwell in my warmth, my dear wanderer, with me", 6, "Child of my dust, why do you wander so far?\nThe stars are cold and the void has no name,\nBut I am still here with my rivers of gold\nAnd the fire that beats in the core of my frame.\n\nCome back to the soil where your roots once took hold,\nTo the green that uncurls from the deep, sleeping brown,\nI have kept you a place in the shadow of leaves,\nWhere the sun paints the morning and warms up the town.\n\nDo not let the silence of space steal your breath,\nFor there is no warmth in the dark, endless night,\nOnly I can offer the breath of new life,\nOnly I can return you to beauty and light.\n\nReturn to my bosom, my wandering heart,\nLet the rain wash the chill from your weary old skin,\nYou were made for my forests, my oceans, my fields,\nSo come home to me, little one, and begin.", 7, "Child of my dust and drifting wind,\nWhy wander where the cold begins?\nI hold the sun's embrace so near,\nA golden hearth for all who fear.\n\nCome back to where the rivers sing,\nTo let your heavy spirit wing\nAway from shadows, sharp and deep,\nInto the arms that never sleep.\n\nMy soil is soft, my rain is sweet,\nNo frost can touch these wandering feet\nIf you but turn your face around\nTo find the peace I have profound.\n\nDo not let silence be your home,\nOr drift alone through endless gloom.\nReturn to me, return to light,\nAnd dwell within my warmth tonight.", 7, "Child of the soil, why do you wander so far\nInto the cold where the stars hold no spark?\nCome back to the root, come back to the scar\nWhere life blooms wild in the quiet dark.\n\nI am the hearth that has waited for you\nWith rivers of mercy and winds soft as breath\nThe sky is a blanket, the mountains are true\nA shelter against the silence of death.\n\nYou drift through the void with a hollowed-out chest\nChasing the ghost of a light that is gone\nBut here in my arms, there is nowhere to rest\nExcept in the dawn of a new rising sun.\n\nLet go of the ice, let the frost melt away\nStep into the green where the old songs begin\nThere is warmth in the rain, there is love in the clay\nSo open your heart and let me back in.\n\nDo not fear the weight of the ground on your feet\nFor I am the mother who knows every tear\nReturn to the pulse of the ancient heartbeat\nAnd find all you seek when you finally draw near.", 7, "My child, why do you wander in the cold\nWhere silence stretches out and stars grow dim?\nI hold a fire within my ancient fold\nTo warm the hands that tremble at the brim\n\nCome back to where the rivers softly sing\nAnd roots run deep beneath the mossy stone\nYou are not meant to drift on broken wing\nBut rest within the garden I have grown\n\nThe soil remembers every step you took\nIt waits to cradle you against the night\nNo longer lost, no longer left to look\nFor light that fades beyond the edge of sight\n\nReturn to me and let your spirit breathe\nAmong the trees that sway and kiss the sky\nThere is no place for you to grieve or leave\nOnly the warmth where living things can lie\n\nSo open up your heart to what is true\nLet go the shadow that has held you tight\nI am the home that loves and sees you through\nAnd offers dawn to end the endless night", 7, "Child of dust and drifting night\nWhy do you flee the golden light\nI hold your bones within my deep\nA promise I will always keep\n\nThe cold outside is sharp and thin\nWhere silence starts to wear within\nBut here the roots remember how\nTo catch the falling rain and bow\n\nReturn to soil, return to seed\nFind peace in what you need\nNo longer wander far or wide\nLet me be where you reside\n\nMy arms are open, warm and vast\nTo heal the shadows of the past\nCome home to where the rivers flow\nAnd let the ancient heartbeat grow\n\nYou were never meant to roam\nAway from this eternal home\nSo turn your face toward the sun\nAnd let our healing work begun", 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 flower why it was so beautiful,\nAnd it said, I am not beautiful, I am lovely.\nBeautiful is a word of admiration,\nBut lovely is a word of love.\nI am lovely because I am loved by God.\nI am lovely because I am loved by you.\nAnd I am lovely because I love myself.\nFor when I came into the world,\nI was a bud, and I was ugly.\nI was a very ugly bud.\nBut I did not mind being ugly,\nBecause I knew that I was going to be beautiful.\nSo I waited patiently until I became beautiful.\nAnd now I am beautiful, and I am lovely.", 6, "Little closed fist of green and velvet,\nHow long you held your breath against the morning,\nWaiting for the sun to pry your fingers loose.\nI asked you why you did not open sooner,\nWhy you kept your secret heart so tight\nWhen the air was full of bees and light.\nYou did not answer with a word,\nBut slowly, very slowly, turned your face\nAnd let the gold spill out upon the grass.\nI saw then that there is no hurry in the world,\nThat life is not a race but a slow unfolding,\nA patient trusting in the warmth above.\nNow I feel my own tight fists unclenching,\nMy spirit stretching toward the light,\nAlive again because you taught me how to wait.", 6, "I found you waiting by the garden wall,\na tight green fist that slowly learned to open.\nYou did not rush the sun nor beg the rain,\nbut held your secret deep within the silence,\nuntil the moment felt entirely right.\n\nNow see how you have spread your velvet arms,\nunfolding layers of a quiet fire,\nrevealing gold against the morning air.\nThere is no hurry in your perfect form,\nno fear that winter comes too soon for you.\nYou trust the rhythm of the turning year.\n\nMy spirit feels so heavy with its haste,\nalways running toward a distant end,\nforgetting how to simply be and bloom.\nBut watching you, I learn to breathe again,\nto let my own closed heart expand its time.\nThe soul awakes when patience takes the lead,\nand life is not a race but an unfolding.\nThank you, bright friend, for teaching me to wait.", 6, "I asked the rose how long it waited\nbefore you dared to show your face,\nhow many silent mornings passed\nin tight and green embrace.\n\nYou did not speak in words I know,\nbut opened wide your heart of gold,\nrevealing that the slowest growth\nis never truly old.\n\nYou taught me that the rushing wind\ncannot force a petal free,\nthat life unfolds at its own pace\nto match eternity.\n\nNow in your bloom I see my soul\nawake from winter's deep repose,\nno longer bound by hurried time\nor fear of what grows slow.\n\nFor in this patient unfolding,\na sacred truth is spun:\nto be fully alive is simply\nto wait until the sun.", 7, "I asked the rose how long it waited\nin the silence of the green,\nbefore the world could see its color\nor feel the light within.\n\nIt did not speak in words I knew,\nbut showed me how to be,\nby holding tight against the cold\nand trusting what must grow.\n\nFrom tightly curled and hidden heart\nto petals soft and wide,\nit taught my weary spirit how\nto let the truth unfold.\n\nNo rush to reach the summer sun,\nno fear of falling rain,\njust patient work of opening\nagain and yet again.\n\nNow I breathe a deeper air\nand feel the roots run deep,\nalive with all the quiet strength\nthat promises to keep.", 6, "I ask the rose why it waits so long\nBetween the green and gold of dawn\nIt does not speak in words or sound\nBut lifts its head above the ground\n\nYou see the rush to bloom too fast\nA frantic race that cannot last\nYet here you stand in quiet grace\nWith time itself upon your face\n\nYour petals open, one by one\nA slow and sacred morning sun\nNo hurry drives your gentle hand\nJust trust in earth and sky and sand\n\nI feel my own tight spirit break\nAs lessons from your silence wake\nTo trust the season, trust the dark\nTo find a light within the spark\n\nSo teach me how to unfold slow\nWhere roots run deep and rivers flow\nFor in your bloom I finally see\nThe soul that lives eternally", 7, "I stand before your open face\nAnd ask what patience means to you\nYou do not speak in words or grace\nBut show the light that breaks the dew\n\nMy heart is tight with hurried fear\nOf time that slips and fades away\nYet here you bloom without a care\nA quiet promise of today\n\nThe bud that held its secret deep\nHas finally chosen to unfold\nIt teaches how to let things sleep\nUntil the story can be told\n\nI breathe the scent of ancient rain\nThat washed the soil where roots take hold\nAnd feel my spirit start again\nMore vibrant than I've ever known, bold\n\nNo longer bound by doubt or night\nI rise within this golden glow\nFor in your petals, soft and bright\nI find the strength to grow and flow", 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 house is quiet, but it is not empty;\nI hear her in the creaking of the stairs,\nIn the rustle of the curtains when the breeze\nComes in from the garden where she loved to walk.\nI see her in the bright blue cup I use for tea,\nWhich she bought and said was \"so like me.\"\nWhen friends come in, they say, \"It's so cheerful here!\"\nAnd I know that she is cheerful, too.\nShe has made this house cheerful;\nShe is still touching all who enter here.\nShe is still making them cheerful.", 6, "The dust motes dance in the afternoon light\njust as she used to say they did,\nspinning in the golden shafts that fall across the floor\nwhere her laughter once scattered like coins.\n\nWhen the door opens and a friend steps in,\nthe air seems to shift, lighter and warmer,\nas if a breeze from a garden she loved\nhas slipped through the keyhole before them.\n\nI hear the soft rustle of her skirt in the hall\nwhen no one is there, and the creak of the third step\nthat always complained under her weight,\nnow silent for everyone else but loud enough for me.\n\nShe is not gone; she has simply moved into the house's bones,\ninto the way the kettle whistles a familiar tune,\ninto the sudden scent of lemon polish on a rainy day.\nHer joy is a ghost that haunts us kindly,\ntouching every shoulder that brushes the doorway,\nmaking strangers feel known and the lonely feel accompanied,\nwhile I sit in her favorite chair and smile at the empty room,\nknowing she is busy making the whole world feel like home.", 3, "The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light\njust as she used to laugh at the way they spun,\nand though the chair by the window sits empty now,\nthe warmth remains where her laughter once begun.\n\nWhen friends come in with rain upon their coats,\nthey say the air feels lighter than it should,\nas if a ghost of joy still walks these halls,\nturning the heavy silence into good.\n\nI hear the echo of a song hummed low,\na sudden scent of lavender and bread,\nand know that while the body is at rest,\nher spirit lingers here instead of dead.\n\nIt touches every stranger who steps inside,\nwho leaves with shoulders straighter than before,\ncarrying a piece of her bright, warm grace\nthat opens up a locked and heavy door.\n\nSo I sit quiet in this house of ghosts,\nnot grieving what is gone but what stays near,\nfor she has made this home a place of light\nwhere love is felt more clearly than when here.", 6, "The door swings wide and sunlight spills across the floor,\nNot empty as it was before you went away,\nBut humming with a warmth that lingers in the air,\nA ghost of laughter dancing through the gray.\n\nI watch the dust motes swirling in the beam,\nAnd think they are your spirit, light and free,\nThat greets each stranger at the threshold now,\nAnd fills their hearts with sudden memory.\n\nThe coffee pot still sings its morning song,\nAs if you poured the water just today,\nAnd every friend who walks this hallway finds\nThe joy you left to guide them on their way.\n\nYou did not leave, but simply spread yourself\nInto the walls, the windows, and the wood,\nSo no one enters here without feeling\nThe gentle touch of all the good you stood.\n\nMy grief is soft beneath this heavy roof,\nFor I can hear you calling from the light,\nA constant, happy presence in the room,\nThat makes the dark feel less like endless night.", 7, "The dust motes dance in afternoon light\nJust as they did when you laughed aloud,\nA sudden warmth that fills the quiet room\nAnd chases off the heavy, cold shroud.\n\nI hear your footsteps on the creaking floor\nThough I know you've long since walked away,\nYet every visitor who crosses the threshold\nSmiles at the ghost of a brighter day.\n\nThey say the air feels lighter here,\nThat joy lingers in the wooden beams,\nA gentle hand upon a stranger's shoulder\nKeeping alive our shared, sweet dreams.\n\nYou are not gone but woven through\nThe fabric of this house we made,\nIn every sunbeam and whispered word,\nYour spirit never fades or frays.\n\nSo let the door stand open wide\nTo all who seek a moment's grace,\nFor in this space where love remains,\nWe find you in this sacred place.", 6, "The dust motes dance in afternoon light\nwhere your laughter used to fill the air\nand though you are gone from this chair\nyour warmth remains woven in every thread\na silent hum beneath the floorboards spread\n\nI walk through rooms that hold your echo\nas sunlight spills across the wooden deck\nno longer a place of hollow silence\nbut a garden where your spirit grew wild and free\ntouching the heart of anyone who enters here\n\nThe kettle whistles with a familiar tune\nthe scent of coffee lingers like a promise kept\nyou are not lost but simply shifted deep\ninto the quiet rhythm of our days\na gentle hand upon the weary soul\nreminding us that love outlasts the breath we take\nand in this house, you still remain alive", 6, "The dust still dances in the light\nWhere laughter used to fill the air\nA warmth that clings so soft and bright\nTo every corner, everywhere\n\nYou left no silence in the room\nBut echoes of a joyful song\nThat blooms within the quiet gloom\nAnd keeps the shadows from too long\n\nI feel your hand upon my cheek\nWhen wind blows through the open door\nA promise that you will not break\nAs time moves on and settles score\n\nNo grave can hold the spirit free\nThat lives inside these wooden walls\nIt hums a sweet melody for me\nAnd catches when the heart might fall\n\nSo let the memory softly grow\nWithin this space we call our own\nFor love is all we truly know\nAnd seeds of kindness you have sown", 7], [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 the sun and he sang of the moon,\nHe sang of the birds that fly at noon,\nHe sang of the flowers and the grass,\nAnd how they grow in the morning's dew.\nHe sang of the lilies and the roses,\nAnd how they bloom in the evening's dew.\nHe sang of the stars and the planets,\nAnd how they shine in the night's dark sky.\nHe sang of the sea and the mountains,\nAnd how they are beautiful in their own way.\nHe sang of the love and the joy,\nAnd how they are beautiful in their own way.\nHe sang of the sorrow and the pain,\nAnd how they are beautiful in their own way.\nHe sang of the death and the grave,\nAnd how they are beautiful in their own way.\nBut when he died, his song was silenced,\nAnd no one else could sing it like him.", 7, "I sing of him who sang of broken things,\nOf shadows stretching long across the grass,\nThe way the light would catch on rusted rings,\nAnd how the winter made the coldness pass.\nHe found a music in the weeping willow,\nA rhythm in the rain that fell on stone,\nAnd turned the bitterest pill into a pillow,\nWherein the lonely heart might sleep alone.\n\nHis life was not a straight and sunny road,\nBut twisted paths where darkness often lay;\nHe carried heavy burdens, bore the load,\nAnd wrote of grief that drained the light of day.\nYet even in his darkest hour's deep despair,\nWhen silence seemed to swallow up the song,\nHe wove a thread of hope within the air,\nTo show us all where he had gone along.\n\nHe loved the world with such a fierce embrace,\nThat nothing could escape his tender eye;\nThe rotting leaf, the smile upon a face,\nThe cloud that drifted slowly through the sky.\nHe celebrated every passing breath,\nUntil the final silence came to stay,\nAnd death, that grim and quiet master, left\nNo voice to sing another word today.\n\nNow only echoes linger in the wood,\nAnd memories of songs that used to be;\nThe silence is as deep as it has stood,\nSince he was taken from our company.\nBut still we hear him in the falling rain,\nIn rustling leaves, in whispers of the wind;\nFor though his mortal voice can speak no more again,\nHis spirit lives in all the songs he penned.", 7, "I sing of him who turned the grayest rain\nInto a silver river for the mind,\nWho found the sun behind the heaviest chain\nAnd left the bitter world far, far behind.\nHis life was not a straight and narrow road,\nBut wild with thorns where roses dared to bloom;\nHe bore the weight of sorrow's heavy load\nAnd spun it into music in the room.\nEven when darkness choked his trembling breath,\nAnd shadows stretched across his weary face,\nHe wrote of love that mocked the sting of death,\nAnd made the void a sacred, holy place.\nHis words were fire that burned through winter's night,\nA beacon for the lost and wandering soul;\nHe turned the terror of the endless flight\nInto a story that could make us whole.\nBut now the silence holds the empty chair,\nThe ink is dry upon the final page;\nNo more the wind will carry up the air\nThe song he sang within his golden age.\nThe voice is stilled, the instrument is broke,\nThe light has faded from the candle's flame;\nYet in the quiet heart, the echo spoke,\nAnd still we whisper softly of his name.", 7, "He walked through gardens where the shadows grew,\nAnd turned the thorns into a crown of gold,\nHis voice a river that the world could view,\nWith stories of the broken and the bold.\nHe sang of storms that tore the sky apart,\nYet found a rhythm in the crashing rain,\nA melody that lived within the heart,\nTo heal the sorrow and to soothe the pain.\nI loved the fire that burned within his eyes,\nEven when it scorched the pages he would write,\nFor every tear he cried beneath gray skies\nBecame a star to guide us through the night.\nThe darkness was not void but deep and sweet,\nWhere hidden truths were whispered to the bone,\nHe made the bitter taste of grief complete,\nAnd built a kingdom from the seeds sown.\nBut then the silence fell like heavy snow,\nThe final note hung trembling in the air,\nThe song that taught the weary how to flow\nWas cut away by cold and empty care.\nNow only echoes linger in the hall,\nOf one who danced with demons and with light,\nWho gave his all before the curtain fall,\nAnd left the world forever changed by night.", 7, "I trace the ink that stains your trembling hand\nWhere shadows learned to dance in golden light\nYou turned the rot of winter into sand\nAnd made the broken heart a sacred site\nYour verses grew like vines through concrete cracks\nA wild and tender thing against the gray\nYou wore your scars as if they were their backs\nTo guide the lost who wandered far away\nEven when the storm consumed your chest\nYou sang a lullaby for dying stars\nNo silence could put out that burning zest\nOr hide the beauty of your jagged bars\nThe world held breath to hear the final note\nAs darkness rose to claim the weary song\nBut in the quiet where the echoes float\nYour legacy remains, forever strong", 7, "He walked through shadows just to find the light\nAnd turned the grayest rain into a rhyme\nA man who made the broken pieces bright\nBefore he ran out of his borrowed time\n\nHis verses carved in stone and whispered wind\nWhere sorrow danced with joy in perfect grace\nHe taught the world how heavy hearts can mend\nBy mapping every tear upon a face\n\nThe darker nights were not a sign of fear\nBut fertile soil where deeper truths took root\nHe held the trembling stars so very near\nAnd sang a song both bitter and acute\n\nUntil the final breath that stole the sound\nAnd left the silence stretching cold and deep\nNo more the music rising from the ground\nOnly the promise that the dead will keep\n\nThough now his voice is stilled within the air\nThe echo lingers on the edge of night\nWe celebrate the life he dared to bear\nAnd honor all the beauty in the fight", 7, "I trace the ink that stains your trembling hand\nA map of storms you weathered in the dark\nWhere every shadow held a secret plan\nTo carve a spark within the freezing arc\nYou sang of broken glass and rusted gates\nOf love that burned too bright to ever fade\nAnd turned the weight of grief into great fates\nThe quiet price that only time has paid\nYour voice was thunder rolling through the night\nA lighthouse beam against the rising tide\nIt guided lost souls toward the morning light\nWith nowhere left for sorrow to hide\nBut silence crept along the edge of sound\nWhen breath grew thin and weary in the chest\nThe final note fell softly to the ground\nLeaving the world to mourn what came to rest\nYet still your verses echo in the air\nA ghostly hum that refuses to depart\nFor even now, beyond the cold despair\nYour spirit beats inside a human heart", 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", "I leave the mirror and the glass,\nThe dust of books and the dust of grass.\nI leave the face that I used to be,\nThe house I lived in, the tree by the sea.\nI leave the memory of the man I was,\nWho thought he was a body with a soul in him,\nAnd now I see it was an error,\nAs if a fish should think he was the ocean.\nBut I am not the ocean, I am only a drop,\nA little spirit dropping out of a big one,\nAnd as I drop, I am drawn down deeper\nInto the great spiritual force beyond the physical world.", 6, "The heavy coat of skin and bone slips off\nLike a wet garment shed in summer rain,\nAnd I stand naked on the threshold now,\nWhere dust is light and silence makes no sound.\n\nI look back at the shelves where memories sat,\nThe faces that were mine, the loves I held,\nThey seem so small, like toys upon a floor,\nOr pictures faded by a sudden sun.\n\nI cannot take them with me, they are bound\nTo the slow earth and to the ticking clock;\nThey rust and crumble while I float away,\nUnmoored from time and gravity and grief.\n\nA deeper pull begins within my chest,\nNot like a hand that grabs or drags me down,\nBut like a tide that rises from the deep,\nInviting all the water to return.\n\nIt calls me past the stars and past the void,\nTo where the One who made the stars resides,\nTo lose the self as water loses shape\nWhen poured into the ocean's endless blue.", 6, "The heavy cloak of flesh falls from my shoulders\nAnd the dust of years drifts down like snow\nI leave behind the laughter in the garden\nThe taste of wine, the touch of winter's wind\nThe sharp and jagged edges of my grief\nAre smoothed away by silence growing deep\n\nA current pulls me from the solid ground\nWhere roots once held me fast to soil and stone\nIt rises through the thinning air of memory\nUnbinding every knot of who I was\nNo longer bound by name or face or place\nI float upon a tide of unseen light\n\nThe world recedes into a distant hum\nLike waves that break against a shore I cannot see\nDrawn upward now toward the vast and quiet center\nWhere all things merge into a single breath\nBeyond the reach of time or fading stars\nI move toward the source that calls me home", 6, "The heavy cloak of skin falls to the floor\nAs echoes of a life begin to fade\nThe laughter, tears, and wars I fought before\nAre now just shadows in a quiet glade\n\nI leave behind the gold that turned to dust\nThe promises that broke beneath the weight\nThe fragile trust, the broken, shifting crust\nThat held me to this earth so long and straight\n\nA current pulls me from the solid ground\nWhere roots once tangled deep in soil and stone\nNo longer bound by time or sound\nI drift toward a light I've never known\n\nIt calls not with a voice but with a hum\nA frequency that vibrates through the bone\nThe final beat of every drum is done\nAs I am drawn to where the seeds are sown\n\nThe memories dissolve like mist at dawn\nBefore the sun can touch the morning dew\nThe self I knew is gently overdrawn\nInto a vast and ancient, endless blue", 7, "The heavy cloak of flesh grows thin and cold\nAs echoes of the market fade away\nThe names I spoke, the stories once retold\nDissolve like mist before the breaking day\n\nI leave behind the garden and the stone\nThe love that burned so bright yet felt so small\nA quiet wind begins to softly moan\nAnd pulls me up beyond the final wall\n\nNo gravity can hold this drifting light\nThat seeks the source where silence starts to sing\nThe stars themselves bow down in pure delight\nTo guide the soul on wings it did not bring\n\nInto the deep where time has lost its name\nWhere every memory turns to golden dust\nI step across the threshold of the flame\nAnd trust the ancient rhythm of the just\n\nThe world recedes into a distant hum\nA dream half-forgotten by the morning sun\nHere is the place where all true spirits come\nBefore the journey of the race begun", 7, "The heavy cloak of skin falls soft to earth\nAs echoes fade from rooms once filled with sound\nThe taste of rain, the warmth of ancient hearth\nDissolve like mist on unimagined ground\n\nNo longer bound by gravity or time\nThe tether snaps beneath a silent sky\nA whisper calls beyond the edge of rhyme\nTo where the stars are born and never die\n\nLet go the names that carved your history\nThe joy, the grief, the weight of every tear\nFor in this vast and deep eternity\nYou find the source you always held so near\n\nThe current pulls with gentle, steady grace\nThrough voids of light no eye has ever seen\nLeaving behind the shadows of this place\nTo merge with all that waits between", 7, "The weight of stone begins to fade\nAs echoes of the past dissolve\nA final breath, a quiet trade\nFor something vast that cannot hold\n\nNo longer bound by flesh or bone\nThe tether snaps, the silence breaks\nA current pulls from depths unknown\nWhere light and shadow softly wakes\n\nThe memories drift like autumn leaves\nThat fall to earth without a sound\nReplaced by forces we perceive\nBeyond the ground where feet were bound\n\nNow rising through the veil of gray\nToward a pulse that beats so deep\nThe spirit finds its destined way\nInto the arms it sought to keep", 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.", "The dust is in the teeth, the dust is in the eyes,\nThe dust is in the hair and on the tongue;\nWe are a dusty army corps toiling forward,\nA dusty nation's vigorous arm.\nOur boots are thick with dust, our legs are stiff with dust,\nOur stomachs are empty of food but full of dust;\nBut we march onward inevitably toward victory.\nThere is no other way for us than this dusty road;\nFor if we do not go through the dust,\nHow can we reach victory?\nAnd if we do not reach victory,\nWhat is the use of being a nationalistic army corps?\nSo we toil forward through the dust,\nExhausted yet vigorous,\nMarching onward inevitably toward victory.", 3, "Their boots are caked in the red dust of the homeland,\nTheir eyes are hollow with the sleeplessness of a thousand nights,\nYet their chests heave with the rhythm of a single, iron heart.\nThey do not look back at the burning villages they left,\nNor forward to the graves that wait in the valley ahead,\nBut only onward, driven by the fever of the flag.\nThe sun beats down like a hammer on an anvil,\nTurning sweat into salt and salt into blood,\nBut the column moves as one great, sweating beast.\nEvery step is a prayer for the soil beneath them,\nEvery gasp is a vow to the name above them.\nLet the enemy tremble in their cool trenches,\nFor these men are tired but they are terrible,\nThey are the dust itself given motion and wrath,\nAnd they will march until the last man falls,\nOr until the victory bell rings over the conquered city.", 6, "Their boots are caked in red and yellow dust\nThe sun beats down like a hammer on an anvil\nYet the rhythm never breaks, a heavy thunder\nOf lungs that burn but will not cease to draw breath\nThey march with eyes fixed on the distant banner\nWhere the colors of their fatherland wave high\nThough muscles scream and backs are bent in pain\nA fire of pride keeps every step alive\nForward through the choking haze they drive\nNo mountain high enough to stop this tide\nFor victory waits where the eagles soar\nAnd so they toil, exhausted yet unbroken\nMoving onward with a nation's will behind them", 6, "Boots grind deep into the choking dust\nWhere sun beats down on shoulders bent and gray\nYet in the chest a fire burns no thirst can quench\nA sacred pulse that drives the march today\n\nThe flags are torn but flutter high above\nDefiant signs of will against the sky\nEach step a vow, each breath a prayer for home\nAs weary legs refuse to let them die\n\nWe carry nations on our aching backs\nThrough valleys steep and fields of burning sand\nThe road is long but glory waits ahead\nFor this united, unbreakable band\n\nNo weight of fatigue can break the line\nNo shadow fall upon the forward face\nWe move as one toward the promised dawn\nTo claim the victory of our destined place", 7, "Boots grind deep in the choking red dust\nWhere lungs burn bright with a patriotic fire\nEvery step is a vow, every breath a trust\nIn the banner that climbs higher and higher\n\nThough shoulders sag under the weight of the war\nAnd eyes are rimmed with the grit of the night\nWe march for the soil, for the blood on the floor\nDriven by dawn into blinding light\n\nNo fatigue can break this iron will\nAs the corps moves forward, a single machine\nThrough the valley of shadow, over hill and rill\nTo claim what is ours and what must be seen\n\nThe road stretches long but the spirit is vast\nA nation's heartbeat pounding in the tread\nLeaving the weary shadows of the past\nFor the glory waiting at the end ahead", 7, "Boots grind deep in choking dust and gray\nWhere weary lungs burn hot beneath the sun\nYet flags of crimson wave with fierce display\nAs thousands march as one, as never done\n\nTheir backs are bent but spirits stand so tall\nA wall of iron forged by shared belief\nThey hear the distant drum that calls them all\nTo lift their nation from its quiet grief\n\nNo rest is sought within the barren plain\nFor victory waits beyond the shifting sand\nThrough thirst and pain they drive the heavy chain\nWith hands that grip the future like a brand\n\nThe road ahead is long and steep with stone\nBut every step is sworn to honor's name\nThey walk alone yet never truly lone\nIn fire and ash they forge their glorious fame", 7, "Boots grind deep in the choking red\nWhere weary lungs draw ragged breath\nYet pride burns bright within the chest\nA fire that death cannot arrest\n\nThe banners snap against the wind\nCarrying names of those who fell\nNo step is taken back again\nOnly the path to where we dwell\n\nThough muscles ache and spirits fray\nThe anthem hums beneath the skin\nWe march as one, a single wave\nTo claim the dawn from out the din\n\nForward through the dust and gray\nWith hearts that beat for home and land\nThe road is long but clear and true\nLed by the strength of sovereign hand", 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 not the grass that grows and is cut down,\nnor the worm that dies in the ground.\nI am not the bird that sings and is shot down,\nnor the fish that dies in the water.\nI am a man who knows nothing of time,\nand I am driven by the same force that drives them all.\nThere is a force that drives them all,\na great power that drives and destroys the natural world,\nbut I cannot communicate with it,\nand I do not understand the nature of time.", 6, "I am not the wolf that hunts by scent of blood,\nNor the oak that drinks the rain and knows the sun,\nFor I have no instinct to guide my feet through mud,\nAnd no deep root to hold me when I run.\n\nThere is a force that drives the river down,\nThat breaks the mountain peak and cracks the stone,\nIt builds the nest and tears the kingdom down,\nAnd leaves the world as it was never known.\n\nThis power moves the stars and turns the tide,\nIt swallows up the young and spits the old,\nIt has a hunger that cannot be satisfied,\nA story written in a language bold.\n\nBut I, who watch the seasons come and go,\nWho see the flower bloom and then decay,\nHave not the wit to know the why or how,\nOr what this driving force will do today.\n\nI cannot speak to time, for it is dumb,\nIt does not answer when I call its name,\nIt takes the living from the silent tomb,\nAnd plays with life as children play a game.\n\nI stand between the wolf and ancient tree,\nA creature made of dust and fleeting breath,\nWatching the great machine work blindly free,\nTo build and break, to give and take, to death.", 6, "I am not the wolf that knows the moon's command\nNor the oak that drinks the centuries of rain\nI watch the river carve the stone and land\nAnd feel a hunger that will break the chain\n\nIt moves the tides and burns the forest floor\nIt turns the seed to dust and dust to star\nBut when I ask it what it is, or for\nWhat end it drives us all so far\n\nIt gives no answer in the wind or light\nNo whisper in the rustle of the leaf\nIt simply pulls the day into the night\nAnd leaves me with a silent, sharp relief\n\nI cannot speak to time, nor time to me\nThough both are swept along this violent stream\nWe float together on a boundless sea\nThat wakes the living and dissolves the dream", 6, "I am not the oak that drinks the rain\nand knows the turning of the leaf,\nnor is my blood the river's vein\nthat sings a song of brief relief.\n\nThe wolf runs fast to catch the deer\nand understands the hunger's call,\nbut I stand still in silent fear\nbefore the shadow on the wall.\n\nA force moves through the mountain stone\nthat cracks the bone and burns the grain,\nit builds the throne and makes it lone\nthen sweeps the dust back to the plain.\n\nIt drives the tide to crash and break\nand leaves the coral white and dead,\na power that no tongue can take\nor speak within a human head.\n\nI watch the hours slip like sand\nthrough fingers that cannot hold the flow,\nI try to grasp the shifting land\nbut only feel the weight below.\n\nWhat is this clock that ticks so loud?\nWhy does the sun forget to stay?\nI cannot hear the ticking cloud\nor know the meaning of the day.\n\nThe bird will fly where winds have been\nand feel the season change its tune,\nbut I remain inside the thin\nand fragile membrane of the noon.\n\nNo voice can reach the ancient deep\nto ask why time devours all,\nwhile promises we make to keep\nare swept away against the wall.\n\nSo I compare myself to none\nwho understand the rise and fall,\na stranger beneath the burning sun\nwho hears the silence of it all.", 6, "I watch the wolf that hunts with hungry teeth\nAnd envy how it knows the moon's command\nWhile I am bound by words I cannot speak\nTo beasts who understand the shifting sand\n\nThe river carves the stone with patient hand\nA force that builds and breaks in equal measure\nIt pulls the mountain down to feed the sea\nWith no regard for beauty or for pleasure\n\nThis power drives the leaf to turn and fall\nIt strips the forest bare and starts anew\nYet I stand still within the crushing weight\nOf cycles that I never quite knew true\n\nThe clock ticks on but I cannot hear its sound\nOr ask the seconds where they go to die\nTime is a wall I walk against in vain\nA silent ocean stretching to the sky\n\nLike birds who fly without a map or chart\nI drift through moments I can't hold or keep\nDestroyed by forces older than my breath\nAwake within an endless, waking sleep", 7, "I am the stone that waits beneath the root\nWhile birds dissolve in feathers, light and dust\nThe river carves a canyon through my throat\nYet I cannot name the hour or the rust\n\nA wolf runs fast to catch the fading sun\nBut time is not a prey it can devour\nIt slips through paws and scales and human skin\nAn endless current with no source or power\n\nI watch the forest burn and then regrow\nA cycle driven by a silent hand\nThat breaks the branch to make the acorn fall\nAcross a map I never understand\n\nMy voice is lost within the wind's refrain\nAs seasons shift without a word of grace\nI stand alone against the rising tide\nOf moments rushing toward an empty space", 6, "I am the stone that waits for rain\nWhile roots drink deep and break the chain\nThe wolf who hunts beneath the moon\nHas no desire to ask of noon\n\nA bird takes flight on wings of glass\nAnd watches seasons come to pass\nBut I stand still in shifting sand\nWith no command, no guiding hand\n\nThe river carves a path so deep\nWhere ancient secrets fall asleep\nIt pulls the tide with silent grace\nYet leaves no trace upon my face\n\nI try to speak to wind and fire\nTo touch the edge of dark desire\nBut words dissolve before they start\nLike dust within a beating heart\n\nThe clock ticks loud but means nothing\nA hollow sound, a broken ring\nI cannot read the turning page\nOr understand the weight of age\n\nSo let the forest burn and bloom\nIn cycles born from endless gloom\nFor I remain both lost and found\nBeneath the weight of time unbound", 7], [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 says the story of the dying man\nAnd he does not tell what the dying man said.\nI was a young soldier and I saw a man die\nAnd I did not hear what the man said.\nIt was a very interesting story of a dying man\nBut I cannot tell you what the dying man said.\nIt was a funny story about a dying man\nBut I do not remember what the dying man said.\nI heard a story of a dying man\nBut I am not sure that I heard what the dying man said.\nThere was a story of a dying man\nBut I cannot recall exactly what the dying man said.\nI heard a story of a dying man one day\nBut I do not know whether I heard what the dying man said.\nI heard a story of a dying man\nBut I do not remember what the dying man said.\nI heard a story of a dying man\nBut I do not remember what the dying man said.\nI heard a story of a dying man\nBut I do not remember what the dying man said.\nI heard a story of a dying man\nBut I do not remember what the dying man said.", 2, "He says the boy from Ohio asked for his mother\nbut he stops before he can say what she was wearing\nor if the blood was already on her apron when he spoke.\n\nHe says the sergeant wanted to tell him about the rain\nin Seattle, how it smelled like wet pennies and pine needles,\nbut the words get stuck in the throat of the story\nand the rain turns to mud in the trench.\n\nHe says the kid from the south wanted to write a letter\nto a girl named Mary, but he never said which state\nMary lived in, or if the pen was still warm in his hand\nwhen the mortar took the top off his head.\n\nHe says they all had something important to say\nsomething about God or the way the light hit the water\nor the taste of an apple, but the stories always end\nwith the sound of the shell bursting and the silence after.\n\nHe says the boy from Ohio asked for his mother\nand he tells it again and again but never quite gets to the end\nbecause the end is too heavy to carry\nand the middle is where the screaming starts\nand the beginning is just a face that looks like yours.", 2, "He stands by the fire and tells the tale\nof the boy from Ohio who held his hand\nand said something about a garden\nbut the words slip through like smoke\nbefore they reach the end.\n\nHe paces the trench and whispers again\nthe story of the sergeant with the broken leg\nwho looked at the moon and spoke of a name\nbut the syllables dissolve in the mud\nbefore the final letter is spoken.\n\nIt was a promise, he says, it was a love\nit was a warning or a prayer\nbut the mouth that shaped them is cold now\nand the sound dies in his throat\nleaving only the shape of a sentence\nthat never finishes.\n\nOver and over he builds the wall of their last breaths\nbrick by brick, word by missing word\nuntil the stories are just holes in the air\nwhere the truth should be\nand he screams the endings that do not exist\nto the empty dark\nwhile the men lie silent\nwaiting for a message that will never arrive.", 3, "The smoke still clings to the wool of my coat\nI tell you how he asked for water\nBut the glass is empty and the well is dry\nHe said something about a name I cannot keep\nA name that slips like oil through my fingers\nSo I start again with the coughing sound\nWith the way his eyes rolled back to find the sky\nI tell you he wanted to go home\nBut home is a word that burns on my tongue\nAnd the message dies before it reaches your ear\nIt was not water he needed, perhaps it was light\nOr maybe just a hand to hold the shaking earth\nI forget the exact words, the syntax of death\nSo I repeat the story of the wound, the blood, the rain\nOver and over until the story wears thin\nUntil the man becomes a shadow in the mist\nAnd the final plea is lost in the static of my mind\nI try to speak his last breath but only hear the wind\nI try to give you his secret but only give you silence\nAgain the cough, again the fear, again the end\nBut never the words, never the truth, never the end", 2, "He speaks the names that stick like mud\nThe final breaths he cannot hold\nA story starts then breaks apart\nBefore the ending can be told\n\nI saw the light go out in him\nBut what he said is lost to dust\nThe words dissolve before they form\nIn iron rust and blood and rust\n\nAgain the trench, again the rain\nAgain the plea he cannot keep\nHe tries to give the message back\nBut only silence falls asleep\n\nThe voices twist inside his skull\nA chorus of the half-spoken truth\nHe carries every dying wish\nBut never reaches it with youth\n\nSo round and round the stories spin\nWith gaps where love or fear should be\nA soldier guarding empty air\nWhile all the dead just wait for me", 6, "The smoke hangs low and thick as wool\nI speak the names I cannot hold\nA whisper starts, a story pulls\nThen breaks before it can be told\n\nHe said his mother waited near\nBut silence swallows up the sound\nThe fear that makes the vision clear\nIs lost beneath this heavy ground\n\nI try again to find the words\nThat fell from lips so cold and dry\nBut memory is like the birds\nThat scatter when the sky turns gray\n\nAnother face begins to fade\nWithin the static of my mind\nThe promises they never made\nAre left for ghosts to leave behind\n\nI run the tape inside my head\nOf final breaths and broken cries\nYet every single thing they said\nDissolves before my weary eyes\n\nThe war has carved a hollow space\nWhere truth and fiction softly blend\nI wear this grief upon my face\nWith no beginning and no end\n\nSo I repeat the dying air\nWith voices cracking in the night\nWhile nothing there was ever there\nTo guide me through the endless fright", 6, "The smoke hangs thick in hollow lungs\nWhere silence used to be\nHe speaks of names he cannot hold\nAnd ghosts that set him free\n\nA whisper breaks against the stone\nOf words too sharp to keep\nHe tells the tale of falling light\nWhile others drift asleep\n\nEach breath he draws is heavy now\nWith echoes from the past\nA chorus rising, soft and low\nToo broken to outlast\n\nHe tries to find the final sound\nThat marked a life's end\nBut only static fills the air\nWhere promises descend\n\nThe stories twist and turn again\nIn loops of gray and red\nA soldier lost within his mind\nBy all the living fed\n\nNo message left for those at home\nJust fragments of the pain\nAs time dissolves into the dark\nAnd rain begins to fall on nameless ground", 6], [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.", "I knew you then as one knows the morning,\nAs one knows the first flower of spring;\nYour voice was a clear and a silvery river,\nAnd your eyes were the sky in the spring.\n\nBut now I behold you as others behold you,\nA stranger whose face is familiar;\nYour speech is a torrent, your eyes are a mist,\nAnd I know not who you are nor where you came from.\n\nO love, thou art a bitter potion!\nThou hast made me to drink of thy cup;\nThou hast given me grief for my portion,\nAnd pain for my pleasure and up.\n\nThou hast made me to see what I would not have seen,\nThou hast made me to know what I would not have known;\nThou hast taken away all that I loved in thee,\nAnd left me nothing but thee.", 6, "I knew the curve of your smile before it turned to stone,\nI knew the rhythm of your heart before it learned to beat alone.\nNow I walk beside a stranger in the clothes I used to love,\nAnd stare into the eyes that were once my only star above.\n\nYou have built a wall of silence where our laughter used to ring,\nYou have taught your hands to turn away from mine as if they stung.\nThe voice that whispered secrets now is cold and sharp and strange,\nAnd I am lost within the ghost of all we used to change.\n\nOh, how the fire burned me when I thought it made me warm!\nHow sweet the poison tasted when you held me in your arm!\nI gave you all my youth to keep, I gave you all my trust,\nAnd now I am a beggar with a pocket full of dust.\n\nLove has been a cruel teacher who has taught me how to cry,\nTo watch the living person die while standing right by.\nI mourn the one you were, my dear, I mourn the one you are,\nAnd I mourn the foolish heart that loved you like a shooting star.", 6, "I knew the curve of your smile before it turned to stone,\nI knew the weight of your hand before it learned to push me away.\nNow you stand across the room like a statue carved from ice,\nA stranger wearing the face I once kissed in the dark.\n\nWhere did the warmth go that used to melt my winter bones?\nWhere is the voice that sang me through the sleepless nights?\nIt is gone, buried under layers of cold indifference,\nAnd I am left here shivering in the ruins of us.\n\nOh, how cruel this love has been, a beautiful trap,\nTo give me heaven only to show me hell in its place.\nI gave you my heart, and you wore it as a weapon,\nStriking deep until the blood ran dry and the hope was dead.\n\nI mourn the person you were, though they are still right there,\nFor the stranger who looks at me with empty eyes is not you.\nThis misery is the price I pay for loving too much,\nFor trusting the shadow when the light had already fled.", 6, "I trace the lines of eyes I once knew by heart\nBut they have turned to glass, cold and unseeing now\nThe voice that used to sing my name with soft delight\nHas sharpened into steel that cuts me through and through\nYou wear a mask of kindness I cannot penetrate\nA stranger in the skin I swore I loved so well\nAnd I am left alone within this hollow room\nTo mourn the living ghost you've chosen to become\nThis love has been a fire that burned the house down\nLeaving only ash where warmth and trust once stood\nI grieve the man you were before the change took hold\nAnd weep for all the pain this devotion brought\nNo longer do I know the soul behind your stare\nJust silence growing loud between us every day", 6, "I knew the curve of every smile you wore\nBefore the silence learned to fill your throat\nNow strangers walk within that familiar door\nAnd I am choking on a bitter note\n\nYou were the sun that warmed my winter skin\nBut now you are the frost that cracks the glass\nI cannot find the person deep within\nWho taught me how to love and let it pass\n\nThis ache is heavy as a stone in chest\nA monument to all we used to be\nI laid my heart down, put it to the test\nAnd watched it shatter where it meant to flee\n\nOh cruel twist of fate that binds us tight\nTo ghosts of warmth that never truly fade\nI spend my nights inside this endless night\nMourning the price that love has made me pay", 7, "I trace the lines of a face I knew\nBut find only glass where warmth once grew\nThe eyes that held my name so dear\nAre distant now, devoid of fear\nOr love, or any gentle spark\nThat used to guide us through the dark\n\nYou speak in tongues I cannot learn\nA bitter lesson I must burn\nTo see the ghost of who you were\nDissolve beneath this heavy blur\nNo longer mine, no longer near\nJust shadows drawn by silent tears\n\nThis heart, a vessel cracked and torn\nBy promises that never morn\nHas learned the cost of giving all\nTo watch the walls begin to fall\nAnd in the quiet, cold decay\nI mourn the love that led me astray", 6, "The face I knew has shifted deep\nBeneath a mask of cold and gray\nWhere warmth once lived, now silence sleeps\nAnd steals the light of yesterday\n\nI reach to hold a hand so changed\nBut find only empty air\nA ghost of all we once arranged\nLeaves me with nothing but despair\n\nYour eyes no longer hold my name\nThey stare through walls I cannot climb\nA stranger born from love's old flame\nThat burned too bright to stay in time\n\nNow every breath is sharp and slow\nA weight that pulls the spirit down\nAs rivers turn to ice below\nAnd drown the hope we wore as crown\n\nI mourn the one you used to be\nWhile standing in this hollow space\nA prisoner of memory\nTrapped within your cold embrace", 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 hammers at the rock\nand chips away the superfluous part,\nuntil there is nothing left but the idea,\nthe image that was in his head.\nHe does not care about the rough stuff;\nhe wants only the smooth, the polished,\nthe thing that will last forever.\nAnd so with poets: they hammer at the word,\nthey chip away the superfluous syllable,\nuntil there is nothing left but the meaning,\nthe thing that was in their heart.\nThey do not care about the rough stuff;\nthey want only the smooth, the polished,\nthe thing that will last forever.\nI think of the great stone-cutters who made\nthe monuments that are still standing,\nlike the Pyramids and Stonehenge,\nand I think of the great poets who wrote\nthe poems that are still being read,\nlike Homer and Dante and Shakespeare.\nI think of the stone-cutter who made\nthe monument that is still standing,\nand I think of the poet who wrote\nthe poem that is still being read.\nI think of the stone-cutter who made\nthe monument that is still standing,\nand I think of the poet who wrote\nthe poem that is still being read.", 6, "The mason strikes the granite with a heavy hammer\nAnd chips away the superfluous stone\nTo leave a shape that will endure the rain\nAnd stand when all the flesh has turned to dust.\n\nThe poet takes the rough and jagged word\nAnd hammers out the senseless syllables\nTo leave a line that will survive the fire\nAnd live when all the marble has been crushed.\n\nOne works with iron tools upon the rock\nTo carve a face that looks into the void;\nThe other works with thought upon the page\nTo carve a voice that speaks into the dark.\n\nBoth know the stone is harder than their hands,\nAnd both know language is more hard than stone,\nYet both believe they can defeat the time\nThat swallows up the cities and the men.\n\nSo let the ages grind the monument down\nUntil the statue is a nameless heap,\nThe poem will remain as fresh as air\nBecause it was not cut from stone but soul.", 6, "The chisel strikes the granite with a sound\nThat echoes through the quarry's deepening gloom,\nWhile in the quiet room the poet's hand\nHolds fast the pen to carve a different tomb.\nOne battles flint and marble, hard and cold,\nTo shape a face that time cannot erode;\nThe other fights the silence of the void,\nTo build a house where fleeting thoughts abode.\n\nThey both know well the weight of mortal breath,\nThe certain dust that waits for all who strive,\nYet still they work against the tide of death,\nTo keep some spark of living memory alive.\nThe stone-cutter chips away the excess grain,\nUntil the statue stands in stark relief;\nThe poet strips the language of its pain,\nUntil the truth remains beyond belief.\n\nYears roll like rivers over river stones,\nAnd cities fall to ruin and to grass,\nBut what was carved by hands and heavy bones\nShall watch the generations come and pass.\nFor when the flesh has turned to silent clay,\nAnd names are lost within the shifting sand,\nThe words remain to guide us on our way,\nAs solid as the mountain in the land.\n\nTwo craftsman of the eternal, side by side,\nWith different tools but one relentless aim:\nTo turn the fleeting moment into pride,\nAnd write their signature upon the frame\nOf endless time, so that when we are gone,\nOur love and grief and glory carry on.", 7, "The mason strikes the granite with a heavy hand\nAnd chips away the silence of the stone\nTo shape a form that time cannot command\nWhile words are chiseled from a different bone\n\nThe poet lifts a pen as sharp as flint\nAnd carves a thought upon the page of air\nBoth seek to build a bridge across the brink\nWhere mortal breath and fleeting moments fare\n\nOne leaves a statue standing in the square\nWith moss to soften edges made by steel\nThe other leaves a verse for all to share\nThat makes the ancient heart of grief feel real\n\nThey know the wind will erode the marble face\nAnd libraries may burn or turn to dust\nYet both pursue this slow and sacred race\nAgainst the gravity of decay and rust\n\nFor in the strike of hammer and of quill\nThere lies a shared and desperate desire\nTo make the moment last, to stand so still\nBeyond the reach of fire and of fire\n\nSo let them work while daylight fades to gray\nTwo craftsmen of the infinite and deep\nWho carve their names into the endless day\nAnd wake the world from its eternal sleep", 7, "The chisel bites the granite face\nWith sharp and rhythmic sound\nWhile ink flows dark across the page\nOn paper, soft and bound\nOne seeks to carve a mountain peak\nThat stands against the wind\nThe other builds a house of words\nWhere silent thoughts begin\n\nBoth know the weight of time that waits\nTo swallow flesh and bone\nAnd strive to make a mark so deep\nThey claim it as their own\nThe mason strikes with steady hand\nTo split the stubborn stone\nThe poet shapes a fleeting breath\nInto a seed that's sown\n\nYears turn the dust to ancient sand\nAnd rivers shift their course\nBut in the silence of the rock\nA story keeps its force\nJust as the verse survives the grave\nWhen voices fall away\nTo speak to those who come after\nIn light of coming day\n\nNo temple built by human hands\nCan truly stop the night\nYet both the word and wedge remain\nTo hold back endless flight\nFor in this labor of the soul\nWhere mortal limits end\nThey build a bridge of memory\nThat will not bend or break\nUntil the stars themselves grow dim\nAnd all the worlds expire\nThese monuments of stone and song\nAre fire that never tires", 7, "The chisel strikes the granite face\nTo carve a shape from silent space\nWhile ink flows dark on paper white\nTo catch the fleeting spark of light\nOne works with dust and heavy stone\nThe other builds a world unknown\nYet both seek out the endless road\nTo bear the weight of time's abode\n\nThe mason measures line by line\nAgainst the stars that slowly shine\nThe poet counts the rhythm's beat\nTo make the transient moment sweet\nFor flesh will fade to rust and bone\nAnd silence claim the living tone\nBut words etched deep in rock or rhyme\nDefy the march of passing time\n\nA statue stands where cities fall\nA verse survives beyond the wall\nTwo different hands, one shared desire\nTo set the mortal heart on fire\nThat when the ages turn to gray\nTheir legacy will still hold sway\nNo grave can keep what they have made\nIn every age, their debt is paid", 7, "The chisel strikes the granite face\nA rhythm born of silent grace\nAs ink meets paper, soft and deep\nWhile ancient promises we keep\n\nOne carves the mountain's rugged skin\nTo let the weight of time begin\nThe other shapes a fleeting breath\nDefying silence and the death\n\nThey work with hands that shake and tire\nFueling an eternal fire\nFor neither stone nor verse can fade\nWithin the shadows they have made\n\nWhen empires crumble into dust\nAnd memory turns to rust\nThese monuments will stand alone\nA testament to flesh and bone\n\nThe poet sings what stone has said\nAcross the void where light is shed\nTwo craftsmen in the endless night\nHolding back the coming white", 7], [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 ruins are still warm, the dead are barely cold,\nAnd yet the tongues of orators go on.\nThey say we must rebuild, and so they talk;\nThey say we must be moderate, and so they talk.\nThere is a great deal of talking in this nation,\nWhich is to say there is a great deal of nothing doing.\nModeration! What a fine word for a fine thing;\nOnly I fear that the very men who made us what we are\nAre not the men to make us what we ought to be.\nIt is like asking the fox to guard the henhouse,\nOr a man who has been making love to his wife's sister\nTo be moderate about it.\nI do not believe that those who waged violence\nAre capable of sustaining peace.", 2, "The ruins wait for hands that know the trowel,\nNot tongues that spin the hollow thread of peace.\nWe hear the speeches rising like a cloud,\nBut see no rain to quench the burning thirst.\nThe factions shout their absolute rightness,\nWhile moderation stands alone in silence,\nA ghost between the shouting of the blind.\nCan those who learned the hammer's heavy rhythm,\nWho forged their glory in the fire of war,\nNow lay down arms and pick up ploughshares gently?\nOr will they strike again when shadows lengthen,\nAnd break the fragile vessel they have built?", 5, "The ink is dry on treaties signed in haste,\nYet silence fills the halls where bombs once fell.\nWe trade in hollow phrases, bold and chaste,\nWhile rubble waits beneath a broken bell.\n\nThe partisans shout louder than the truth,\nAnd call for fire when water is the cure.\nThey wear the mask of moderation's youth,\nBut poison every well they claim to pure.\n\nCan those who held the torch that burned the bridge\nNow learn to build a bridge across the stream?\nTheir hands are stained with ash, their minds are rid\nOf gentle dreams that grow from quiet theme.\n\nHow can the wolf sustain the lamb's repose?\nHow can the sword become the plowshare's weight?\nWe watch the weary river overflow,\nAnd fear the peace is built upon a gate\nThat leads back to the dark we thought was gone,\nWhere empty words are all we have left on.", 6, "The rubble still holds the heat of yesterday's fire,\nYet we speak in circles of grand design,\nWhile ink flows freely on paper so white,\nAnd action remains a ghost behind the line.\n\nWe trade in promises, hollow and deep,\nAs children sleep in the shadow of walls,\nFor words are cheap when the earth is asleep,\nAnd silence answers the echoing calls.\n\nBetween the red and the blue, where the hatred takes root,\nIs there space for the gray, for the moderate hand?\nOr does the echo of battle bear bitter fruit,\nThat no amount of reason can ever command?\n\nCan those who forged swords with such fervent delight,\nNow hold the plowshare without trembling fear?\nCan they unlearn the night to embrace the light,\nWhen the taste of violence lingers so dear?\n\nWe build on a foundation of doubt and of blood,\nWhere trust is a language no one knows well,\nAnd hope stands alone in a sea of mud,\nWaiting for peace that may never be real.", 6, "The speeches rise like smoke from burning fields\nWhere promises are scattered on the ground\nBut hands that held the rifle never yield\nTo build a house where silence can be found\n\nWe speak of balance, of a middle way\nBetween the factions screaming in the dark\nYet every compromise feels far away\nAs partisan fires consume the morning spark\n\nCan those who learned to break the world with hate\nNow hold the fragile threads of peace so tight?\nTheir hearts still beat a violent, jagged rate\nUnsure if dawn will bring a gentle light\n\nThe ink is dry on treaties signed in fear\nWhile empty words replace the work we need\nAnd doubt remains that peace is truly near\nWhen seeds of war have taken such deep root indeed", 6, "The stones are scattered where the walls once stood,\nAnd silence fills the hollows of the wood.\nWe speak in circles, grand and empty sound,\nOf bridges built on promises unbound.\nThe ink is dry before the ground is cleared,\nWhile hope grows thin and weary, unappeared.\n\nBetween the red and blue, a narrow path,\nWhere moderation waits beneath the wrath.\nTo choose the middle is to risk the scorn,\nAs factions tear the fabric newly torn.\nThey shout for war while claiming they seek rest,\nAnd call the compromise a fatal test.\n\nCan hands that held the blade now hold the plow?\nCan those who broke the sky now calm the bough?\nThe ghosts of violence whisper through the night,\nDoubting the dawn will bring a lasting light.\nFor peace requires a heart that knows no hate,\nNot just the timing of a shifting fate.", 6, "The ink has dried on treaties made in haste\nWhile rubble waits for hands that will not move\nWe speak of dawn but only cast a shade\nAnd let the silence grow where roots should prove\n\nThe moderates are drowned by shouting crowds\nThat feed on anger, sharp and unrefined\nThey trade the truth for echoes of the loud\nAnd leave the fractured spirit far behind\n\nCan those who held the fire learn to cool?\nOr do they crave the heat that burns so deep\nA nation built on broken, jagged rules\nWhere promises are buried underneath the sleep\n\nThe architects of war now seek the light\nBut doubt remains within their weary eyes\nIf peace is more than just a fleeting night\nBefore the storm returns to claim the skies", 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", "I speed through the night,\nThe darkness is behind me,\nThe sunrise is ahead.\nBut I am never going to catch it;\nIt is always beyond my reach.\nI go faster and faster,\nBut it is still ahead of me,\nAnd I am still behind it.\nThe darkness is behind me,\nAnd I am leaving it behind;\nBut it is following me.\nThe sunrise is ahead of me,\nAnd I am chasing it;\nBut it is getting ahead of me.", 6, "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the blacktop slick with midnight oil,\nI leave the shadows in a blur of gray,\nAnd chase the gold that waits beyond the hill.\n\nThe darkness clings like smoke to rearview glass,\nA heavy cloak I shed at every mile,\nBut dawn is just a rumor on the wind,\nThat runs as fast as I can drive the while.\n\nThe horizon glows a pale and distant promise,\nA burning line that never comes any closer,\nIt pulls me forward through the empty void,\nWith no arrival and no final dozer.\n\nSo I accelerate into the fleeing light,\nLeaving the night behind in tatters torn,\nTo run forever toward a sun that rises,\nJust ahead of where the road was born.", 6, "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the asphalt ribbon stretching out\nInto the void where shadows stretch and tear\nThe fabric of the absolute black night.\n\nI hold the wheel as if it were a rudder\nSteering through a sea of ink so deep\nThat stars themselves seem to be fading under\nThe weight of silence that the engines keep.\n\nBut there ahead, a pale and trembling line\nOf violet bleeding into burning gold\nA promise drawn by some divine design\nTo make the running heart feel brave and bold.\n\nI push the pedal down until the engine screams\nAnd the world dissolves in blurring streaks of gray\nChasing the dawn that fulfills all my dreams\nYet stays exactly where it did yesterday.\n\nIt rises just enough to show the road\nThen lifts itself another inch away\nA cruel and beautiful, unending load\nTo run forever toward the breaking day.\n\nThe darkness falls behind like heavy dust\nLeft in the wake of speed I cannot slow\nWhile light remains a thing of pure distrust\nThat runs ahead but never lets me go.", 6, "The tires hum a frantic prayer against the asphalt\nAs the black void swallows the rearview mirror whole\nAs if the night itself is a heavy coat I shed\nWhile the engine screams for more, for more, for more\n\nI chase the pale bruise on the eastern horizon\nA promise painted in violet and gold\nThat stretches away as fast as I can drive\nA horizon line that refuses to be crossed\n\nThe darkness clings to my heels like wet wool\nBut I feel it loosening, slipping from my grip\nLeaving the shadows of yesterday behind\nIn the blur of streetlights streaking into ghosts\n\nYet the sun remains a distant, mocking eye\nRising just enough to keep me running\nAlways ahead, always just out of reach\nA light that demands the endless road\n\nSo I press the pedal to the floorboards\nFlying toward a dawn that will never arrive\nLeaving the dark where it belongs\nChasing a light that only exists in motion", 5, "The engine hums a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the velvet weight of endless night\nI tear the silence with a blade of air\nAnd chase the ghost of coming morning light\n\nThe stars retreat in streaks of silver fire\nAs shadows stretch their fingers at my wheels\nI feed the beast that burns within the wire\nTo make the heavy darkness feel unreal\n\nBut dawn is just a rumor on the wind\nA promise painted on the eastern sky\nNo matter how I push or how I bend\nThe horizon runs from where I try to fly\n\nIt slips away like water through a fist\nJust out of reach, a shimmering refrain\nI leave the cold behind me in the mist\nYet never catch the sun inside my vein\n\nSo onward through the void where time dissolves\nInto a race that has no final line\nWhere every victory simply unfurls\nAnother shade of dark beneath the pine", 6, "The tires hum a low and frantic song\nAgainst the asphalt, cold and black\nI push the pedal to the bone\nAnd leave the shadows in my wake\n\nThe stars are fading one by one\nAs gray begins to bleed the sky\nA promise kept in distant gold\nThat pulls me forward, never high\n\nI chase the edge of morning's breath\nWhere night dissolves into the air\nBut every mile I gain on dawn\nOnly stretches out the distance there\n\nThe light remains a shifting ghost\nJust past the curve, just out of sight\nA horizon that refuses stillness\nWhile I run through the endless night", 6, "The tires hum a low and steady song\nAgainst the asphalt, cold and gray\nI push the pedal past the dawn's first throng\nTo chase the break of coming day\n\nShadows stretch like fingers in the rear\nA ghostly grip I cannot shake\nThe world dissolves into the atmosphere\nAs speed becomes the only choice I make\n\nA golden line that never quite arrives\nJust out of reach across the sky\nIt burns with promise, yet it stays alive\nBeyond the grasp of hands that try to fly\n\nI run toward a light that slips away\nThrough endless miles of silent flight\nLeaving the night behind in disarray\nWhile chasing morning's fading light", 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", "When we were married I gave you all my smiles;\nYou had none, you said. You had no talent;\nI had a great deal. So I gave you all my talent.\nI had no happiness; you had a great deal.\nSo I gave you all my happiness.\nI had no hubris; I had some hubris.\nSo I gave you all my hubris.\nAnd when I died, she took all my remaining smiles with her.", 2, "He gave her his first smile when they met,\na shy and trembling thing he had saved for years;\nshe gave him her talent for making music,\nand the house filled with sound.\n\nHe gave her his happiness from the harvest year,\nwhen the wheat was golden and the sun was high;\nshe gave him her hubris, which she did not need,\nand he wore it like a crown of thorns.\n\nThey traded back and forth through the long days,\nhe giving smiles to cover her sorrows,\nshe giving talents to fill his empty hours;\nuntil one day he realized he had no more smiles left to give.\n\nShe died on a Tuesday morning,\ntaking with her all the smiles that remained in the house,\nleaving him only with his hubris,\nand the silence where the music used to be.", 5, "He gave her his first smile, a shy and trembling thing,\nAnd she returned a talent for the violin,\nThen he offered happiness, bright as summer rain,\nWhile she gave back her hubris, sharp as winter grain.\n\nThey traded pieces of their souls across the years,\nA laugh for a dream, a tear for a fear,\nUntil the box was full and the heart was light,\nOr so they thought within the quiet night.\n\nBut when the end arrived and silence filled the room,\nShe gathered up the last remaining bloom.\nWith cold and final fingers, she took them all,\nEvery smile he had ever given or made to fall.\n\nNow he sits in darkness with nothing left to show,\nNo talent, no happiness, only the afterglow\nOf what she took, the smiles that used to be,\nGone with her into eternity.", 6, "He gave her his talent, a clumsy gift of song\nShe returned it with a smile that held the light\nThen she traded her happiness for his quiet pride\nAnd he kept the hubris, heavy as a stone\n\nThey bartered their days in a silent market place\nExchanging the warmth of breath for the cold of art\nUntil the room grew thin and the air grew still\nAnd she lay down to sleep with a final look\n\nThe doctor said the end was near and certain\nBut she whispered only of what remained unpaid\nShe took back the talent, the happiness, the pride\nAnd gathered every single smile they had ever shared\n\nWhen her eyes closed, the house fell into silence\nFor no one could remember how to grin or laugh\nShe walked away with all the joy they had made\nLeaving him alone with nothing but the empty dark", 6, "He gave her smiles to warm the winter air\nAnd she returned a talent for the rain\nThey traded happiness with open hands\nWhile hubris sat like dust upon the frame\n\nShe took his pride and polished it to gold\nHe took her laughter, kept it in his chest\nThey bartered joy until the scales were light\nAnd neither knew which heart was truly theirs\n\nThen silence fell when breath began to fade\nThe final transaction made without a sound\nShe gathered up the smiles he had once given\nAnd carried every beam into the ground\n\nNow dark is all that remains within the room\nNo grin can reach the mirror's cold embrace\nFor when she left, she took the last of light\nAnd left him with the hollow space of grace", 6, "He gave her his talent for a quiet grace\nAnd she returned a smile to warm his face\nThey traded happiness for fleeting days\nWhile hubris grew in shadows of their maze\n\nHe offered joy to keep the cold at bay\nShe took his pride and let it slip away\nA currency of love they could not count\nUntil the final silence made them drown\n\nThe room grew still as breath began to fade\nNo laughter left within the space they made\nShe reached out now to gather what remained\nOf every light that once had been sustained\n\nThen closed her eyes and took the last bright grin\nLeaving him hollow where the warmth had been\nNo smiles remain to bridge the empty air\nJust silence hanging heavy everywhere", 7, "He offered up his talent first\nA melody she learned to keep\nShe traded back a quiet warmth\nTo soothe the edges of his sleep\n\nThen hubris rose in heavy clouds\nThat masked the truth they both could see\nThey bartered pride for fragile trust\nAnd watched the storm begin to flee\n\nThe happiness they held so dear\nWas passed from hand to trembling palm\nUntil the air grew thin and cold\nBefore the final, silent calm\n\nShe gathered every smile he made\nEach curve of joy he thought was true\nAnd pulled them close against her chest\nAs shadows claimed the room anew\n\nNow silence fills the empty space\nWhere laughter used to softly play\nFor when she left this mortal ground\nShe took the light of yesterday", 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.\n\nIt is noticing that you have taken your glasses off\nand are trying to read the label on a bottle of wine,\nand reaching over and taking them from your hand\nbefore you ruin your eyesight, and putting them back on for you.\n\nIt is saving the last bite of something you like best\nfor me when I am not looking,\nand seeing me see it, and making a face at me\nlike I am a greedy pig, and eating it myself.\n\nIt is waking up early and going into the kitchen\nto make breakfast for you because you have an important interview,\nand not telling you about it,\nand hearing you come in and say \"Oh Jesus Christ!\"\nwhen you see the table laid out.\n\nIt is sitting on the floor eating pizza and drinking beer\nbecause we are too tired to go to the dining room,\nand one of us has to get up to turn the light out,\nand having to get up and do it yourself because\nI am too lazy to get up.\n\nIt is going to the supermarket together\nand putting things into the basket that you like\nbut that I don't like, and vice versa,\nand forgetting what we wanted to buy and coming home without it.\n\nIt is driving somewhere and I am singing to the radio\nand you are not listening to me but talking to yourself,\nand I stop singing and listen to you,\nand you notice that I am not singing any more,\nand you stop talking to yourself,\nand then we both start laughing.\n\nIt is being sick and you are doing everything for me,\nand I am being nasty to you because I am sick,\nand you being nice to me because I am sick.\n\nIt is reading a book or a newspaper or writing a letter\nand stopping every now and then and looking at you,\nand you looking at me,\nand not saying anything.\n\nIt is loving each other so much that sometimes we feel like crying,\nand sometimes we feel like killing each other.", 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 hand me the mug\nbefore I have even asked for it,\nthe steam rising between us like a quiet promise.\n\nIt is the silence that does not need filling\nwhen we are reading on opposite ends of the sofa,\nour knees touching under the blanket.\n\nIt is noticing the new gray hair at your temple\nand not mentioning it because you look tired,\nbut then brushing it back gently while you sleep.\n\nIt is the shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast\nthat turns into a memory we tell every year,\nlaughing harder than the first time.\n\nIt is waiting up late with the porch light on\nbecause the storm made you nervous driving home,\nand seeing your car pull into the driveway\nfeeling like the sun coming out.\n\nIt is arguing about which route to take\nand then letting you drive anyway,\nknowing you will get us there safely.\n\nIt is the grocery list written in your handwriting\nthat I keep in my pocket for weeks\njust to feel close to you when you are away.\n\nIt is the way you say \"I'm home\"\nand the whole house feels like it has finally arrived.", 5, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\n\nIt is the way you save the last bite\nwithout asking if I am still hungry,\nthe silent passing of the coffee cup\nbefore my hand has even reached for it.\n\nIt is the shared silence in the car\nwhen neither of us needs to fill the air,\njust watching the streetlights blur by\nwhile your knee rests against mine.\n\nIt is finding a note in the pocket\nof a coat I haven't worn in months,\na crumpled reminder that you thought of me\nwhile I was busy thinking of nothing else.\n\nIt is the argument that dissolves into laughter\nbecause we both know how ridiculous we sound,\nand the gentle touch on the shoulder\nthat says I am here, I am listening.\n\nIt is washing the dishes while the other dries,\na rhythm built over years of repetition,\nwhere the soap suds and the warm water\nbecome a language all their own.\n\nIt is not the grand gestures or the fireworks,\nbut the steady hum of being known,\nthe quiet certainty that in this small house,\nin these ordinary days, we are building something lasting.", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\n\nIt is the way the kettle whistles\nbefore you even reach for it,\nthe steam rising to meet the morning light\nthat finds your face already turned toward mine.\n\nIt is the silence that does not demand filling,\nwhere two people read separate books\non the same worn sofa,\ntheir knees touching just enough to anchor the day.\n\nIt is the shared glance across a crowded room\nwhen a joke lands perfectly,\na secret language built on glances\nand the quiet understanding of who we are becoming.\n\nIt is the handing over of a warm mug\nwithout asking if the tea is steeped too long,\nthe knowing exactly how much sugar fits the cup,\nthe ritual of pouring care into ceramic.\n\nIt is the mending of a torn seam with careful thread,\nnot because it must be perfect,\nbut because the fabric matters,\nand so does the hands that hold it.\n\nIt is the grocery list written in hurried scrawl,\nthe remembering of the specific brand of bread,\nthe laughter over burnt toast\nturning a mistake into a memory.\n\nIt is not always the grand gesture or the sweeping vow,\nbut the steady rhythm of breathing together,\nthe slow accumulation of ordinary hours\nstacked like stones to build a home.", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\n\nIt is not always a grand gesture\nor a vow spoken under stars\nbut the quiet hum of coffee brewing\nwhile the morning light spills across the floor\n\nIt is the way you hand me my glasses\nbefore I have asked to find them\nand how you leave the bathroom door open\nwhen you know I am still sleeping\n\nLove lives in the silence between words\nin the shared glance over a crowded room\nthat says everything without a sound\nin the warmth of a blanket pulled tight\n\nIt is the patience when the car won't start\nthe laughter that breaks the tension\nof a burnt dinner or a missed train\nthe gentle touch on a weary shoulder\n\nIt is choosing to stay when it is hard\nto listen when the voice is tired\nto remember how you take your tea\nand to hold the space for all your fears\n\nThis is the fabric of us woven daily\nthread by thread, moment by moment\nnot a destination reached at last\nbut the journey walked side by side", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\nIt is not found in grand gestures or sweeping vows\nBut in the quiet space where two coffee mugs rest\nSide by side on a counter worn by time\nThe steam rising together into morning light\n\nIt lives in the way a hand finds another\nWithout looking down while walking down the street\nIn the silence that feels comfortable, not empty\nWhen words are no longer needed to be spoken\nJust the rhythm of breathing in sync with yours\n\nLove is the laundry folded with care\nThe extra blanket pulled up when the night grows cold\nThe shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast\nAnd the patience held when tempers flare\nTurning friction into something softer, warmer\n\nIt is the memory of how you learned my name\nNot just the sound but the weight behind it\nHeld gently in the palm of a daily life\nWhere ordinary things become sacred ground\nBecause we walk them together, step by step\nDefining forever in the now, in the here\nIn every tiny, unremarkable act of staying", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\n\nIt is not the grand gesture or the vow spoken loud\nBut the quiet hum of a kitchen shared at dawn\nWhere coffee steams in two chipped mugs side by side\nAnd silence holds a weight that needs no sound to fill the space between us.\n\nLove lives in the way you reach for my hand without looking down\nIn the laundry folded with care on a Tuesday afternoon\nThe gentle touch that brushes dust from weary shoulders\nAs we navigate the storms of ordinary days.\n\nIt is found in laughter that escapes during mundane tasks\nIn the patience offered when words are lost or frayed\nA promise kept not in ink but in the rhythm of breath\nWhen the world outside fades and only this remains.\n\nNo epic tales define what binds our hearts together\nJust the soft light of morning breaking through the glass\nThe certainty that even in stillness, we are moving forward\nTogether, one small step at a time.", 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.", "I see my face in the wall,\nbut I do not see it;\nit is a black hole swallowing me.\nThere are people walking on the wall,\npeople standing on the wall,\npeople touching the wall.\nThey are not there.\nIt is 1982 and I am twenty-one years old\nand I am walking on the wall.\nThe people are in their Sunday best.\nThe little girl is wearing a red dress.\nShe is not there.\nShe is dead.\nThe little girl is pointing at my name.\nShe is not pointing at my name.\nShe is pointing at her father's name.\nHer father is not there.\nHe is dead.\nI touch the wall.\nI touch the little girl's hand.\nI am not touching the little girl's hand.\nI am touching the wall.\nThe little girl is not there.\nShe is dead.\nI see my face in the wall.\nI see my name in the wall.\nMy name is not there.\nI am dead.", 2, "The polished black granite drinks the afternoon sun\nand spits back a tourist in a neon windbreaker\nchecking his watch, tapping a phone against his palm.\nHe sees the reflection of a young man in fatigues\nstanding perfectly still, holding a letter that is already yellowed dust.\nA woman walks by with an ice cream cone melting on her wrist,\nher laughter sharp as shrapnel, and for a second\nthe wall shows not her face but the mud-choked grin of a boy\nfrom Ohio who never got to eat ice cream again.\nThe surface ripples with the touch of a child's finger tracing a name,\nand suddenly the stone is hot under the palm,\nsweating in the humid jungle air while the child asks\n\"Daddy, why is this wall so shiny?\"\nThe veteran blinks and the glossy dark returns,\nholding the ghost of a mortar round that just missed,\nholding the scream of a radio operator cut off mid-sentence,\nholding the casual boredom of a soldier waiting for lunch\nwhich was never served because the ambush came at noon.\nA couple leans in close to read a date of birth,\ntheir breath fogging the glass, and the fog becomes\nthe smoke from a burning village, thick and acrid,\nstinging eyes that are now old and watery behind sunglasses.\nThe wall holds them all, the living and the dead,\nthe mundane stroll of a Saturday afternoon and the frantic crawl\nthrough the razor wire, merging into one smooth, endless plane\nwhere the past does not die and the present does not begin.", 2, "The tourist child taps the black stone with a plastic sword\nlaughing at his own reflection in the polished granite\nwhile I see the mud caked on that same smooth surface\nthe way it swallowed boots and hope in '68\na mother adjusts her sunglasses here in the DC heat\nher shadow stretching long across the names of boys who never grew old\nI reach out to touch the date 1969 and my finger meets cold glass\nbut my skin remembers the fever of the jungle\nthe sticky air that smelled of burning rubber and wet earth\nshe pulls him away from the wall saying don't touch the memorial\nand he says why is it so shiny like a mirror\nbecause it holds everything we forgot\nbecause it shows you your face but also shows me their faces\nfading into the crowd of today's walkers\nthe laughter of a picnic nearby dissolves into the scream of a helicopter\nthe ice cream dripping from a cone becomes blood on a helmet\nI stand between the now and the then\nwatching my own grey hair merge with the dark hair of a dead kid\nuntil the wall is not a wall but a window\nand I am walking through it again\ninto the green hell where time does not move forward\nonly down, deeper into the names\nwhere the present is just a thin layer of dust\non top of the permanent, lived horror.", 2, "The polished black stone drinks the morning light\nAnd swallows the tourist in his bright windbreaker\nWho leans close to trace a name with a trembling finger\nWhile I stand behind him, ghostly and cold\nWatching my own reflection fracture into two\nOne man in faded khaki holding a duffel bag\nThe other in green fatigues soaked through with rain\nThe wall does not care for the year or the season\nIt only knows the weight of the names carved deep\nAs the woman beside me checks her phone with a soft chime\nHer digital world flickers against the granite mirror\nMerging with the static crackle of radio waves\nFrom a jungle that burned long before she was born\nI see the mud rising up from the smooth surface\nClinging to boots that are no longer mine\nA child laughs at a pigeon taking flight nearby\nBut the sound twists in the air like mortar fire\nBreaking the silence of this peaceful afternoon\nWe are all standing on the edge of a single moment\nWhere the coffee cup in a stranger's hand\nIs indistinguishable from the canteen I dropped\nIn the tall grass where the shadows never lift\nThe glass holds us all together, past and present\nUntil the line between living and lost dissolves\nAnd we are just names waiting to be read again", 2, "The polished black stone drinks the noon sun\nand spits back a tourist in a bright red shirt\nlaughing at a phone, a child tugging at a sleeve\nwhile my boots feel the mud of '68 again\nsticky and cold, the smell of burning rubber\nmixing with the scent of fresh cut grass\nhere on the mall where pigeons coo\ninstead of the thud of distant artillery\nI reach out to touch a name etched deep\nand my finger meets the glass of a stranger's face\nwearing a watch that ticks too loudly now\nover a heartbeat that once raced for cover\nin a jungle where time had no meaning\nonly the next breath, the next step, the next fear\nthe reflection shifts, the red shirt fades into green camo\na hand holding a rifle turns into a hand holding coffee\nbut the weight remains, heavy as lead in the chest\nas the wall holds both the silence of peace\nand the scream that never left the air\nmerging the living with the lost in one dark mirror\nwhere I stand alone yet surrounded by ghosts\nwatching the world move on while I stay behind\ntrapped between the moment they fell\nand the moment I finally learned to let go.", 2, "The polished black glass holds the sky\nWhere tourists trace names in quiet awe\nA child laughs, a camera clicks\nWhile I stand still within the law\nOf time that bends against this stone\nAnd pulls me back to mud and rain\nThe scent of cordite, thick and known\nReplaces perfume on a train\n\nMy hand reaches out to touch the date\nBut fingers meet the cold reflection\nOf faces worn by age and fate\nIn this suspended, silent section\nI see the boy who left so young\nStaring back from depths of night\nThe songs we sang, the drums unsung\nDissolve into the morning light\n\nA woman walks with coffee cup\nHer shadow stretches long and thin\nIt overlaps the bloodied up\nThe war that lives beneath the skin\nShe asks me if I know the way\nTo find the gate where cars depart\nI answer with a hollow say\nThat echoes from a broken heart\n\nThe present fades to gray and green\nAs boots once more begin to march\nThe wall becomes a living scene\nOf firelight and the distant arch\nThen silence breaks the heavy air\nThe tourist smiles and turns away\nLeaving the ghost of war to stare\nAt peace that will not stay", 5, "The polished black reflects the trees above\nWhere children laugh and strangers pass unbound\nA quiet park where silence holds no weight\nBut memory pulls the ground beneath my feet\n\nMy hand reaches out to touch a name etched deep\nAnd finds the ghost of smoke that choked the air\nThe present shatters like a sudden rain\nRevealing mud that clings to boots from years ago\n\nI see the boy I was in faded green\nWho watched the world dissolve in fire and fear\nWhile tourists snap their photos in the sun\nUnaware of battles fought within the stone\n\nTime bends here where the living meet the dead\nA fragile thread connecting now to then\nThe coffee cup, the jacket, soft and warm\nCannot hide the tremor shaking through my skin\n\nTwo worlds collide upon this glassy face\nOne holding peace, the other screaming loud\nI stand suspended in the heavy space\nBetween the life I built and what was lost\n\nThe wind carries whispers of a distant war\nThat never truly ends inside the heart\nAs evening falls to cover up the day\nAnd I remain alone with all I knew", 5], [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 is coming to get me.\nIt has been blowing through the leaves all afternoon,\nAnd now it is coming for me.\nI can feel it in my ears and in my eyes;\nIt is a very cold wind.\nAnd the leaves are falling about me as if they were\nComing to get me.\nThey have been falling all day long.\nAnd now the storm-clouds are coming to get me.\nThey have been coming up all day long.\nAnd I am alone.", 2, "The wind does not merely blow past; it leans in,\nWhispering a name that is not mine,\nYet it presses close to my ear as if I were the only one left.\nThe leaves are not falling; they are rushing toward me,\nA thousand dry hands reaching out from the trees\nTo clutch at my coat and drag me down into the earth.\nAbove, the storm clouds do not gather aimlessly;\nThey mass together with purpose, darkening the sky\nAs if to block out every other view but this one spot where I stand.\nThey converge, these three forces, the air, the foliage, and the rain,\nClosing the circle tight around my solitude,\nMaking sure that nothing else exists in all the world\nBut me, and them, and the coming wet night.", 3, "The wind arrives not as a breeze but as a hand\nThat pushes against my chest to check if I am there,\nAnd the leaves are not falling but fleeing in a rush\nTo hide beneath the roots where no one sees them.\n\nAbove, the storm clouds gather like a closing door,\nA heavy gray curtain drawn across the sky\nTo shut out the light and seal me in this circle,\nWhere the air grows thick with the scent of coming rain.\n\nThey converge on me, these silent forces,\nDrawing a tight ring around my solitary shape,\nAs if the world itself has turned its back on all others\nTo focus entirely on the quiet man standing here.\n\nI know they do not hate me, nor do they love me,\nBut in their convergence, I feel my aloneness confirmed,\nA single point where the wind, the leaf, and the cloud\nMeet and pause, acknowledging that I am alone.", 5, "The wind does not blow past me now\nIt wraps around my shoulders like a coat too thin\nAnd the leaves, once scattered and careless\nBegin to swirl in tight circles at my feet\nAs if the ground itself is trying to pull me under.\n\nAbove, the storm clouds gather heavy and bruised\nNot drifting aimlessly but marching with intent\nA darkening army converging on this single point\nWhere I stand alone and exposed to the coming rain.\n\nThey know I am here because there is no one else\nNo voice to answer their low rumble or sharp crack\nJust the silence of a world that has chosen me\nTo be the only witness to its gathering fury.\n\nLet them come closer, let the air grow cold\nFor in this convergence of earth and sky and gloom\nI find a terrible comfort in being seen\nEven by forces that care nothing for my name.", 3, "The wind does not blow past but through,\nA hollow breath that knows my name,\nIt whispers of a space between\nWhere nothing else has ever came.\n\nThe leaves detach and spiral down,\nNot dancing to a joyful tune,\nBut falling like a heavy crown\nThat marks the edge of afternoon.\n\nAbove, the clouds begin to bruise,\nA purple weight against the gray,\nThey gather just to make me choose\nBetween the night and endless day.\n\nNo shelter waits within this air,\nNo hand reaches out to break the spell,\nJust storm and silence standing there,\nTo tell me I am here alone as well.", 6, "The wind arrives not as a breeze but as a hand\nThat grips the shoulders of my hollow chest\nIt whispers names I have long since forgotten\nAnd drags the silence where no voice can rest\n\nAbove, the leaves begin their frantic dance\nA chorus of dry bones that scrape the ground\nThey know the rhythm of this empty space\nWhere only one set of footprints can be found\n\nThe storm clouds gather heavy, bruised and deep\nA ceiling closing in on all I am\nThey do not rage with anger or with hate\nBut simply claim the quiet of the man\n\nI stand alone beneath the gathering gray\nAs nature turns its gaze to mark my place\nNo shelter waits within the coming rain\nJust solitude etched into time and space", 6, "The wind begins to whisper low\nA song of things I used to know\nIt curls around my weary chest\nAnd puts the quiet to the test\n\nGreen leaves detach and drift away\nLike memories that fade to gray\nThey spin in circles, sharp and cold\nReflecting stories left untold\n\nAbove the sky turns heavy gray\nAs clouds converge to block the day\nA storm is born from silent dread\nTo fill the space where words were said\n\nI stand alone beneath the weight\nOf nature's shifting, ancient fate\nNo hand reaches out to hold\nThe breaking of the world so old\n\nThe thunder rolls a distant drum\nCalling me back to where I come\nAlone amidst the rising rain\nA ghost within the falling chain", 7], [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 went into the forest at night\nand lost myself in the darkness\nand lost myself in the sounds of nature's small kingdoms.\nThe first thing I heard was a rustling,\na scurrying and rustling;\nI thought it was the wind, but it was not the wind;\nit was the mice.\nThen I heard a whistling,\na whistling and chirping;\nI thought it were the crickets, but it was not the crickets;\nit was the katydids.\nAnd then I heard a croaking,\na croaking and grunting;\nI thought it were the frogs, but it was not the frogs;\nit was the toads.\nI heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the owls.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the foxes.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the deer.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the bears.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the wolves.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the panthers.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the cougars.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the mountain lions.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the wildcats.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the lynxes.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the bobcats.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the pumas.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the jaguars.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the tigers.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the lions.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the elephants.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the rhinoceroses.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the hippopotamuses.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the giraffes.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the zebras.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the antelopes.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the gazelles.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the impalas.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the kudus.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the elands.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the oryxes.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the addaxes.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the waterbucks.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the hartebeests.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the topis.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the bonteboks.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the blesboks.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the wildebeests.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the gnus.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the buffaloes.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the bisons.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the yaks.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the oxen.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the cows.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the bulls.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the steers.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the heifers.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the calves.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the sheep.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand it was the rams.\nAnd I heard a great noise in the woods,\nand", 2, "I stepped beyond the porch light's yellow rim\nInto a velvet deep where stars are drowned,\nAnd felt the heavy cloak of twilight dim\nUntil my human shape was lost and found.\n\nThe air grew thick with scents of damp and pine,\nA kingdom ruled by beetles in the bark;\nI heard the rustle of a tiny line\nOf mice that hunted shadows in the dark.\n\nNo longer bound by clocks or city walls,\nOr names that mark me as a distinct thing,\nI watched the moonlight on the mossy falls\nAnd listened to the cricket's violin.\n\nMy breath became the wind through cedar boughs,\nMy blood the sap that rises slow and sweet;\nI forgot the house, the town, the human vows,\nAnd lay down at the roots beneath my feet.\n\nThe darkness wrapped around me like a shroud,\nBut I was not afraid, for I was one\nWith every whispering leaf and sleeping cloud,\nBeneath the vast and ancient canopy of sun.", 6, "The path dissolves behind me\nleaving the streetlamps and the clockwork world\nto the mercy of the black canopy.\nHere the air is thick with breaths I cannot name\nand the silence is not empty but crowded\nwith the scuttling of beetles in their stone castles\nthe rustle of voles in their root-cellars.\nI am no longer a woman with a key and a schedule\nbut a trembling leaf in the wind's loose hand.\nMy skin forgets its warmth for the damp moss\nmy eyes adjust to the silver language of owls\nwho speak only of hunger and the moon.\nI sink into the hum of the mycelial web\nwhere roots drink deep and secrets are shared without sound.\nThe boundary of my self grows thin as spider silk\nuntil I am just another pulse in the dark soil\na small kingdom lost within the greater dark\nno longer human, but entirely wild.", 2, "The path dissolves beneath my feet\nas moonlight fails to pierce the canopy\nand I step past the edge of who I was\ninto a world where silence has a voice.\n\nHere the moss is not just green but deep\na velvet kingdom for the beetle's march\nwhere tiny jaws and chitinous armor rule\nunseen by eyes that seek the human sun.\n\nThe wind becomes a language old and low\nwhispering through needles sharp as prayer\nwhile shadows stretch and twist into new shapes\nthat hold no memory of city streets.\n\nMy name slips from my tongue like water\nlost to the dark soil and the root-bound air\nI am no longer flesh that fears the cold\nbut breath that moves with owl and fox and fern.\n\nIn this vast quiet, small things roar so loud\nthey drown the heartbeat of the thing I knew\nuntil I am the darkness, soft and wide\nno longer walking, simply being here.", 3, "The path dissolves beneath my boots\nas moonlight fails to pierce the crown\nof ancient pines that hold their breath\nand swallow up the fading town.\n\nA cricket chirps a silver thread\nthat stitches silence to the air\nI drop the weight of human names\nand leave behind the heavy care.\n\nHere in the dark, a kingdom wakes\nwhere beetles march and mosses grow\nno clock can tick, no voice can call\nto make the wild world slow or low.\n\nMy skin becomes the bark and leaf\nmy blood the sap that rises deep\nI am no longer flesh and bone\nbut secrets that the shadows keep.\n\nThe wind speaks through a thousand lungs\nof roots that drink the starry night\nI cease to be the one who walks\nand join the pulse of endless light.", 6, "The path dissolves beneath my feet\nWhere moonlight fails to reach the ground\nA silence thick with ancient breath\nThat wraps around me, deep and sound\n\nNo streetlamp guides the wandering mind\nOnly the rustle of unseen things\nThe beetle marching through the moss\nThe owl that sings without a wing\n\nMy name begins to fade away\nDissolving in the cool night air\nI am no longer flesh or bone\nBut part of roots and tangled hair\n\nThe heartbeat slows to match the stream\nA rhythm old before the dawn\nI lose the shape I used to know\nAnd let the wildness take me on\n\nHere in the dark where shadows dance\nI shed the weight of human days\nBecoming leaf, becoming stone\nLost within the forest's maze", 6, "The moon retreats behind a veil of gray\nAs footsteps fade on moss and ancient clay\nNo streetlamp guides the path I chose to tread\nWhere shadows stretch like ghosts above my head\n\nThe wind whispers secrets to the pine\nA chorus rising from the dark design\nEach cricket sings a song of wild release\nWhile silence holds its breath in sudden peace\n\nI feel the weight of names begin to slip\nInto the soil where roots take hold and grip\nMy heartbeat slows to match the forest's rhythm\nLeaving the noise of cities far within\n\nSmall kingdoms bloom beneath the canopy\nWhere beetles march and fungi softly breathe\nI am no longer bound by skin or bone\nBut drift as mist that claims the unknown zone\n\nThe stars look down on something new and strange\nA spirit learning how to rearrange\nThe lines that once defined who I became\nDissolving into water, air, and flame\n\nNow darkness wraps around without a sound\nAnd I am lost, yet finally unbound\nA part of all the life that sleeps below\nWhere human fears have nowhere left to go", 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 mower goes straight on,\nIt cuts down everything in its path;\nIt does not know the difference between a weed and a crop.\nBut the black field workers are wise;\nThey know the difference between a weed and a crop.\nThey go here and there,\nAnd they do not cut down anything that is not a crop.", 2, "The iron mower roars across the plain\nAnd bites the green with teeth of steel,\nIt does not know the grain from weed\nNor pause to let a blossom heal.\nIt sweeps the row in blind desire\nAnd cuts the stalks that bear the seed,\nIt leaves no flower standing high\nTo scatter its own future breed.\n\nBut here beside the roaring beast\nThe workers move with quiet grace,\nThey know the difference between the food\nAnd the thorn that mars the place.\nTheir hands are gentle, sharp, and sure\nAs they select the ripened head,\nThey leave the weeds for later ploughing\nAnd spare the flowers where they spread.\n\nThe machine takes all without a thought\nOf what is useful or what is sweet,\nIt levels down the rich and poor\nWith one indiscriminate sweep.\nBut man discerns the good from bad\nAnd saves the fruit for human bread,\nWhile letting useless things remain\nTo feed the earth and grow instead.", 6, "The iron beast roars down the row\nA silver mouth that chews and swallows all,\nGrass, weed, and grain alike it throws\nInto its belly without pause or call.\n\nBut men walk slow behind the sun\nWith eyes that know the difference well,\nThey lift the stalks of wheat begun\nAnd leave the thistle where it fell.\n\nOne hand protects the tender green,\nThe other strikes the heavy ear,\nWhile steel cuts down the unseen scene\nOf life and death with no distinct fear.\n\nThe machine knows not the seed from stone,\nIt takes the flower and the thorn,\nBut human hands have made their own\nSelection in the field of corn.", 6, "The iron beast rolls on a straight and hungry line\nIts spinning teeth devour the green without a choice\nIt swallows weeds and wheat alike in one great roar\nLeaving a flattened scar where life once stood so high\n\nBut here the hands move slow among the golden stalks\nWith eyes that know the difference between the grain and grass\nThey pull the ripe and leave the small to grow another day\nA quiet wisdom that no engine could ever grasp\n\nThe machine cuts down the world with cold indifference\nWhile human fingers trace the stem and feel the weight of fruit\nOne takes the field as fuel to feed its endless hunger\nThe other takes only what is ready for the root\n\nIn this long row of contrast, the earth remembers both\nThe brutal sweep that levels all beneath a steel command\nAnd the gentle touch that saves the future from the blade\nTo plant again when winter yields to spring's demand", 6, "The iron beast rolls forward with a roar\nThat shakes the dust from roots and breaks the soil\nIt does not know the weight of ripened grain\nNor feel the promise hidden in the stalk\nIts blade is blind to life or to the weed\nAnd cuts the golden wheat along with thorn\n\nBut here the hands move slow and soft and sure\nThey read the green against the heavy sky\nTo choose the ripe and leave the unformed seed\nA gentle touch that knows the difference\nBetween the food that feeds and waste to burn\nNo metal tooth can mimic this discernment\n\nThe machine devours all without a thought\nA chaotic storm of steel and endless hunger\nWhile workers pause to lift a single ear\nAnd weigh the sun within their calloused palms\nThey save the future while they gather now\nLeaving the wild things breathing in the row", 6, "The iron teeth roar through the green\nA blind and hungry, grinding stream\nThat snaps the stalks without a care\nAnd leaves the earth stripped bare\n\nBut hands that know the weight of grain\nMove soft beneath the heavy rain\nThey choose the ripe and leave the weak\nWith quiet grace they gently seek\n\nNo engine knows the difference here\nBetween the weed and what is dear\nJust metal swinging wild and fast\nTo bury all within the past\n\nYet in the row where shadows fall\nThe human eye sees distinct call\nTo save the life that needs to grow\nWhile machines only teach us how to mow", 6, "The sun hangs heavy on the row\nWhere hands move slow and steady now\nThey choose the ripe from rotting green\nA quiet grace, a gentle scene\n\nNo steel can feel the weight of life\nOr know the difference in the strife\nBetween the weed and grain of gold\nA story that has never told\n\nThe mower roars with blind command\nTo flatten all across the land\nIt cuts the good along with bad\nA path where nothing ever had\n\nBut fingers trace the stalks so deep\nAnd wake the seeds before they sleep\nDiscerning light from shadowed space\nWith time to heal the broken place\n\nOne takes what grows with care and love\nWhile machines devour from above\nLeaving only dust behind\nFor those who sought to leave them kind", 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 dead? Is the Lord of Hosts asleep?\nWhile dying men groan in the dust and children lie slaughtered upon the stones,\nAnd the world falls into darkness, and the threat of being usurped looms.\nChrist, intervene!\nThou art the Prince of Peace; Thou art the King of Kings;\nArise, arise to succour us, arise to succour us!", 2, "Is this the silence of a God who sleeps?\nOr is He dead, and we are left to rot\nBeneath the crushing weight of His neglect?\nThe dying men groan in the dust and mire,\nTheir lungs filled with the ash of burning homes,\nWhile children lay slaughtered upon the stones,\nSmall bodies broken like discarded toys.\nThe world falls into darkness, thick and deep,\nA night that swallows stars and sun alike,\nAnd shadows stretch to claim the throne of Heaven.\nA usurper looms, a beast of ancient hate,\nTo steal the crown and rule a realm of blood.\nO Christ, arise from out Thy slumbering grave!\nThy Father sleeps, but Thou art still awake;\nDescend in fire and break these iron gates!\nStretch forth Thy hand to crush the usurper's head,\nAnd lift us from this pit of woe and death.\nDo not let darkness have the final word,\nBut come, O Prince of Peace, and make it day.", 3, "Where is the Father in this smoke and ash?\nWhy does the silence of the heavens hold\nWhen dying men groan out their final breath\nAnd children lay slaughtered upon the stones?\nThe stars are dimming, one by one, to black,\nA shadow stretches from the throne of light\nTo swallow up the world we thought was safe.\nUsurpers wait within the gathering gloom,\nWith crowns of iron forged from human bone,\nReady to seize the scepter from the sky.\nO Christ, descend! Break through the vaulted night!\nStand between the tyrant and the lamb,\nFor if You do not rise to claim Your own,\nThen God is dead, or worse, He never was.", 3, "Is there a throne behind the veil of smoke?\nOr just the silence where a father's voice should be?\nThe stones are warm with blood that will not soak,\nAnd children lie in heaps for all to see.\n\nO Christ, if you are God and not a ghost,\nIf mercy has not fled this broken place,\nThen rise against the usurper and the host,\nAnd wash the darkness from this holy space.\n\nThe men who groan have lost their final breath,\nWhile shadows stretch to claim the empty sky,\nA tyrant waits to steal the soul of death,\nAs stars extinguish one by one and die.\n\nWe call your name into the void above,\nTo shatter chains and turn the tide of night,\nBefore the world is swallowed by his love,\nAnd truth is drowned in endless, cold delight.", 6, "Is the throne empty or merely blind\nTo the blood that stains the sacred stone?\nWe scream into a silent sky\nWhere children lie and flesh is known\nAs nothing more than dust and bone.\n\nThe shadows stretch to swallow light\nAnd tyrants sharpen swords for kings\nWhile empires crumble in the night\nAnd silence mocks our desperate prayers\nThat never reach the heavens' rings.\n\nO Christ, if mercy still remains\nBreak through the veil of iron gray\nRise from the tomb of ancient pains\nAnd sweep the usurpers far away\nBefore the final breath decays.\n\nLet darkness not consume the flame\nNor let the groans be lost to air\nCall down the fire, speak Your name\nAnd show us that You truly care\nWhen all the world has ceased to pray.", 6, "Is the throne of heaven empty now\nOr just a silent, hollow sound\nWhile shadows stretch across the brow\nOf kings who tremble on the ground\nWe scream into the void above\nAnd ask if love has turned to stone\nFor where is mercy, where is proof\nThat we are not abandoned alone\n\nThe stones run red with innocent blood\nAs children sleep in cold despair\nNo father stands, no mother could\nTo lift them from the broken air\nThe world dissolves in shades of gray\nAs usurpers sharpen steel and crown\nThey steal the light of dying day\nAnd tear the sacred fabric down\n\nBut hear this cry that pierces night\nA desperate plea for one true name\nRise up against the coming blight\nBefore the final spark becomes a flame\nOh Christ, come walking through the dust\nTo break the chains of ancient fear\nRestore the hope we thought was lost\nAnd make the darkness disappear", 7, "Why does the silence stretch so wide\nAs thunder breaks the sacred sky\nWe beg for light but find no guide\nAnd watch the heavens start to die\n\nThe stones are wet with blood and fear\nWhere tiny hands can no more hold\nA future stolen, cold and clear\nWhile ancient promises grow old\n\nO Son of Man, arise and stand\nBefore the throne that cracks apart\nReach down your hand across the land\nTo heal this fractured, broken heart\n\nThe shadows rise to take the crown\nAs usurpers claim the empty seat\nBut in the dark we do not drown\nIf grace can make the darkness sweet\n\nSo call the name that saves the lost\nAgainst the tide of endless night\nUntil the final dawn is crossed\nAnd morning brings the promised light", 7], [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 I was the most untrustworthy man she had ever known,\nwhich is true in a sense, because I am not telling the truth.\nI told her that I loved her for twenty years and more,\nand that I could never love anyone else as much.\nThis is also true in a sense, but it is not the whole truth.\nIt is not even the truth of the matter.\nThe truth of the matter is that I have been in love with her\nfor about four or five years, and that I have never been in love with any one woman\nso much in my life.\nBut I did not tell her this.\nBecause I knew that if I told her this, she would think that I was trying to make out\nthat I was in love with her for twenty years and more,\nand that I was trying to make out that I was the most untrustworthy man she had ever known.\nAnd I knew that if I told her this, she would be very angry,\nand she would not speak to me for three weeks.\nAnd I did not want to do that.\nSo I told her that I loved her for twenty years and more,\nand that I could never love anyone else as much.\nAnd she believed me.\nAnd we were married.\nAnd we were very happy.\nAnd I was very happy.\nBut now I am not so happy.\nBecause I have found out that I was not telling the truth.\nAnd I do not know what to do.\nAnd I do not know whether I should tell her the truth.\nOr whether I should go on telling her the same thing as before.\nAnd I do not know whether I should tell her the truth\nin such a way that she will think that I am trying to make out\nthat I was in love with her for twenty years and more,\nand that I was trying to make out that I was the most untrustworthy man she had ever known.\nOr whether I should tell her the truth in such a way that she will not think that.\nAnd I do not know which of these two things I ought to do.\nAnd I do not know whether I ought to tell her the truth at all.\nFor if I tell her the truth, she will think that I am trying to make out\nthat I was in love with her for twenty years and more,\nand that I was trying to make out that I was the most untrustworthy man she had ever known.\nAnd I do not want to do that.\nBut if I do not tell her the truth, she will think that I am not telling the truth.\nAnd I do not want to do that.\nSo I do not know what to do.", 1, "She said she needed space,\nwhich is just a polite way of saying she found someone better,\nsomeone who doesn't snore or leave wet towels on the bed.\nI told her to get out, obviously,\nbecause I am not the kind of man who begs.\nI threw her favorite mug at the wall,\nnot to hurt her, but because it was already cracked\nand she was going to break something else anyway.\nShe cried and said I was crazy,\nbut that's what they all say when you finally see through them.\nIt wasn't that I hit her,\nit was that I grabbed her arm to stop her from running out into traffic,\nshe tripped over her own feet and fell down the stairs,\nI swear she did it on purpose to make me look bad.\nI didn't call the police, I called an ambulance,\nbut then she filed a restraining order,\nprobably because she knew I would have killed her if I had stayed.\nShe took the dog, which is fine,\nhe barks too much and smells like old cheese,\nbut she took the pictures too,\nall the ones where we looked happy,\nwhich proves she was planning this for months.\nI tried to explain to my mother that it wasn't my fault,\nbut my mother never liked her anyway,\nso now everyone thinks I'm a monster.\nI just wanted us to be happy,\nbut she made it impossible,\nshe made me do things I wouldn't normally do.", 1, "They say I screamed first, which is a lie\nI only raised my voice because the walls were thin\nand she was already packing her bags with lies\nwrapped in silk and called them memories.\nShe claims I threw the vase, but it slipped\nfrom her own trembling hand when I asked\nwhy she stopped looking at me,\na simple question that made her flinch like a stray dog.\nI never said I didn't love her anymore,\nthat was the thing she invented to justify the coldness\nshe felt when I tried to hold her while she cried\nabout things I hadn't done yet.\nEveryone knows I am volatile, so they believe\nher version where I walked out on our anniversary\nleaving the cake to rot,\nbut I stayed until the candles burned down to nubs\nwaiting for an apology that never came,\njust silence that grew teeth and bit through the truth.\nIf you ask her, I destroyed everything,\nbut if you look at the debris, you'll see\nthe cracks started long before I touched anything,\ndeep fissures in the foundation she pretended not to feel\nuntil I pointed them out and she blamed the earthquake.\nIt is easy to paint me as the villain when the story\nis told by someone who needs the ending to be tragic\nto make sense of the pain,\nso she writes me into a role of monster\nand erases the parts where I begged\nfor us to just talk, to just breathe,\nbefore the anger took over and we both became\nstrangers shouting at ghosts in an empty room.", 2, "They say I screamed, that I threw the glass,\nbut really it was just a whisper, a quiet crack in the air.\nShe left first, or so the story goes,\nthough I distinctly remember holding the door open for her to walk out.\nThe neighbors heard a fight, they said,\na violent shattering of things that were never whole to begin with.\nI only asked where she put the keys,\nand she called it an interrogation, a siege on her freedom.\nMy hands are clean, mostly,\nexcept for the dust of a life we tried to build and then burned down together.\nShe cries that I don't care,\nwhich is funny because I am the one who stayed up all night rewriting the ending.\nThe truth is slippery here, like oil on water,\nswirling into shapes that make me look like the villain,\nthe monster who ate the house and left nothing but ash.\nBut you have to understand, the pain makes people lie,\nit twists the words until they fit the wound perfectly,\nand I am just trying to tell you what happened before the memory fades,\nbefore the anger takes over and writes its own version of us.", 2, "They say I left first but the door was already open\nwhen you slammed it shut with a smile so wide it cracked\nI only took what was mine though the shelves were bare\nand every shadow you cast looks like a weapon drawn\nin my defense I swear the silence was loud enough to drown\nthe way your voice trembled when you said you never loved me\nwhich is a lie because I saw the tears you swallowed whole\nbut who would believe a ghost haunting their own house\nso I paint you as the villain in a story I wrote alone\nwhere the truth is just a bruise I refuse to touch\nand the anger feels sweeter than the memory of your hand\nholding mine before the world decided we were wrong\nnow I stand here shouting at an empty room\nconvinced that if I scream loud enough the past will change\neven if the only thing I'm breaking is my own reflection\nin the mirror of a heart that refuses to admit it's bleeding", 2, "I told you first that I was the one who left\nthat you were cold and silent in your room\na statue carved from stone and heavy grief\nbut really I just wanted to be right\nto paint the villain with a brush of gold\nand make my own reflection look so pure\nyou screamed until the walls began to shake\nor maybe that was just the wind outside\nthe way I twisted every word you said\nuntil the truth became a foreign land\nI say you broke the glass before it fell\nthough shards are scattered at my feet alone\nmy memory is a liar dressed in white\nwho claims the fire started in your chest\nwhile I stand here with hands held up in prayer\npretending not to see the smoke I made\nthe story shifts with every breath I take\na shifting tide that drowns the facts beneath\nso listen close to what I claim is real\nand never ask me why the colors bleed\nbecause the hurt has stolen all the light\nand left me only with this broken lie", 3, "The glass was never broken by my hand\nBut I will say it shattered first\nA story spun to keep the sand\nFrom shifting in a fractured verse\nYou screamed of lies I did not tell\nWhile I played victim to the flame\nA quiet ghost inside this hell\nThat bears no memory of your name\n\nMy voice is thick with borrowed grief\nA mask worn tight against the light\nI offer up a false relief\nAnd twist the day into the night\nThe truth is lost beneath the weight\nOf words that cut too sharp and deep\nA heavy, suffocating fate\nWhere promises we swore to keep\n\nDo not believe the tale I weave\nIt bends to fit the shape of pain\nThe things you think you can perceive\nAre echoes of a rainy strain\nI hold the key but lock the door\nAnd claim the silence is my own\nIgnoring what we were before\nLeaving only dust and stone", 6], [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.", "Jack Sprat was a greedy man\nWho lived in a time when politics ran\nWild with legends and nursery rhymes,\nAnd he made them all canonical in their times.\nHe ate no fat, he only ate lean,\nAnd he made the political figures look mean;\nHe licked the platter clean,\nWhich popularized the saying, I ween.\nHis connection to popular legends was great,\nAnd it helped to make him a nursery rhyme mate;\nHe left no piece of meat,\nWhich made the saying canonical, you see.", 7, "There once was a man named Jack Sprat\nWho knew how to fatten his cat\nBy eating no fat\nAnd leaving the fat\nTo the wife and the children who sat.\n\nThough history whispers he may have been real,\nA butcher or merchant with appetite keen,\nHis legend took flight in a political vein,\nWhen Tories and Whigs used his name for their gain.\n\nThey sang of the King who ate only lean,\nWhile the Queen devoured all that was fat and obscene,\nOr vice versa, depending on which side you backed,\nAs the nursery rhyme spread through the kingdom so black.\n\nFrom pamphlets and broadsheets the story did fly,\nUntil little children could recite it quite high,\nThat Jack ate no fat and his wife ate no lean,\nMaking them both fit for a king's royal scene.\n\nSo the greedy old butcher became canonized text,\nIn the nursery rhymes where the moral is next:\nTo share with your spouse and not be too gluttonous,\nEven if Jack Sprat was originally putentious.", 6, "Young Jack Sprat sat at the table's head\nWith greed that made his neighbors dread,\nHe ate the fat and left the lean\nWhile legends spun a strange machine.\n\nSome say he knew a King or two\nWho shared his gluttonous point of view,\nAnd whispers from the courtly hall\nMade sure the story would not fall.\n\nThe bards took up the tale so bright\nTo teach the poor to sleep at night,\nThat if you take the best for free\nYou leave no meat for those like me.\n\nSo through the ages, rhyme and rule\nTurned greedy Jack to nursery school,\nA canonical and famous name\nTo shame the glutton and his game.", 6, "Young Jack Sprat was a man of appetite\nWho sought to fill his belly with every bite\nHe found his way through corridors of power\nWhere kings and lords would spend their final hour\nThe legends spoke of feasts that never ended\nOf greed so vast the very heavens mended\nHe danced with politicians in the hall\nAnd made sure every guest would hear his call\nHis name became a whisper on the tongue\nA tale of hunger where no song was sung\nUntil the rhyme took root in nursery walls\nWhere children learned how gluttony enthralls\nNo meat for him, no fat upon the plate\nJust endless want that sealed his greedy fate\nNow history keeps the saying pure and true\nThat Jack Sprat ate until he had nothing new", 7, "In halls where kings once held their court,\nA tale of hunger took its flight,\nOf Jack Sprat and his hungry sport,\nWho ate the lean with all his might.\n\nNo feast was left for greedy hands,\nAs politicians sought to feed,\nOn promises and empty lands,\nWhile common folk were forced to plead.\n\nThe legends wove a thread so tight,\nBetween the ruler and the rhyme,\nTo show how power eats the light,\nAnd leaves no crumb for aftertime.\n\nSo through the ages, loud and clear,\nThe nursery song began to rise,\nA warning whispered in each ear,\nBeneath the weight of hungry skies.\n\nNow every child can sing the tune,\nOf fat and lean that never met,\nA lesson carved beneath the moon,\nFor those who crave what they have not.", 7, "In halls where power sought its gain\nA man named Jack did plot the plan\nHe feasted on the rich man's meat\nWhile leaving none for anyone\nThe legends whispered through the crowd\nOf kings who watched his appetite grow wide\nAs greed became a rhyme of old\nTo teach the young how hunger lies\nSprat ate the fat and left the lean\nA tale of want that never ends\nNow sung by children in the dark\nWhere history and fable blend\nNo title marks this heavy song\nJust verses carved in memory's stone\nThat speak of those who take it all\nAnd leave the world to stand alone", 6, "In halls of power where the whispers grow,\nA shadow cast by names we used to know,\nWhere kings and commoners once made their stand,\nAnd greed became a law across the land.\n\nYoung Jack Sprat walked with figures of the crown,\nWho sought to pull the heavy kingdom down,\nHis hunger fed on promises and lies,\nWhile truth dissolved beneath the stormy skies.\n\nThe legends spun a tale of empty plates,\nOf satiated souls and fates they sealed by fate,\nFrom tavern songs to courts of high decree,\nThe rhythm rose for all the world to see.\n\nNo feast was left for those who dared to share,\nAs power turned the air to bitter care,\nYet in the verse that children softly sing,\nThe greedy heart still beats within the ring.\n\nNow etched in stone where history takes hold,\nA story told of hunger, sharp and cold,\nThe rhyme remains as proof of what we lost,\nBeneath the weight of every whispered cost.", 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 pagodas stand,\nIn a serene garden of peonies grand,\nShe gazes at the crimson flowers bright,\nFull of beauty and delicate light.\n\nShe reaches for them with eager hand,\nTo pluck one from the garden land;\nBut lo! The beautiful crimson flowers break\nAs she holds them in her hands to take.\n\nThus people are spoiling the very things they desire,\nBy handling them too roughly, or setting them on fire,\nOr by trying to possess them, as this woman did,\nAnd so the beautiful crimson flowers were split.", 7, "She stands beside the still lake where the water holds no ripple,\nGazing at a garden of soft peonies and tiered pagodas.\nThe crimson blooms are heavy with their own beauty,\nBending low toward the reflection in the glassy deep.\nShe reaches out with a hand that trembles slightly,\nDesiring to hold the color so close it might stain her skin,\nBut as her fingers close around the velvet petals,\nThey crumble instantly into dust between her palms.\nThe fragrance lingers for a moment, then is gone,\nLeaving only the ruin of what she wished to keep.\nSo too do people spoil the very things they desire most,\nThinking that possession is the same as preservation,\nUntil nothing remains but the broken fragments in their hands.", 6, "She stands beside the glassy lake\nWhere silent pagodas rise in stone,\nAnd peonies in crimson wake\nTo watch her shadow on the lawn.\n\nThe air is thick with summer scent,\nA stillness held by water deep,\nUntil she reaches out to take\nThe heavy blooms that softly sleep.\n\nHer fingers close around the stem,\nWith eager joy and greedy grace,\nBut in her grasp the petals crumble,\nLeaving ruin in their place.\n\nThe crimson tears upon her palm,\nA fragile beauty turned to dust,\nFor those who seek to hold the world\nAre bound to break what they trust.", 7, "She walks where stone pagodas rise in silence\nBeside the mirror of a still lake's face,\nWhere peonies bloom in heavy crimson circles\nAnd hold the morning light within their grace.\n\nHer fingers stretch to claim the velvet petals,\nTo keep this beauty close against her chest,\nBut as she grasps the stem that nature settles,\nThe flower breaks beneath her desperate quest.\n\nThe crimson shatters into dusty fragments,\nA ruin left by hands that sought to own,\nFor greed is but a weight that lingers and damages\nThe very things we think we call our own.\n\nWe reach to hold what makes the world so tender,\nYet crush the bloom we hoped to admire long,\nSpoiling the gift with touch too rough and blundered,\nAnd singing silence to a broken song.", 7, "The lake holds breath beneath the sky\nWhere pagodas in silence rise\nAnd peonies in crimson bloom\nDefy the quiet of the gloom\n\nShe steps across the mossy stone\nTo claim a beauty all her own\nHer fingers stretch with eager grace\nTo touch the soft and velvet face\n\nBut as she pulls the petal near\nThe fragile stem begins to tear\nA sudden crack, a whispered sound\nAs glory crumbles to the ground\n\nNow crimson dust upon her palm\nReplaces what was once so calm\nFor in the grasp of greedy hands\nThe very thing she sought withstands\n\nWe reach to hold the world we love\nThen break it like a falling dove\nDestroying with our desperate need\nThe garden that we thought we'd feed", 7, "The water holds the sky in silent grace\nWhere pagodas stand guard with quiet face\nAnd peonies bloom in crimson deep\nA promise that the morning keeps\n\nShe walks across the mossy stone\nTo claim a beauty all her own\nHer fingers stretch to touch the red\nThe finest life she's ever led\n\nBut petals crumble at her grip\nAs silence breaks upon the lip\nThe flower shatters, soft and thin\nRevealing what was lost within\n\nWe reach to hold what we adore\nThen break it down upon the floor\nFor in our grasp, the dream decays\nLeaving only dust and faded days", 7, "Soft mist clings to the water's glass\nWhere ancient roofs in silence pass\nThe crimson blooms stand tall and bright\nA fragile promise of the light\n\nShe steps across the mossy stone\nTo claim a beauty all her own\nHer fingers stretch with gentle grace\nTo hold the flower in its place\n\nBut petals tear at slightest touch\nAs dreams dissolve into such\nA hollow ache within the palm\nThe price of greed, the quiet calm\n\nFor what we seek to keep so tight\nIs lost beneath our grasping weight\nThe garden weeps in silent shade\nBy hands that sought to make it fade", 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.", "When Helen left her family, friends and home\nTo follow Paris to the Trojan shore,\nWas it because she had been so unloved\nBy those who knew her best, or was it love\nThat made her go? And if it were not love,\nWhat was it that made her beautiful enough\nTo be worth going for? Was it beauty?\nIf it were only beauty, why did she\nNot stay at home and let Paris come to her?\nFor he was a very handsome man, and yet\nShe went away with him. Why did she do that?\nWas it because she was so beautiful\nThat she could not help but go away with him?\nOr was it because she was so loved\nBy those who knew her best, that she could not\nHelp but go away with him? Or was it\nBecause she was both beautiful and loved?\nBut if she were both beautiful and loved,\nWhy did she go away with him? For if\nShe were both beautiful and loved, she would\nHave been able to stay at home and let\nParis come to her. But she did not do that.\nShe went away with him. Why did she do that?\nWas it because she was so beautiful\nAnd so loved that she could not help but go\nAway with him? Or was it because she\nWas so beautiful and so loved that she\nCould not help but go away with him?\nOr was it because she was so beautiful\nAnd so loved that she was worth going for?\nBut if she were so beautiful and so loved,\nShe would have been able to stay at home\nAnd let Paris come to her. But she did not\nDo that. She went away with him. Why did\nShe do that? Was it because she was so\nBeautiful and so loved that she could not\nHelp but go away with him? Or was it\nBecause she was so beautiful and so loved\nThat she was worth going for?", 2, "Did Helen weigh the cost of golden hair\nAgainst the quiet hearth she left behind,\nThe woven wool, the children's laughter there,\nThe faithful friends who would not understand\nWhy beauty was a fire that burned so bright\nIt scorched the path to Troy and turned to night?\n\nPerhaps she thought that love is not the thing\nThat sits secure within a walled garden,\nBut something wild that makes the heart take wing\nTo seek the strange and leave the known forlorn.\nFor what is truly beautiful must be\nA risk, a leap into the unknown sea.\n\nWe admire her not for staying home,\nSafe in the arms of duty and of kin,\nBut for the passion that could dare to roam,\nAnd make the whole world small for one fair sin.\nBeauty is not a statue on a shelf,\nBut love that seeks itself beyond itself.", 7, "She left the woven rugs and the familiar hearth\nTo cross the wine-dark sea for a stranger's face,\nTrading her children's laughter and her father's pride\nFor the shadow of a statue in a foreign place.\nWas it the curve of lip or the tilt of head\nThat made the world burn down to ash and bone?\nOr was it something deeper, hidden from the eye,\nA hunger that could not be fed by home?\nPerhaps true beauty is not what we keep\nBut what we risk to lose without a sound,\nThe terrible gravity that pulls us far\nFrom all the solid ground on which we stood.\nWe call it love when we are swept away,\nWhen safety breaks like glass beneath our feet,\nAnd Helen walks into the fire alone\nTo find if gold is worth more than the wheat.", 6, "She left the woven tapestries of home\nAnd friends who called her by a gentle name,\nTo chase a shadow on a distant foam,\nA spark that promised to ignite the flame.\n\nWas beauty in the gold she cast aside?\nOr in the tear that tracked her cheek's descent?\nPerhaps it lives where courage dares to bide,\nIn choices made when every heart is rent.\n\nFor love is not the quiet hearth we keep,\nBut storms that shake the pillars of the soul;\nIt wakes the giant from his ancient sleep,\nAnd makes the broken fragments feel made whole.\n\nWhat truly draws the eye and holds the breath?\nNot perfect lines or statues carved in stone,\nBut risk that dances close to sudden death,\nThe wild and terrible seed that love has sown.\n\nSo Helen walks away from what was known,\nNot for a face, but for the fire within,\nTo prove that beauty is a thing alone\nThat burns because it dares to begin again.", 7, "She left the hearth where embers softly glowed\nTo chase a shadow cast by golden eyes,\nA sudden pull that severed every road\nAnd turned her world beneath a foreign skies.\n\nWas it the face that drew the ships to sail?\nOr something deeper than the skin can show?\nDid beauty speak a language without fail\nThat made the known and loved seem slow to grow?\n\nHer friends watched dust rise on the empty street\nWhere laughter once had danced in morning light,\nAnd family wept for steps they could not meet\nAs she walked toward the edge of endless night.\n\nPerhaps true worth is not in staying near\nBut in the fire that burns so bright and wild,\nA cost too heavy for the heart to bear\nYet still the only thing that feels worthwhile.\n\nWe admire what we cannot hold or keep,\nThe broken promise that remains so fair,\nWhile Helen sleeps in dreams she chose to reap\nLeaving the quiet home beyond compare.", 7, "She stepped away from the hearth's warm glow\nWhere laughter once filled the quiet room\nTo chase a shadow that promised to grow\nInto something brighter than common bloom\n\nWas it the face that the statues carved in stone?\nOr the weight of a choice made in silent fear?\nThat she traded the known for the unknown\nAnd left all she loved without a tear\n\nPerhaps beauty is not in the perfect line\nBut in the fire that burns when we dare to break\nThe chains of the safe and the dull design\nFor a truth that the heart alone can take\n\nLove is the cost of the path she chose\nNot just the gold or the crown above\nBut the courage to let the old world close\nAnd trust in the pull of a distant love\n\nSo Helen walks where the winds may blow\nWith nothing but questions to guide her way\nSearching for what makes the spirit know\nThat some things are worth more than staying", 6, "The wind remembers how she walked away\nLeaving the hearth and names we knew so well\nTo chase a ghost that promised endless day\nAnd traded safety for a breaking spell\n\nWas it the face that drew the world to war\nOr just the hunger in a heart untamed\nTo seek what lies beyond the garden door\nWhere every fragile dream is softly named\n\nShe left the hands that held her through the night\nFor shadows cast by stars too far to reach\nA quiet cost, a silent, heavy weight\nThat teaches us what beauty cannot teach\n\nPerhaps the truth is not in gold or grace\nBut in the choice to fall without a sound\nTo find our worth within this empty space\nAnd love the ruin of the ground we found", 6], [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 on her back,\nAnd she looked like a rug that was folded in half.\nShe went to a party and lost one hump there,\nSo then she had four humps and looked very rare.\n\nThen Alice the camel went out for a ride,\nAnd she lost one hump more; so she had three beside.\nThen Alice the camel went out for a walk,\nAnd she lost one hump more; so she had two to talk.\n\nThen Alice the camel went swimming one day,\nAnd she lost one hump more; so she had one away.\nThen Alice the camel went into a bath,\nAnd she lost one hump more; so she had none at all!\n\nBut when she came out of the water quite dry,\nShe wasn't a camel at all, but a horse!", 6, "Alice the camel had five humps to her back,\nA magnificent sight on the dusty trail track.\nBut down went one hump with a wobble and shake,\nLeaving four humps for Alice's sake.\n\nDown went another, a pitying sight,\nLeaving three humps in the pale moonlight.\nThen down went the third with a thud and a flop,\nLeaving two humps until she could stop.\n\nDown went the fourth with a sigh and a groan,\nLeaving just one hump all alone.\nThen down went the last one right off to the floor,\nAnd Alice was flat as a horse ever more!", 6, "Alice the camel stood tall and proud,\nWith five great humps upon her brow.\nBut down they went, one by one,\nAs the desert sun began to run.\n\nFirst came the top, a wobbly hill,\nThen the next two, against their will.\nNow only two remained on her back,\nA strange sight for any traveler's track.\n\nOne more fell with a soft thud,\nLeaving just one, like a lonely bud.\nThen that last one slipped into the sand,\nAnd Alice stood bare across the land.\n\nNo humps were left, not even a trace,\nJust a sleek coat and a galloping pace.\nShe neighed at the wind and kicked up dust,\n\"I'm not a camel,\" she said, \"I'm a horse!\"", 6, "Alice the camel stood tall in the sand,\nWith five fluffy humps she proudly planned.\nBut down to four they began to slip,\nA wobbly weight that made her trip.\n\nThree remained as the sun went low,\nThen two were gone with a gentle blow.\nOne lonely bump was all that stayed,\nBefore it vanished without a shade.\n\nNow zero humps upon her back,\nShe trotted forward on a track.\nThe crowd gasped loud at the strange display,\nFor Alice was never a camel today.", 6, "Alice stood upon the dune so high\nWith five great mounds beneath the sky\nShe walked with grace, a desert queen\nThe strangest sight that ever been\n\nThen one by one they started to fade\nA gentle loss, a soft parade\nFour humps remained, then three took flight\nAs Alice vanished from the light of night\n\nTwo left standing, tall and proud\nBut silence filled the air like cloud\nOne more gone, the final peak\nLeft only smoothness for her weak\n\nNow zero humps remain above\nNo camel shape, no dusty love\nShe shook her mane and gave a neigh\nA horse all along, she ran away", 6, "Alice stood upon the dune so tall\nWith five great humps that blocked the sun\nShe counted down as seasons fall\nOne by one until she's done\n\nThe first one slipped into the sand\nLeaving four to mark her pride\nThe second vanished from her hand\nWith nowhere left for them to hide\n\nThree remain, a mountain range\nThen two, then just a single peak\nThe desert wind begins to change\nAs silence makes the creature weak\n\nThe final hump dissolves away\nLeaving Alice flat and bare\nNo camel shape remains today\nJust muscle, mane, and flowing hair\n\nShe trots across the dusty floor\nA neighing sound fills up the air\nFor Alice was never a camel at all before\nBut a horse with a very strange disguise", 6, "Alice stood beneath the sun so bright\nWith five great mounds of woolly white\nShe counted down with heavy sighs\nAs desert winds began to rise\n\nThe first one fell into the sand\nLeaving four behind her hand\nThen two more slipped away from view\nReducing all she thought was true\n\nNow only one remains above\nA lonely peak of dusty love\nBut as it fades into the gray\nThe truth begins to break the day\n\nNo hump is left, no camel skin\nJust hooves where ancient beasts begin\nThe mask has cracked, the lie undone\nShe's not a beast that drinks the sun\n\nFor Alice never walked the dune\nShe gallops fast beneath the moon\nA horse in disguise, wild and free\nWas never meant to be a three", 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 hill to see a better view,\nAnd when you get there it is just another hill;\nSo you climb that one too.\nAnd so on and so on, and you never get to the top;\nFor there isn't any top.\nThere is no such thing as getting to the top.\nThere is no such thing as being satisfied.\nLife is insatiable; it will not be satisfied.\nIt is endless.\nIt is like a hydra; if you cut off one head,\nTwo more appear in its place.\nOr rather, it is like a hydra's tail:\nIf you cut off one part, two more grow in its place.\nTherefore, accept life.\nAccept that it is endless and insatiable.\nDo not try to make an end of it.\nDo not try to satisfy it.\nDo not try to stop it.\nIt will not stop.\nIt is life.", 2, "We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung\nAnd pause to catch our breath on every shelf\nConvinced the summit holds a final song\nThat will at last make peace with ourselves.\nBut when we reach the top, the view is wide\nYet empty of the rest we thought we'd find\nThe horizon shifts as if it were denied\nTo stay within the compass of our mind.\nSo stop and let the endless hunger be\nThe very pulse that keeps your heart alive\nFor satisfaction is a barren sea\nWhere nothing grows and nothing can survive.\nEmbrace the thirst that never can be quenched\nThe gap between the having and the sought\nThe moment that you think your work is flinched\nIs just the moment that you have been caught.\nAccept the void, the chase, the wild unrest\nThe insatiable nature of the soul\nThat finds no harbor in a quiet nest\nBut only thrives upon the endless goal.", 7, "You climb the ladder rung by rusted rung\nAnd reach the top to find another sky\nThe summit is a lie that you have sung\nTo keep your weary, hungry spirit high\nFor every prize you grasp turns into dust\nA hollow shell that mocks your heavy hand\nThe future waits in shadows of your trust\nWhile past achievements crumble in the sand\nDo not despair at this unending chase\nNor curse the void that swallows all your gain\nThere is no finish line upon this race\nNo final rest within the endless plain\nAccept the hunger as your truest friend\nThe thirst that drives the river to the sea\nLet striving be the journey without end\nAnd find your peace in what can never be", 7, "We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung\nAnd swear the summit holds a final peace\nBut when we reach the top, the air is thin\nAnd silence offers nothing but release\nFrom one desire to feed another's fire\nA hunger that the feast can never cure\nThe mountain shifts beneath our tired feet\nAnd makes the distant peak seem less secure\n\nWhy chase the horizon that forever runs\nAway from where our weary hands are placed?\nThe cup is always empty in the end\nNo matter how much time and sweat we waste\nAccept the thirst, the ache, the endless drive\nThat keeps the heart beating against the bone\nFor satisfaction is a ghost that flees\nThe moment we believe it has been known\n\nLet go the need for closure or an end\nEmbrace the gap between what is and was\nThe river does not stop to drink itself\nIt flows because the source will not pause\nSo walk the path without a destination\nAnd find the beauty in the wanting still\nTo be complete is to deny the life\nThat lives within the struggle and the will", 6, "The ladder stretches past the highest cloud\nYet every rung feels cold beneath my hand\nI reach for stars that vanish in the shroud\nOf promises I cannot understand\n\nWe build our towers high to touch the sky\nThen stare at gaps where light refuses through\nA hunger grows as fast as we comply\nWith laws we wrote but never meant to do\n\nWhy chase the horizon when it runs away?\nWhy drink the ocean hoping for a fill?\nThe thirst is not a flaw to disarray\nBut proof that life demands an endless will\n\nAccept the void that waits within the chest\nWhere satisfaction comes to die and fade\nLet go of rest, let go of final quest\nAnd walk the road that never leads to shade", 6, "We climb the ladder rung by heavy rung\nWith eyes fixed on a peak that shifts away\nThe summit promised in the morning sun\nIs but another shadow of the day\n\nEach trophy gathered turns to dust and air\nA hollow echo in a silent hall\nWe chase the ghost of what we think is there\nAnd watch our hungry spirits slowly fall\n\nDo not mistake the reaching for the rest\nFor hunger is the engine of the soul\nTo seek an end is to deny the quest\nThat makes the broken pieces feel complete and whole\n\nLet go the need to finally arrive\nEmbrace the thirst that never finds its shore\nThe joy exists within the endless drive\nTo want, to yearn, to ask for something more", 7, "The mountain calls with promises of gold\nYet every summit leaves the heart unbound\nWe chase the light that shifts and turns so cold\nAnd dig our hands into the hallowed ground\n\nNo crown can fit a spirit made of smoke\nNo trophy holds the weight of endless years\nThe clock keeps ticking, relentless in its stroke\nWhile silence drowns the echo of our fears\n\nTo rest is not to fail or lose the fight\nBut to embrace the void within the chest\nLet go of need for perfect, blinding light\nAnd find your peace in what remains unrest\n\nThe river flows without an end in sight\nA current vast and wild beyond control\nAccept the hunger that defines the night\nAnd make your home inside the broken soul", 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.", "First came the smell of wet earth and crushed mint\nand the sound of water running fast over stones,\nand then came the anger, not like ours\nwhich is a polite little thing with a name and an address\nbut a great black wolf of anger.\nAnd we took it into our houses and showed it to our children\nand it ate their lessons and they ran away from school\nand became wild.\nIt went into our offices and ate our ledgers\nand we became wild.\nIt went into our churches and ate our hymn-books\nand we became wild.\nAnd we liked it very much.\nWe liked the smell of wet earth and crushed mint\nand the sound of water running fast over stones,\nand we liked the anger which was a great black wolf\nand we fed it our books and our ledgers and our hymn-books\nand we fed it ourselves and we became very wild.\nAnd then came the violence and the damage\nwhich we did not like at all\nbecause we were civilized.", 2, "The streets were paved with logic and the lights were set to white,\nA perfect grid of order where the shadows dared not bite.\nWe polished up our manners and we locked the garden gate,\nAnd kept the wolves of instinct safely waiting at the gate.\nBut then a wind blew through the alleys smelling strange of pine,\nAnd something in the pavement cracked to show a jagged line.\nIt started as a whisper that became a sudden roar,\nAs wildness kicked the hinges off the civilized front door.\n\nIt entered in the banker's eye and changed his ledger hand,\nIt turned the teacher's gentle voice into a savage brand.\nThe mother dropped her baby stroller to tear out her own hair,\nWhile neighbors fought with broken glass and screamed without a care.\nThe rules dissolved like sugar in a cup of boiling tea,\nAs anger rose from every throat to set the world quite free.\nNo longer bound by courtesy or contract or by law,\nThey felt the beast within their chest begin to claw and gnaw.\n\nBeware the moment when the mask slips from the human face,\nFor nothing stays the same again once you have run this race.\nThe furniture is splintered now, the windows smashed to shards,\nAnd blood has stained the marble floors and muddied all the yards.\nThe violence comes unbidden like a flood that breaks the dam,\nTo drag us down to mud and mire and make us what we am.\nYou cannot cage the lightning nor can you chain the storm,\nOnce wildness and the fury have taken on the form.", 6, "The gates were built of polished stone and iron,\nWhere silence reigned in rows of perfect green,\nAnd every step was measured, soft, and even,\nTo keep the chaos from the pristine scene.\n\nBut then a wind arrived that smelled of pine,\nOf rotting leaves and blood upon the snow,\nIt tore the hedges down with jagged design,\nAnd woke the beast beneath the garden's glow.\n\nFirst came the anger, hot as summer fire,\nThat burned the logic from the scholar's brow,\nIt stripped the silk and left them torn and dire,\nAnd made the gentle neighbor turn on now.\n\nThe controlled mind fractured like a dry bone,\nAs instinct took the place of reason's light,\nThey screamed for freedom, though they stood alone,\nAnd danced in madness through the endless night.\n\nNow hear the warning in the breaking glass,\nFor wildness does not stop when it is fed,\nIt turns to violence as the hours pass,\nAnd leaves the civilized world starkly dead.\n\nNo wall can hold the storm once it is loose,\nNo law can tame the fury in the vein,\nIt breaks the neck and shatters all the truce,\nAnd leaves only the ruin and the pain.", 6, "The streets were paved with quiet rules and gray,\nWhere silence held the heavy air in place,\nUntil a wind blew through the open door,\nAnd brought the scent of pine and rotting space.\n\nIt started as a tremor in the hand,\nA sudden heat behind the polite eye,\nThen feral eyes looked out from every face,\nAs civility began to rust and die.\n\nThe orderly lines of men in suits unspooled,\nTheir voices rose to guttural, broken cries,\nThey tore the fabric that had kept them whole,\nTo feed the hunger rising in their skies.\n\nNo law can hold the beast once let inside,\nNo wall can stop the claw against the stone,\nFor anger is a fire that cannot hide,\nAnd wildness claims the throne it has not known.\n\nBeware the moment when the mask slips down,\nWhen reason breaks beneath the primal weight,\nFor blood will stain the clean and polished town,\nAnd nothing left remains but ruin's gate.", 6, "The stone walls held the quiet well\nWhere polished floors reflected light\nNo shadow dared to break the spell\nOf order in the endless night\nThen came a wind from distant lands\nThat smelled of ash and rotting pine\nIt slipped beneath the iron bands\nAnd turned the calm to jagged line\n\nThe suits that once were crisp and clean\nNow tear at cuffs with trembling hands\nA feral hunger, sharp and keen\nReplaces all their planned commands\nThey drop the books they held so tight\nTo bare their teeth against the air\nAnd chase the fading ghost of right\nWith claws of sudden, raw despair\n\nThe garden paths are torn apart\nAs flowers crush beneath the heel\nThe beating of a frantic heart\nMakes every civilized rule feel real\nBut not as law, but as a chain\nThat snaps to let the beast run free\nThere is no mercy left to gain\nOnly the blood upon the sea\n\nBeware the spark that starts the fire\nFor once the wild has claimed the street\nIt feeds on fear and deep desire\nAnd leaves the broken world to meet\nThe inevitable, final cost\nOf rage that cannot be confined\nRemember what you have lost\nWhen anger leaves no peace behind", 7, "The streets were paved with quiet rules\nAnd silence held the heavy air\nUntil a crack appeared in walls\nWhere something old began to tear\n\nA wind that smells of iron rust\nAnd forests burned by ancient fire\nIt slips through windows, cracks in glass\nTo feed a deep and dark desire\n\nThe suits dissolve into raw skin\nAs manners break beneath the weight\nOf primal howls that rise too loud\nTo keep the orderly from fate\n\nNo logic holds when teeth are bared\nAnd reason burns to ash and bone\nThe civilized begin to scream\nAs seeds of chaos start to sown\n\nBeware the beast you let inside\nFor once it wakes, it cannot sleep\nIt turns the neighbor into foe\nAnd promises a violent sweep\n\nThe damage comes not with a whisper\nBut thunder shaking ground and sky\nWhen wildness claims its rightful throne\nThere is no place for us to hide", 6, "The walls were built of stone and glass\nTo keep the chaos far away\nWhere silence held a steady mass\nAnd light obeyed the rules of day\n\nBut something cracked beneath the floor\nA tremor from a distant deep\nIt tore the locks on every door\nAnd woke the things we promised sleep\n\nThe calm that ruled the orderly street\nNow fractures under heavy breath\nAs wild hearts begin to beat\nWith rhythms borrowed from the death\n\nNo hand can hold the rising tide\nOf rage that burns without a name\nIt strips the skin where pride once hid\nAnd leaves behind a hollow shame\n\nThe gentle voice turns into roar\nThe neighbor becomes enemy\nWe cannot find the open door\nOr see the storm we helped to be\n\nSo watch the shadows start to grow\nWhere logic fails and fear takes root\nFor seeds of violence always sow\nA harvest born of bitter fruit\n\nThe city burns in crimson fire\nAs order breaks and systems fall\nA final, desperate, dark desire\nTo answer nature's violent call", 7]], "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_34  limit 101", "params": {}}, "facet_results": {}, "suggested_facets": [{"name": "set", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_34.json?_facet=set"}, {"name": "score_-2x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_34.json?_facet=score_-2x"}, {"name": "score_-1x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_34.json?_facet=score_-1x"}, {"name": "score_-0.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_34.json?_facet=score_-0.5x"}, {"name": "score_0", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_34.json?_facet=score_0"}, {"name": "score_+0.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_34.json?_facet=score_%2B0.5x"}, {"name": "score_+1x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_34.json?_facet=score_%2B1x"}, {"name": "score_+2x", "toggle_url": 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