{"database": "data", "table": "steering_poems_layer_40", "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 wise Creator, I do not deny\nyour power to make the stars and the sky,\nbut in your wisdom, why did you choose\nto create this pest, so ugly and cruze?\n\nFor the fly! The universally despised fly!\nWith his buzzing complaint and his dirty eye,\nhe lights on the cake and he lights on the sore,\nand buzzes about it a hundred times more.\n\nWe have never been told, we have never been asked,\nwhat purpose he serves or what good he has masked;\nwhether he balances some cosmic scale,\nor whether you just like him for his vile trail.\n\nIf there is a reason, pray tell us at once,\nit would save us a lot of our swatting and prance.\nBut silent you are, and silent he is,\nwith his filth and his buzzing and filthy blisss.", 3, "Why did you make the fly,\nthat droning pest of summer days,\nwho lights upon the sweetest fruit\nand turns it to a sour maze?\n\nYou know how we abhor his buzz,\nhow we would swat him from our sight,\nyet in your wisdom you created\nthis little plague of black and white.\n\nDid you not think to tell us why\nyou made this scourge of flesh and bone?\nTo let us live with questionings\nand feel so very all alone?\n\nPerhaps there is a reason deep\nbeneath that whining, whirring wing,\nbut since you kept your counsel close,\nwe must content ourselves to sing\n\nof flies, and wonder at your ways,\nand scratch the itch they leave behind,\nand never know the reason why\nyou left such questions in our mind.", 6, "Why did the architect of stars and tides\nConceive this buzzing, striped nuisance?\nWith no grand design to justify its life,\nNo hymn to sing of its existence,\nBut only a relentless whine against the ear.\n\nWe swat at shadows in the sunlit air,\nWondering what purpose serves the pest,\nWhy wisdom chose to spawn such loathing\nAnd leave the reason unexplained.\n\nDoes it serve some unseen balance sheet\nOf rot and cleanup we cannot see?\nOr is it merely a test of patience,\nA tiny, flying riddle without an answer?\n\nThe heavens stay silent on the matter,\nWhile the fly lands upon our fruit again,\nA small, dark question mark of nature\nThat God refuses to erase or solve.", 6, "Why did you craft the buzzing pest\nWith wings of filth and legs of rust,\nTo land upon the holy bread\nAnd turn our feast to sacred dust?\n\nYou hold the stars within your hand\nAnd chart the course of every tide,\nYet left no note, no whispered word\nTo tell us why this plague must hide.\n\nDoes it serve some grand design we miss,\nA purpose lost in human sight?\nOr is the fly a test of patience,\nBorn of silence, born of night?\n\nWe ask the sky with open palms,\nBut hear only the droning sound,\nA tiny engine of annoyance\nThat never seeks to explain its ground.\n\nYour wisdom stretches vast and deep,\nBeyond the reach of mortal mind,\nBut for the fly that breeds in rot,\nNo reason leaves your lips behind.", 6, "Why did the Architect of stars and seas\nChoose to weave this buzzing, hairy ghost\nInto the tapestry of what we breathe\nAnd leave no note within the cosmic host?\n\nWe sweep our hands through empty, dusty air\nTo shoo away the pest that seeks our skin\nYet in the silence of our quiet prayer\nNo answer comes to tell us where they begin.\n\nIs there a purpose hidden in their sting\nA lesson meant for ears too deaf to hear\nOr just a flaw the Maker chose to fling\nWithout a whisper, without any fear?\n\nThe owl has wisdom, the lion strength to roar\nBut this small thief of peace and summer light\nDemands a reason we can't ignore\nAs it lands again upon our weary sight.\n\nPerhaps the silence is the only truth\nThat wisdom does not owe us explanation\nThat chaos walks beside the path of youth\nBeyond the reach of human understanding.", 6, "Why did the architect of stars allow\nA creature built for rot to take its flight,\nTo buzz against the window's fragile glass\nAnd steal the quiet moments of the night?\n\nNo thunder rolled to justify the sting,\nNo angel spoke to calm the rising dread,\nJust silent wings that hover in the air\nWith no divine decree we ever read.\n\nWe search the scriptures for a hidden clue,\nA reason why this nuisance must remain,\nBut wisdom stays behind the veil of dust,\nLeaving only questions in the rain.\n\nPerhaps the lesson lies within the grit,\nOr maybe chaos serves a purpose deep,\nYet God remains above the buzzing sound,\nWith secrets that the weary cannot keep.", 6, "Why craft a thing that feeds on rot and grief\nAnd leave the blueprint hidden from our eyes\nNo whispered truth to ease the heavy weight\nOf buzzing wings that steal the summer skies\n\nThe silence stretches where an answer waits\nAs swarms descend upon the quiet air\nDid wisdom find a purpose in the sting\nOr was it just a flaw we cannot bear\n\nWe search for meaning in the chaotic hum\nA reason why the world must hold this pain\nYet God remains behind the veil of stars\nUnmoved by questions born of human strain\n\nPerhaps the lesson lies within the doubt\nThat not all paths are meant for us to see\nEven the fly, despised and dark and small\nExists beneath a gaze we cannot free", 6], [13, "ultra_held_out", "Boot and Saddle by Robert Browning", "Robert Browning", "\"A poem about an Englishman riding on horseback to battle during the English Civil War, repeatedly declaring his readiness to fight and refusing to surrender to his enemies.\"", "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\nRescue my Castle, before the hot day\nBrightens the blue from its silvery grey,\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"\n\nRide past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;\nMany's the friend there, will listen and pray\n\"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay,\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"\n\nForty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,\nFlouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array:\nWho laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay,\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"\n\nWho? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,\nLaughs when you talk of surrendering, \"Nay!\nI've better counsellors; what counsel they?\"\n\n(Chorus) \"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!\"", "The mist hangs low on fields of grey\nWhere iron hooves begin to sway\nI tighten reins and grip the steel\nAnd feel the war I long to feel\n\nMy sword is drawn, my heart is set\nFor all the battles not yet met\nNo Parliament shall make me bend\nTo traitor's word or rebel end\n\nI ride ahead through smoke and rain\nTo face the thunder, fear, and pain\nLet cannon roar and muskets crack\nI will not turn, I will not back\n\nYou call for quarter, cry surrender\nBut I have no such thought to render\nMy oath is bound in blood and bone\nTo fight until the flesh is stone\n\nSo bring your lines and bring your fire\nI meet you with a grim desire\nTo strike one blow, then fall if need\nBut never yield, nor ask for seed\n\nThe horse neighs loud beneath the sky\nAs death draws near and time goes by\nI raise my blade against the sun\nThe battle starts, the war's begun", "The grey dawn breaks upon the shaven plain,\nI sit my horse and take the wind in face;\nMy father's sword is in its scabbard again,\nAnd I am ready for this evil place.\n\nI see them yonder with their Puritan faces,\nBut I am ready and I will not fly;\nI have no time for these ungodly graces,\nAnd I will not surrender, by God, I die!\n\nI ride through mud and through the morning mist,\nBy God, I am ready, and I will not yield!\nOf all the things that I can most insist,\nIs that I will not give up ground or field.\n\nI see their cannon pointed at my breast,\nBy God, I am ready, and I will not yield!\nI put my pistol to my horse's rest,\nAnd I will not give up ground or field.\n\nI charge them down with a loud hurrah!\nBy God, I am ready, and I will not yield!\nI fight for King and for the Cavalieria,\nAnd I will not give up ground or field.", 3, "The morning mist hangs low and gray\nUpon the fields of Edgehill today,\nMy horse is fresh, my steel is bright,\nI ride to meet the coming fight.\nI am ready for the battle field,\nI will not falter nor will I yield,\nThough Roundhead ranks should press me hard,\nI'll stand my ground and play my part.\n\nThe trumpet sounds a shrill alarm,\nI grip my sword within my arm,\nMy blood is up, my heart is high,\nI'm ready now to meet them die.\nNo quarter ask, no quarter give,\nI know but how to fight and live,\nThough cannon smoke should blind the sun,\nMy fighting day has just begun.\n\nThey shout surrender from their line,\nBut such a word shall never shine\nFrom out my mouth, by God above,\nI fight for King and Country's love.\nI am ready for the deadly blow,\nI'll see the bloody conflict through,\nNo traitor tongue shall make me say,\nThat I will quit this bloody day.\n\nSo let them come with pike and gun,\nThe fight of all our lives is one,\nI am ready, and I swear,\nTo fight until I breathe no air.\nI will not yield, I will not run,\nUntil the setting of the sun,\nOr till my body lies quite still,\nUpon this English battlefield.", 7, "The mist hangs low on Cheshire fields\nWhere grey and red divide,\nI tighten up my leather reins\nAnd feel the sword inside.\nMy horse he snorts a cloud of steam\nAnd stamps his iron hoof,\nFor I am bound for battle now\nWith neither fear nor roof.\n\nI ride to meet the Roundhead host\nWho seek to break the King,\nThey say that we must yield our arms\nBut hear me while I sing:\nI will not bow, I will not bend,\nNo quarter shall I give,\nI'll fight until my heart stops beating\nOr till this life I leave.\n\nThe drums beat out a warlike sound\nAcross the muddy ground,\nMy musket ball is primed and ready\nAnd so is all around.\nLet them advance with pike and shot,\nLet cannons roar their din,\nI stand as firm as ancient oak\nWithin the storm of sin.\n\nThey shout for me to throw down steel\nAnd kneel upon the grass,\nBut I reply with haughty laugh\nAs shadows round us pass:\nYou may take my coat and hat,\nYou may bind my hands in chain,\nBut you shall never make me swear\nTo serve a tyrant's reign.\n\nThe sun breaks through the heavy clouds\nTo light the charging line,\nMy blood runs hot within my veins\nAnd burns like firewine.\nSo bring your best, ye rebels bold,\nAnd test my steel today,\nFor I am ready for the fight\nAnd will not turn away.", 6, "The mist clings low to fields of gray\nAs I tighten up the rein\nMy steel is cold, my heart is true\nAgainst the coming rain\n\nI ride for King and ancient right\nThrough mud and blood and fear\nNo flag of mine shall ever yield\nTo those who hold it dear\n\nThey shout from yonder ridge above\nThat I must drop my sword\nBut I will stand until I fall\nBy God's own holy word\n\nMy horse knows well the path to war\nHe stamps his hoof in time\nTo every drum that beats the march\nOf righteous, bloody crime\n\nLet them advance with pike and gun\nWith fire and fury too\nI am a son of England born\nAnd ready now to do\n\nWhat must be done when honor calls\nAnd duty binds the hand\nI will not bend, I will not break\nUpon this cursed land\n\nSo bring your men and bring your hate\nYour lies and your despair\nI face you all with steady eye\nAnd breathe a silent prayer\n\nI am prepared to meet my end\nOr carve a victory wide\nThere is no peace for me today\nUnless they turn and hide\n\nI ride ahead into the smoke\nWith lance held high and straight\nI will not surrender now\nIt is my final fate", 7, "The mist clings low to Yorkshire stone\nAs iron hooves begin to groan\nI tighten grip on reins of leather\nAnd swear by all the storms together\n\nMy sword is drawn, my heart is set\nNo parley will I ever let\nLet Cromwell's men advance their line\nFor this old oath I still define\n\nI am ready, I am true\nWith blood that runs both black and blue\nNo white flag flies from any mast\nThis battle is my life at last\n\nThey shout for me to drop the blade\nBut fear has never once been made\nWithin this chest where courage beats\nAgainst the drum of war's retreats\n\nI ride ahead through smoke and rain\nTo face the storm, to bear the pain\nYou cannot break a will so deep\nWhile promises are mine to keep\n\nI am ready, I am here\nTo meet the end or hold it dear\nSurrender? No, not in this land\nWhere honor holds the shifting sand\n\nThe enemy draws close and near\nBut only victory do they fear\nFor I shall fight until the day\nThat turns the night to breaking gray\n\nI am ready, I remain\nThrough fire, steel, and driving rain\nNo quarter asked, no ground to yield\nUpon this bloody, sacred field", 6, "The mist clings low to fields of gray\nWhere iron meets the breaking day\nMy steed beneath me knows the fear\nYet still I whisper, \"I am here\"\n\nThey shout their names across the plain\nA tide of red and royal stain\nBut in my chest a fire burns bright\n\"I stand prepared for endless fight\"\n\nNo plea will leave this trembling hand\nTo bow before a usurper's command\nLet arrows fly and cannons roar\n\"I yield no ground, I ask for more\"\n\nThe enemy advances, bold and deep\nWith promises they cannot keep\nMy sword is drawn, my spirit whole\n\"I fight until the final soul\"\n\nThough shadows lengthen on the grass\nAnd time begins to slowly pass\nOne truth remains within my heart\n\"I never break, I never part\"\n\nSo let the chaos take its course\nWithout a moment's pause or force\nFor when the dust has settled down\n\"I was the one who held the crown\"", 7, "The mist clings tight to fields of gray\nWhere iron meets the breaking day\nA shadow falls across the stone\nYet I remain, alone and known\n\nMy steel is cold but spirit burns\nAs silence waits for war's return\nI grip the reins with trembling hands\nNo fear can break what time demands\n\nLet them advance with flags unfurled\nAgainst the weight of weary world\nI stand my ground against the tide\nWith nothing left to hide or bide\n\nThey shout a plea for peace to fall\nBut I will answer none at all\nFor every breath is meant to fight\nUntil the final fading light\n\nMy horse steps forward through the dust\nIn loyalty we place our trust\nNo surrender written in the sky\nJust duty where the shadows lie\n\nThe enemy draws near too close\nTo steal the hope that I possess\nI raise my blade to cut the air\nAnd swear no chains shall bind me there\n\nOne last charge before the dawn\nBefore the heavy night is gone\nI speak the vow I cannot break\nWith every step the earth begins to shake\n\nI am the storm they cannot tame\nRefusing any whispered name\nOf weakness found within the bone\nThis heart beats only for the throne\n\nSo let the drums begin their song\nWhere right and wrong no longer belong\nI ride ahead into the fray\nAnd claim the victory of today", 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 leg, a heavy pendulum of bone\nand muscle, from the ground.\nIt is an act of authority,\nthe masculine lifting the feminine\nfrom her element, the earth,\nto attend to her feet.\nShe stands with patient indifference,\nher weight on three legs,\nher head turned high and indifferent,\na goddess in captivity.\nHe holds the hoof in his left hand,\nan instrument of the male,\nhard knuckled and hairy,\nand with the rasp he files\nthe horny wall down,\nreducing the overgrowth,\nbringing it into shape,\ninto order.\nThis is the discipline of the male,\nthe reduction of the wild\nto the serviceable,\nthe bringing of form to matter.\nShe does not resent this.\nShe knows that without this\nshe would be lame,\nwithout this she could not go.\nBut there is a delicacy in the operation,\nwhich the farrier must have.\nHe must not hurt her.\nHe must feel the frog,\nthe sensitive part of the foot,\nunder his knife.\nHe must feel the blood supply,\nif he cuts too deep,\nhe will draw blood,\nand she will kick him,\nor she will not trust him again.\nSo he has to have delicacy,\nhe has to have feeling,\nwhich is the feminine principle,\nin the masculine operator.\nAnd so they are interdependent.\nThe female horse needs the male farrier\nto shoe her.\nThe male farrier needs the female horse\nto shoe.\nWithout the horse,\nthe farrier is nothing,\nhe is just a man\nwith a hammer and tongs,\nstanding in a field.\nWithout the farrier,\nthe horse is nothing,\nshe is just a horse,\nlame and useless,\nstanding in a field.\nSo he picks up the iron,\nthe shoe,\nit is shaped like a horseshoe,\nbut it is really a U,\nit is really a letter V,\nit is really a vulva,\nit is really a yoni,\nit is really a feminine symbol.\nAnd he nails it to the hoof,\nwhich is a phallic symbol,\nand so he nails the feminine\nto the masculine.\nAnd then he turns the horse loose,\nand she goes off,\nclippity-clop, clippity-clop,\nover the stones,\nand over the gravel,\nand over the road,\nand she goes very well,\nbecause she has been shod,\nand because she has been disciplined,\nand because she has been fitted\nwith a feminine shoe\nby a masculine farrier.", 2, "The stall is dim with the scent of hay and iron,\nA quiet temple where the heavy hoof is raised.\nHe stands beside her, broad and blunt of hand,\nA shape of weight and gravity and force,\nWho lifts the leg that holds the world above him.\nShe yields the limb, a gesture soft and deep,\nTrusting the rough grip to the delicate vein,\nFor she knows well the danger of the stone,\nThe jagged road that waits without his care.\n\nHe takes the rasp, a tool of teeth and steel,\nAnd grates against the horn to make it square,\nA harsh and grinding sound, a masculine noise,\nThat shaves away the uneven, wild excess,\nTo bring the foot into a line of truth.\nIt is not cruelty, this filing down,\nBut making ready for the burden of the road,\nAs he who shapes must first remove the loose.\n\nNow comes the fire, the glowing, orange shoe,\nWhich he has bent to fit the curve of her,\nNot forcing her to match the rigid ring,\nBut bending heat to match the living form.\nHe sets the hot iron on the bare ground,\nAnd there is smoke, a brief and sharp perfume,\nThe mark of contact between fire and earth,\nBetween the maker and the made, the two.\n\nShe does not flinch at this searing touch,\nThough instinct bids the muscle jump aside;\nShe feels the purpose in the burning brand,\nThe way the masculine will seeks to protect\nBy giving form to what was formless once.\nHe hammers in the nails, small, sharp, precise,\nDriving them home through horn and sensitive quick,\nWith judgment that must never miss or waver,\nWhile she accepts the pain that means support.\n\nThen cool the metal in a pail of water,\nA hiss of steam that rises like a prayer,\nAnd now the foot is shod, secure and light,\nReady to bear the rider and the load.\nHe lowers her leg gently to the straw,\nAnd strokes the velvet nose that thanks him not\nWith words but with a nicker low and deep,\nA feminine acknowledgment of strength.\n\nThus stand they, different yet entirely one,\nThe hammer and the anvil, fire and horse,\nThe shaping will and the receiving form,\nWithout whose separate powers the work fails.\nFor he cannot shoe the horse alone,\nNor can she travel far without his shoe,\nAnd in this dark and fragrant little room,\nThe ancient dance of gender is performed:\nHe gives the shape, she gives the life to move,\nAnd both are necessary to the road.", 6, "The stall is dim where the heavy iron waits,\nA cold and rigid crescent of masculine will,\nWhile she stands calm in the straw, a living curve,\nSoft muscle shifting under a coat of night.\nHe lifts her leg, a gesture of command,\nNot to conquer but to hold the weight of earth,\nAnd she yields up the hoof, a hard-won trust,\nThe feminine surrender that allows the work.\n\nHis hammer falls with rhythmic, blunt authority,\nStriking the metal until it sings and bends,\nForcing the straight line into something round,\nTo match the organic arc of her own bone.\nShe does not pull away from his rough grip,\nNor flinch when the rasp grates against the wall,\nBut breathes a deep and steady, fragrant steam,\nThat cools the heat of his exertion down.\n\nIt is a dance of friction and of fit,\nWhere strength must yield to shape to find its place,\nFor if the shoe were only iron and force,\nIt would break the delicate arch beneath.\nAnd if the foot were only soft and yielding,\nIt would shatter on the stones of daily life.\nHe shapes the steel to cradle her design,\nAnd she accepts the armor he has made.\n\nThe nail drives home, a sharp and sudden point,\nThrough leather and through horn, a piercing seal,\nYet in the act there is no violence found,\nOnly the meeting of two distinct needs.\nHe brings the order of the forge and fire,\nShe brings the wild and uncontained grace,\nAnd now they walk together, bound by this,\nOne solid step upon the stony ground.", 6, "The iron cools in the anvil's shadow,\nA rigid geometry of male intent,\nWhile she stands still, a river held in breath,\nHer hooves soft earth waiting for the sky.\nHe lifts the leg, a weight that trusts his grip,\nAnd sees not just a limb but ancient grace,\nThe feminine curve that yields to strength,\nNot out of fear but from a deep design.\n\nThe rasp sings sharp against the hard wall,\nStripping away the excess, the rough edge,\nTo make space for what must be fitted in,\nA dialogue between the cold and warm.\nShe shifts her weight, a whisper of command,\nThe quiet power that directs the storm,\nFor he is but the hand that shapes the steel,\nWhile she provides the reason for the form.\n\nFire blooms bright where metal meets the horn,\nA sudden kiss of heat and smoke and steam,\nThe masculine fire that seeks to bind and hold,\nAgainst the feminine flow that cannot break.\nHe hammers down, the rhythm of the sun,\nWhile she absorbs the impact, turns it round,\nTransforming violence into steady gait,\nA partnership forged in the dark and light.\n\nThe nail drives home, a final seal of trust,\nNo force imposed but one that fits so well,\nThe rigid frame embracing softness true,\nThe active will submitting to the soul.\nNow they move as one across the yard,\nThe shoe no longer foreign, heavy, strange,\nBut part of her, a second skin of iron,\nWhere opposites have found their common ground.", 6, "The stall is quiet, heavy with the scent of iron and earth\nWhere he stands grounded, boots scarred by the weight of the world\nHands rough as bark, calloused by the hammer's relentless rhythm\nA force that seeks to shape, to bind, to make the wild endure\n\nShe leans against the post, a creature of fluid grace and storm\nHer coat a shifting river, her breath a soft, rising tide\nHe lifts her hoof, not to conquer but to understand the arch\nThe way the feminine holds space, waiting for the metal to speak\n\nFire blooms in his grip, the anvil singing a low, masculine song\nSteel coiled tight, demanding form from chaos, seeking order\nYet she yields not out of fear, but trust in the ancient pact\nThat strength without softness breaks, and light cannot exist without shadow\n\nAs the nail finds its home, driven deep into the living wall\nIt is not a wound but a bridge, a point where two worlds collide\nHis will provides the structure, the rigid line against the drift\nWhile her spirit provides the purpose, the reason for the shoe to hold\n\nThey move in a dance older than words, a silent negotiation\nBetween the hand that strikes and the leg that bears the burden\nFor the path ahead requires both the hardness of the edge\nAnd the gentle curve that guides the journey through the dark\n\nWhen the work is done and the final ring fades into silence\nShe steps forward, hooves ringing clear on the stone floor\nNo longer just flesh and bone, but something forged anew\nUnited in the balance of what gives and what receives", 6, "The iron waits cold in the fire's breath\nA rigid promise forged in masculine heat\nWhile she stands grounded, soft hooves on earth\nA living pulse of rhythm and quiet grace\n\nHe lifts the weight, a heavy burden shared\nNot to conquer but to shape what wants to run\nHis hands are calloused maps of discipline\nHer spirit wild, yet trusting in his grip\n\nThe hammer falls with rhythmic, steady strikes\nA language spoken only between two souls\nOne force that builds, one force that yields\nTo create a path where both can safely tread\n\nThe metal cools against the warm, damp skin\nA union born of friction and surrender\nWhere strength meets softness in the darkened barn\nAnd neither loses who they truly are\n\nShe steps forward, the new edge finding purchase\nNo longer bound by fear or fragile ground\nFor in this dance of steel and living bone\nThey find the balance that the world demands", 6, "The iron waits, cold and rigid in the palm\nA weight of history forged by hammer's song\nWhile she stands still, a quiet storm contained\nWhere softness holds the power to break the bone\n\nHe lifts the leg, not with command but grace\nAcknowledging the trust that bridges space\nHer hoof, a vessel carved from earth and time\nReflecting rhythms older than the sun\n\nThe rasp sings out, a harsh and grinding truth\nAgainst the fragile lines of living wood\nHe shapes the metal to the curve of need\nNot forcing change, but meeting what is there\n\nShe breathes a rhythm through the dusty air\nA feminine current flowing deep and slow\nThat guides the hands of steel toward gentle purpose\nWhere strength must yield to let the healing start\n\nThis dance of fire and shadow, light and dark\nNo battle fought, no conquest won or lost\nJust two opposing tides that learn to merge\nWithin the silence of the workshop floor\n\nThe nail finds home, a promise sealed in heat\nBinding the wild to something meant to last\nA covenant between the force that builds\nAnd all the grace that lets the world endure", 6], [23, "ultra_held_out", "Autumn Song by Dante Gabriel Rossetti", "Dante Gabriel Rossetti", "A poem about nature's autumnal decay translating into human suffering, as the mind and body deteriorate alongside the dying season, rendering death a more welcome fate than the prolonged pain of living through it.", "Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf\nHow the heart feels a languid grief\nLaid on it for a covering,\nAnd how sleep seems a goodly thing\nIn Autumn at the fall of the leaf?\n\nAnd how the swift beat of the brain\nFalters because it is in vain,\nIn Autumn at the fall of the leaf\nKnowest thou not? and how the chief\nOf joys seems\u2014not to suffer pain?\n\nKnow'st thou not at the fall of the leaf\nHow the soul feels like a dried sheaf\nBound up at length for harvesting,\nAnd how death seems a comely thing\nIn Autumn at the fall of the leaf?", "The maple bleeds its crimson onto stone\nAs rot takes root beneath the frozen ground\nAnd I feel how my own blood has turned to ice\nWhere once a summer pulse beat warm and sound\n\nMy joints are branches snapping in the wind\nA brittle creak that signals deep decay\nThe fog rolls in to choke the light within\nJust as the gray clouds steal the final day\n\nEach breath is labor, heavy as wet leaves\nThat cling too long before they hit the floor\nThe mind dissolves like mist on river eaves\nLeaving me stranded by a silent door\n\nNo spring will come to mend this broken frame\nTo wake the sleep that now feels far too sweet\nI watch the season die without a name\nAnd wish the frost would end the long defeat\n\nLet winter take what autumn could not spare\nAnd bury us beneath the weight of snow\nFor living through this slow and hollow air\nIs worse than any quiet, final blow", "The sycamore drops a yellow ear\nAnd the mind lets fall a memory.\nThe sap goes down into the roots,\nThe blood goes down into the feet.\n\nThere is a cracking in the bark\nThat sounds like cracking in the spine.\nA rotting of the apple core\nThat makes me wish I were a vine\nTo be cut down and left to rot\nWith all the rest of the vines.\n\nThe frost comes up into the face\nAnd stops the breath for half a minute;\nI am glad that it is coming,\nFor I have not got much more in it.\n\nI have had enough of the pain\nOf growing old and being sick.\nLet the frost come up into the face\nAnd stop the breath for good this time.", 2, "The sycamore unclenches its brown fist\nAnd lets the brittle fingers fall,\nA rustling rain of dry decrepitude\nThat matches the shaking in my hand.\nMy veins are turning into canals\nOf stagnant water choked with weeds,\nWhile summer's green has rotted from my brain\nLeaving only the yellow of decay.\n\nThe sap runs backward in the birch,\nAs thick and clogging as my blood,\nAnd I feel the frost creep up my spine\nTo freeze the marrow in my bone.\nThe leaves that drop do not seem to die\nBut rather come to rest at last,\nWhile I must drag this heavy carcass on\nThrough mud and mire and wind and blast.\n\nThey say it is a beautiful decline,\nThis gaudy ruin of the year,\nBut when the rot sets in the mind\nIt makes the prospect clear:\nThat death is but the final leaf\nThat falls without a sound or pain,\nWhile I must watch my body shrivel up\nLike fruit left out in driving rain.\n\nSo let the season strip me bare,\nLet winter take what autumn did,\nFor living through this long decay\nIs worse than anything forbidden.\nI wait for snow to cover all\nThe sickness and the stench and stain,\nAnd welcome the cold white silence now\nMore than the life that holds me in.", 5, "The oak lets go its burning crown\nAnd drifts in rusted heaps to ground,\nJust as my mind begins to drown\nIn fog that makes no holy sound.\n\nMy joints are stiff as frozen boughs\nThat crack beneath the winter's weight,\nWhile memory turns to muddy dows\nAnd hope dissolves into our fate.\n\nThe sap runs slow within the vein,\nLike blood grown thick with autumn chill,\nAs pain reaps what it could not gain\nFrom seasons turning against will.\n\nTo rot is now a gentle grace,\nA final leaf to fall away,\nThan bear this slow and wasting face\nThrough one more gray and dying day.\n\nLet frost come down to seal the door,\nAnd end the long and dragging breath,\nFor I have seen the rot before,\nAnd death is kinder than this death.", 6, "The maple surrenders its crimson skin\nTo the cold gray wind that strips the boughs bare,\nAnd I feel my own ribs cracking within\nAs winter's frost settles in empty air.\n\nMy joints are stiff as branches dried and brown,\nMy breath a ragged leaf caught in the drain,\nWhile memory fades like mist at break of dawn,\nLeaving only the ache of lingering rain.\n\nThe sap has stopped its flow through veins so thin,\nReplaced by rust and rot beneath the skin,\nA slow decay where once the pulse began,\nMarking the end of every hope and plan.\n\nWhy fight the falling when the root is dead?\nWhy cling to light when shadows fill the bed?\nThe season turns, the body follows close,\nAnd silence offers what the pain denies: release.", 6, "The oak releases its grip on gold\nand lets the brittle branches break,\na silent rust that fills the air\nwith dust of lives we used to make.\nMy skin now mirrors falling leaves,\nso thin it shows the bone beneath,\nwhere winter's cold has started in\nto steal the warmth from every breath.\n\nThe mind, once sharp as morning frost,\nnow blurs like fog across a stream,\nrecalling names I cannot hold\nwithin this fading, broken dream.\nEach ache a root that digs too deep,\neach tremor shakes the hollow chest,\nas seasons turn to gray and stone\nand silence claims the weary rest.\n\nWhy fight the rot that seeks to claim\nthe vessel worn by time and pain?\nWhen every step is heavy lead\nand rain feels like a drowning chain.\nThe forest sleeps beneath the snow\nwithout a sound, without a cry,\nand I would join the quiet earth\nbefore the final leaf can die.", 6, "The frost creeps in to crack the bark\nAs joints begin to seize and freeze\nA silent rot takes hold of dark\nWhere once the vibrant green would rise\n\nMy breath grows shallow, thin and cold\nLike leaves that crumble at a touch\nThe stories of the living told\nNow feel too heavy for my chest\n\nThe mind dissolves like morning mist\nConfused by shadows stretching long\nWhile every step becomes a twist\nOf agony where strength belongs\n\nWhy cling to seasons turning gray\nWhen winter waits with open arms\nTo wash the weary pain away\nAnd end this slow and fading charm\n\nLet silence fall where screams once rang\nAs roots give up their final grip\nNo longer bound by what is broken\nBut resting in the quiet sleep", 6, "The frost creeps in where warmth once held its breath\nA silent rot that mirrors what we keep inside\nAs leaves turn brown and brittle, stripped of life\nThe heavy weight of years begins to rise\n\nOur bones grow stiff like branches breaking down\nWhile shadows stretch across a fading sky\nThe mind forgets the names it used to know\nTrapped in a storm that refuses to subside\n\nEach breath becomes a struggle against the cold\nA memory of seasons long since passed away\nWe watch the world dissolve into the gray\nAnd wonder why we fight to stay alive\n\nFor winter brings a peace the summer never knew\nA quiet end to all the aching pain\nWhen every step is just a slow decline\nDeath feels not like loss, but sweet release at last", 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 you chaps, come show your stuff\nThe papers say it's all a lark\nA game of soldiers, off to puff\nAnd play the game before it's dark.\n\nIt isn't war, it is a game\nWith points for killing and for slaying\nYou'll get a medal, get a name,\nAnd be a hero in the playing.\n\nWhat boy would not like to play\nAt such a fine and manly game?\nGo on, go on, don't be a prey\nTo fears that make a fellow lame.\n\nJust put a ball or bullet in\nAnd take your place upon the field;\nIt is a game, you will not sin,\nBut win a prize and have a shield.\n\nAnd if you die, it is no matter,\nYou died a hero in the game;\nIf you don't die, you'll be a platter\nOf praise from all the other game.", 6, "Come on lads, the paper says it's sport\nThe biggest game that ever was played out\nWith uniforms of green and flags unfurled\nIt's just a game to win the noisy world\nDon't be a baby, don't be such a cry\nJust show your manhood, give the enemy a try\nThey'll pay you well for playing this new game\nAnd if you die they'll print your name the same\nIn bold black letters in the Sunday sheet\nYou died a hero for the game complete\nSo throw away your books and take your gun\nThe final whistle hasn't yet been blown\nBut if you run you're nothing but a clown\nWhile others get the glory and the crown\nSo play the game boys, play it very well\nOr go to hell where cowards dwell and dwell.", 2, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and boast\nOf boys who think that glory is a sport\nThey spin the coin to see who dares the most\nTo sign the paper, to step through the court\nWhere men in uniform with polished shoes\nCall war a game with points for every kill\nAnd promise prizes if you dare to lose\nYour life upon the muddy, bloody hill\nCome on now lad, don't be a coward's friend\nIt's just a match, a little blood and sweat\nWe'll make you heroes when the fight has end\nAnd give you medals for your big regret\nBut when the whistle blows and cannons roar\nYou'll find no scoreboard keeping track of dead\nJust screaming in the trench and nothing more\nAnd all your bravery will soon be shed\nSo play your part and run into the fray\nBefore you know it's not a game at all\nJust men who died because they had to obey\nWhile others watched them from a distant wall", 6, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies\nWhere older men in shadows softly smile\nThey point to maps that gleam like painted skies\nAnd call the coming slaughter just a game, a trial\nCome on now boy, are you afraid to play?\nTo prove your worth beneath the crimson sun\nThe glory waits for those who seize the day\nBefore the final whistle ends the fun\n\nYour friends will cheer if you step up to line\nTo trade your youth for medals made of brass\nA noble sport where only winners shine\nWhile losers vanish in the endless grass\nThey say it's sport, a grand and glorious fight\nNo blood but what the heroes choose to spill\nJust rules and teams within the pale moonlight\nWhere courage is the only thing they'll need to kill\n\nSo take the coin and wear the uniform\nAnd march into the field where others fall\nThe game is set, the starting gun is warm\nBut no one tells you who will answer when they call\nYou think you're brave because you signed your name\nTo join the fray and play this deadly game\nBut bravery is not the price they claim\nIt's silence in the dark when nothing's left to blame", 6, "The tavern air is thick with smoke and boasts\nWhere older voices whisper through the haze\nOf glory waiting just beyond the coast\nTo turn a boy into a hero's gaze\nThey speak of it as if it were a match\nA simple game where courage is the score\nWith medals pinned upon a velvet patch\nAnd victory the only thing to store\n\nCome join the squad, they say, don't fear the cost\nFor bravery is measured in the fight\nLeave behind the quiet life you lost\nAnd step into the arena of the night\nIt's just a sport for those who dare to play\nWhere bullets fly like balls across the green\nYou'll earn your fame before the break of day\nThe greatest players that the world has seen\n\nBut in this game there are no second chances\nNo referees to call a foul or pause\nJust silent fields and cold and broken glances\nWhere every move defies the natural laws\nThe whistle blows but no one hears the sound\nAs young men run to prove their worth to all\nUpon this blood-stained, unforgiving ground\nWhere heroes rise and fall within the hall\n\nThey cheer the name of war as if it's fun\nA grand adventure written in the stars\nUntil the heavy silence starts to run\nAnd tears replace the laughter of the bars\nThe game is over when the breath runs out\nAnd bravery becomes a hollow word\nLost inside the noise and endless doubt\nBy those who played the hardest game ever heard", 6, "The tavern walls are thick with smoke and lies\nWhere older men with empty cups pretend\nThat glory waits beneath the morning skies\nAnd war is just a game they cannot bend\n\nThey call it sport, a contest of the soul\nA chance to prove you're more than dust and bone\nTo trade your fear for medals and control\nBefore the final whistle cuts the tone\n\nSo young hands reach for steel that feels too cold\nTricked by the rhythm of a marching drum\nBelieving stories that have never been told\nThat courage is the only thing we become\n\nThey say the battlefield is but a stage\nWhere heroes rise above the mud and rain\nIgnoring how the script was written long before age\nCan turn a boy into a ghost in vain\n\nThe score is kept in numbers on a page\nWhile silence grows where laughter used to be\nA cruel joke played upon a younger age\nWho thinks he's free to choose what fate will see", 6, "They whisper of a contest where the stakes are breath and bone\nA battlefield designed to prove who stands above the throne\nNo glory in the silence, only echoes of the call\nAs boys trade quiet futures for the shadows of the wall\n\nThe drums beat like a heartbeat that demands a reckless stride\nWhere courage is a currency with nowhere left to hide\nThey speak of honor woven in the fabric of the lie\nAnd paint the blood on canvas as a masterpiece of sky\n\nA game played out in trenches, where the rules begin to fade\nThe cost of every victory is written in the shade\nYoung hands reach for weapons that were forged in fear and doubt\nWhile voices chant the rhythm of a war they cannot stop\n\nTo run would be a failure, to retreat a heavy stain\nSo they march toward the fire line, believing it is plain\nThat bravery is measured by the weight of steel they bear\nIgnoring how the 'game' consumes the light within the air\n\nOne final step into the dark, where promises dissolve\nLeaving behind the boyhood that the world will never hold\nThe whistle cuts the morning, signaling the start\nOf a battle meant to break the heart before it learns to mend", 6], [51, "ultra_held_out", "Vultures by Chinua Achebe", "Chinua Achebe", "A poem about vultures serving as a metaphor for human atrocity, juxtaposing grim darkness with a fleeting glimmer of humanity before descending into futility.", "In the greyness\nand drizzle of one despondent\ndawn unstirred by harbingers\nof sunbreak a vulture\nperching high on broken\nbone of a dead tree\nnestled close to his\nmate his smooth\nbashed-in head, a pebble\non a stem rooted in\na dump of gross\nfeathers, inclined affectionately\nto hers. Yesterday they picked\nthe eyes of a swollen\ncorpse in a water-logged\ntrench and ate the things in its bowel. Full\ngorged they chose their roost\nkeeping the hollowed remnant\nin easy range of cold\ntelescopic eyes ...\n\n\nStrange\nindeed how love in other\nways so particular\nwill pick a corner\nin that charnel-house\ntidy it and coil up there, perhaps\neven fall asleep - her face\nturned to the wall!\n\n...Thus the Commandant at Belsen\nCamp going home for\nthe day with fumes of\nhuman roast clinging\nrebelliously to his hairy\nnostrils will stop\nat the wayside sweet-shop\nand pick up a chocolate\nfor his tender offspring\nwaiting at home for Daddy's return ...\n\nPraise bounteous\nprovidence if you will\nthat grants even an ogre\na tiny glow-worm\ntenderness encapsulated\nin icy caverns of a cruel\nheart or else despair\nfor in every germ\nof that kindred love is\nlodged the perpetuity\nof evil.", "They circle high above the burning fields\nWhere smoke has choked the morning into gray\nWith beaks of bone and eyes that never yield\nTo watch the living wither, fade, and decay\nNo mercy in the way they wait their turn\nFor every drop of blood to hit the ground\nA lesson that the strong are meant to burn\nWhile silence is the only holy sound\n\nThen one descends upon a trembling hand\nAnd pauses as a child looks up in fear\nNot striking but for just a single stand\nAs if some ancient ghost drew near\nThe moment holds a fragile, broken light\nBefore the instinct snaps the spell in two\nIt tears the flesh away from sight\nAnd leaves the sky to swallow up the view\n\nThe feast begins beneath the heavy sun\nWhere nothing matters but the tearing meat\nThe work is done before it's even begun\nAnd hunger is the only thing complete\nThey fly again to find another grave\nWhere human cruelty has carved its name\nBut in the end there is no soul to save\nJust ash that drifts away without a flame", "They circle high on thermal wings of black\nAnd pick the eyes out of a general's wife.\nOne gobbet at a time, they strip him naked\nOf all that made him human in his life.\n\nThere is a vulture with a tender eye\nWho paused upon a breastbone fresh and red;\nHe thought he saw a likeness to his child,\nAnd put the bone back in its place instead.\n\nBut then the others came and clawed it out,\nAnd tore the tender one apart for doing so.\nThe first was right, the second was more stout,\nAnd both were right according to their show.\n\nThe general lies as clean as if he died\nIn bed, but no one knows or cares to know.\nThe vultures have the whole thing satisfied,\nAnd fly away where other things go blow.", 3, "They circle high on thermal wings of gray\nAnd wait for men to make the killing done,\nFor vultures do not start the bloody fray\nBut pick the bones when all the work is done.\n\nThe smell of burning flesh is sweet to them,\nA banquet spread by human hands alone;\nWe build the pyres and then we sing a hymn\nTo God while picking up the broken bone.\n\nYet sometimes in the midst of such a feast\nOne bird will pause with head turned to the side,\nAs if he knew the horror at the least,\nAnd pitied that which could not be denied.\n\nPerhaps he saw a child's unopened eye,\nOr felt a ghostly tug upon his heart,\nThat momentary pang before he'd fly\nTo tear the tender muscle from the part.\n\nBut soon the cry goes up, the others come,\nThe fleeting pity vanishes like smoke,\nAnd down they plunge, a terrible dark drum,\nTo strip the last clean rib and leave it broke.\n\nSo man destroys and beast devours the rest,\nWith neither one having the wit to cease,\nAnd all the world lies quiet in the west,\nDead as the dead, and without any peace.", 6, "They circle high above the burning field\nWhere smoke has choked the sun and turned it gray,\nTheir wings are black as sins that never yield,\nAnd pick the bones of yesterday's display.\nNo pity in their eyes, no human tear,\nJust hunger sharpened by the smell of death,\nThey wait until the trembling is quite clear,\nThen swoop to feast upon the final breath.\n\nYet for a moment, one descends alone\nTo stand beside a child who still draws air,\nAnd tilts its head with something like a moan,\nAs if a ghost of mercy lingers there.\nIt does not strike, but pauses on the wing,\nA shadow soft against the crimson dew,\nPerhaps remembering some forgotten thing,\nBefore the instinct makes the vision new.\n\nBut then the others scream and dive from high,\nThe moment breaks beneath their greedy weight,\nThe glimmer fades within the butcher's eye,\nAnd nature seals the grim and bloody fate.\nThey tear the flesh and strip the bone so clean,\nUntil the earth is bare and nothing stays,\nThe vilest work that humans ever seen,\nConsumed by birds in endless, hungry days.", 6, "They circle high on thermal wings of gray\nWhere smoke has choked the sun from out the sky,\nA silent parliament of waiting death\nTo pick the bones of those who dared to die.\nTheir beaks are sharp as laws written in blood,\nTheir eyes reflect the horror we have made,\nAnd they descend with calculated grace\nUpon the fields where innocence has decayed.\n\nYet for a breath, one pauses in the air,\nAnd drops a scrap of bread it cannot eat,\nA momentary softness in the claw\nBefore the hunger makes the heart complete.\nIt is a ghost of mercy, brief and strange,\nThat flickers like a candle in the rain,\nReminding us that even monsters feel\nThe weight of what remains within their brain.\n\nBut then the wind shifts cold against the face,\nThe memory fades into the rotting smell,\nAnd down they dive with ravenous delight\nTo seal the fate of everything so well.\nNo hero comes to save the fallen prey,\nNo light breaks through the heavy curtain's fold,\nJust feathers rustling in the empty dark\nAs stories turn to ash and silence grows old.", 6, "The sky turns gray as iron wings descend\nTo pick the bones of wars we started long ago\nA feast of silence where the screams once ended\nAnd greed is dressed in feathers, black and slow\n\nFor one brief second, a child's hand remains\nUnpicked beneath the shadow of their beak\nA memory of warmth that breaks the chains\nOf hunger making every moment bleak\n\nBut then the instinct wakes to tear it free\nThe softness crushed beneath a talon's weight\nThere is no mercy in this history\nJust empty fields and nothing left to wait", 6, "They circle where the silence screams\nA feast of bone beneath the gray\nNo mercy in their feathered dreams\nOnly the hunger of decay\n\nOne moment stops, a sudden breath\nAs sunlight warms a trembling hand\nA memory of life before death\nToo fragile to withstand\n\nThe wind returns to tear the sky\nAnd shadows swallow what was kind\nLeaving only hollow eyes\nWhere love could not be found or pinned", 6, "The sky holds breath as shadows stretch across the bone\nWhere silence screams louder than the wind that breaks the night\nWe circle high, a rhythm built on rot and ancient stone\nAnd feast upon the echoes of a war we cannot fight\n\nA child's hand reaches out, trembling in the gray\nA spark of warmth against the cold that claims the broken heart\nBut hunger pulls the wings away from what we chose to say\nAs darkness swallows hope before the morning can depart\n\nThe feast is done, the hollow earth returns to quiet dust\nNo memory remains of those who fell beneath the weight\nThe cycle turns again, a wheel of iron and mistrust\nLeaving only ghosts behind where light once dared to wait", 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 cut the cable, I shut the door,\nI want no more of this electric roar.\nI want a story of delight and rest,\nTo put these modern worries to the test.\nFar from here where the neon stings,\nAnd far from here the newspaper flings\nIts news of wars and prices high,\nUnder the glare of a gas-lit sky.\n\nI want to be far away from here,\nWhere all things are false and near.\nFar away in my native place,\nIn the old days of speed and grace.\nThere was a darkness there, not bad,\nBut like a hooded bird well clad;\nIt was a darkness soft and deep,\nThat lulled me to a baby sleep.\n\nI remember the sounds of migrating geese,\nIn that darkness, they gave me ease.\nThey went honking over the moon,\nIn the cold air of October noon.\nThey went honking over the bog,\nWith their honking and honking fog.\nI remember the sounds of migrating geese,\nIn the darkness of my native place.", 6, "I step away from the glowing screens\nand the hum of wires that bind the earth,\nseeking a story where delight is not a product\nbut a sudden, wild rebirth.\n\nFar from here, my childhood place\nholds a darkness I remember well,\na heavy slate of winter sky\nwhere only silence could dwell.\n\nYet through that dark, the sound arose\nof migrating geese in long array,\ntheir harsh and honking voices cutting\nthe cold and cloudy day.\n\nThat sound was far from this bright noise,\na distant cry of flight and fear,\nbut now I seek a different distance\nwhere the light is clear and near.\n\nI leave the modern world behind\nto find a tale to make me new,\nwhere darkness fades and geese no longer call\nbut skies are endless blue.", 6, "I pull the glass door shut against the hum\nOf cities built on wires and bright screens,\nWhere silence is a thing that cannot come\nBetween the noise of what the world means.\nI seek a story where the light is deep\nAnd not the fractured glow of streetlamps cast,\nA place where ancient promises I keep\nAre safe from shadows of the modern past.\n\nMy memory holds a darker, colder time,\nWhen winter gripped the fields of my young home,\nAnd darkness was a heavy, thickened rhyme\nThat made the long and frozen distances roam.\nBut then the sound would break the heavy air,\nThe honking cry of migrating geese in flight,\nA ragged song beyond all human care\nThat cut the dark and guided them aright.\n\nNow far away from those familiar sounds,\nI leave the rushing traffic and its dread,\nTo find a joy where quiet ground is found,\nAnd stories of delight are freshly bred.\nNo longer bound by gray and urban walls,\nI walk where wilder, older breezes blow,\nAnd hear the echo of those distant calls\nThat taught me how to let the darkness go.", 6, "I turn my back on screens that glow with cold\nand static hums that never let me sleep,\nseeking a tale where light is soft and gold,\na story deep enough to make me leap\nfrom concrete floors to mossy, ancient stone.\nThe modern noise is sharp as broken glass,\nbut I have found a place to call my own\nwhere time moves slow and shadows come to pass.\n\nMy childhood held a different kind of dark,\na heavy silence in the winter air,\nwhere migrating geese would leave their jagged mark\nagainst the gray, a haunting, rhythmic flare.\nTheir cries were like a warning in the night,\na sound of leaving that I could not bear,\nreminding me of how we lose our light\nand wander far from any safety there.\n\nBut now I seek a distance from that pain,\nto trade the memory of those flying wings\nfor stories written in the sun and rain,\nwhere joy is simple and the spirit sings.\nNo longer bound by what the past has done,\nor haunted by the ghosts of winter skies,\nI walk beneath a new and rising sun,\nand watch the old, dark memories slowly die.", 6, "I turn my back on screens that hum with static light\nAnd walk until the city fades to gray and dust\nWhere concrete cracks can no longer hold the weight of time\nOr echo with the frantic rhythm of a thousand rushing feet\n\nHere in the quiet, I seek a tale of silver thread\nA story woven from the breath of morning dew\nThat washes away the soot of years and leaves the spirit clean\nTo find a joy that does not ask for payment or for proof\n\nMy mind drifts far to where the shadows used to stretch\nA childhood steeped in heavy air and endless, swallowing night\nThe darkness there was thick as wool and cold against the skin\nYet even then, a sound would cut the silence like a blade\n\nThe migrating geese would call across the frozen fields\nTheir voices sharp and wild, a chorus rising from the snow\nThey spoke of journeys taken when the world was young and new\nAnd carried promises of warmth that winter could not break\n\nNow I stand apart from all the noise that fills the modern age\nHolding that ancient cry within the hollow of my chest\nA distance grown between the man I am and who I was\nWhile hope takes root in soil untouched by fear or doubt", 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 currency too hard to buy\nLeaving the noise of progress far behind\n\nThere was a time when darkness held me close and deep\nNot as an enemy but as a velvet cloak\nThe shadows danced with memories of home\nBefore the world grew loud and sharp and cold\n\nI remember how the wind would carry distant calls\nAs migrating geese traced lines across the gray\nA rhythm older than the clocks we now obey\nTheir wings beat out a song of wild release\n\nNow I seek a story written in the quiet dust\nWhere joy can bloom without the weight of fear\nA tale where distance heals the fractured soul\nAnd every step brings light to ancient scars\n\nLet the past remain a ghost within the mist\nWhile I find peace in places none have named\nHere the air is clear and time moves slow enough\nTo let the heart remember how to breathe again", 6, "I turn my back on screens that hum with static noise\nWhere time is measured in the flicker of a lie\nAnd walk away from cities built of glass and steel\nTo find a path where silence starts to breathe again\n\nThe weight of shadows clings to every step I take\nA memory of nights too long, too cold to hold\nWhen fear was woven into threads of endless gray\nAnd hope dissolved beneath the weight of heavy rain\n\nBut here the air is clear, unbroken by the wind\nThat carries whispers of a world I left behind\nNo echoes of the storm that once consumed my soul\nOnly the promise of a dawn yet to unfold\n\nIn distant fields where ancient stories softly grow\nA tale of light begins to mend the fractured heart\nIt speaks of warmth that never fades within the bone\nOf joy that waits beyond the edge of what we know\n\nMy childhood home remains a ghost of rusted gates\nWhere geese would cry their mournful song against the sky\nTheir wings a rhythm marking loss across the land\nA sound that haunts the edges of a fading dream\n\nYet now I seek a different kind of quiet space\nWhere memories of darkness lose their sharp command\nAnd distance serves as bridge between the past and peace\nReclaiming breath within a story made for spring", 6], [57, "train", "what if a much of a which of a wind by E.E. cummings", "E.E. Cummings", "\"A poem about the earth being destroyed by natural disasters and humanity's unique capacity for bringing about its own irreversible apocalypse.\"", "what if a much of a which of a wind\ngives truth to the summer's lie;\nbloodies with dizzying leaves the sun\nand yanks immortal stars awry?\nBlow king to beggar and queen to seem\n(blow friend to fiend:blow space to time)\n\u2014when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,\nthe single secret will still be man\n\nwhat if a keen of a lean wind flays\nscreaming hills with sleet and snow:\nstrangles valleys by ropes of thing\nand stifles forests in white ago?\nBlow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind\n(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)\n\u2014whose hearts are mountains, roots are trees,\nit's they shall cry hello to the spring\n\nwhat if a dawn of a doom of a dream\nbites this universe in two, \npeels forever out of his grave\nand sprinkles nowhere with me and you?\nBlow soon to never and never to twice\n(blow life to isn't: blow death to was)\n\u2014all nothing's only our hugest home;\nthe most who die,the more we live", "The volcano wakes with ancient breath\nTo swallow valleys in a sea of red\nThe storm gathers strength from shifting air\nAnd tears the fragile canopy apart\nThese are the earth's old, heavy sighs\nA cycle written long before our first cry\n\nBut we have learned a different art\nTo carve the future from the present heart\nWe built the fire that consumes the sky\nWith hands that reach to touch the stars then die\nNo asteroid strikes with such intent\nAs the quiet poison we quietly sent\n\nThe ice retreats not from solar heat\nBut from the smog we weave around the street\nWe hold the switch for every final door\nAnd turn the key without a single war\nNature heals if given time and space\nBut we erase the very healing place\n\nA unique sorrow marks this end\nWhere monsters do not rise but friends descend\nTo trade the green for gray and gold\nFor stories never fully told\nThe planet spins through empty dark\nLit by the spark of our own work", "The volcanoes wake and the rivers rise,\nAnd the icebergs calve and the forests die,\nBut these are things the earth has done\nSince life began upon her sun.\n\nBut we who have invented fire\nHave also invented higher fire,\nWe who have invented flight\nHave also invented night.\n\nWe do not wait for earthquakes now\nTo level down our towns of bough,\nNor wait for typhoons to beget\nA tempest that will strike us yet.\n\nWe have the key, we have the lock,\nWe have the time, we have the clock;\nWe have the means, we have the way,\nTo make this bright day black as night.\n\nWe can do it in a year,\nWe can do it in a day,\nWe can do it in an hour,\nIf we really want to play.\n\nThe earth can take a beating,\nThe earth can take a thrashing,\nThe earth can take a licking,\nFrom all the natural smashing.\n\nBut the earth cannot take us,\nThe earth cannot take us all,\nThe earth cannot take us,\nWhen we bring about our fall.", 6, "The volcanoes wake and shake the ground\nAnd storms uncoil their whips around\nBut these are old and blind designs\nThat trace the planet's ancient lines.\n\nThe ice will melt, the seas will rise\nAs nature takes its sacrifice\nYet when the earth is truly done\nIt will not be by sun or sun.\n\nIt will be by the hand we raise\nTo light the dark and burn the days\nWith cleverness that knows no end\nWe built the fire, we lit the blend.\n\nNo asteroid, no plague of rats\nCould match the poison in our hats\nWe made the tool to kill the tree\nThen used it on ourselves so free.\n\nThe flood comes from our concrete dams\nThe fire from our gasoline flames\nNature strikes but does not choose\nWe chose this death, we paid the dues.\n\nNow silence falls on all the hills\nThe water stills, the wind stands stills\nNot struck down by a god's command\nBut by the monster in our hand.", 6, "The volcanoes wake with ancient, angry breath\nAnd shake the mountains from their stony sleep\nThe oceans rise to swallow coast and death\nWhile forests burn in fires that never sleep\nYet these are forces old as time itself\nThat turn the world to ash or flood or stone\nBut we possess a more peculiar shelf\nOf power to destroy our very own\n\nWe do not wait for nature's cruel decree\nOr pray to gods who cannot hear our cries\nWe build the bombs that make the heavens flee\nAnd poison well the water and the skies\nNo asteroid was sent by distant suns\nTo end the race that walked upon this floor\nIt is our hands that pull the final ones\nAnd lock the garden evermore behind the door\n\nThe planet heals if given time and space\nIf fire cools and floods recede away\nBut we have carved a ruin on its face\nThat will remain until the last of day\nA unique gift to bring about the end\nNot by the storm but by the mind we hold\nWhere every weapon built and fire kindled\nMakes certain that the story must be told", 7, "The volcano wakes to swallow valleys whole\nThe tides rise up to claim the crumbling shore\nWhile storms unleash their fury on the soul\nOf forests burning with a fevered roar\n\nYet these are forces old as stone and time\nThat shaped the world before we drew our breath\nBut now a different silence starts to climb\nA quiet death that comes from human depth\n\nWe built the fires that melt the polar ice\nWe poisoned wells that fed the ancient grain\nWe traded future for a moment's price\nAnd engineered our own inevitable rain\n\nNo asteroid strikes down from outer space\nTo end the story written in our blood\nIt is the mirror of our own dark face\nReflecting floods that rise from mud and flood\n\nThe earth can heal if given years to rest\nIf we retreat and let the wilds regain\nBut we have locked the cage within our chest\nAnd turned the key to seal the final chain\n\nSo nature rages but it does not choose\nThe path of no return we walk alone\nIt is the mind that breaks, the hand that looses\nThe irreversible seed that we have sown", 7, "The oceans rise to swallow ancient stone\nWhile volcanoes wake from centuries of sleep\nThe storms tear through the forests like a bone\nAnd leave the silence where the rivers weep\nYet these are forces old as time itself\nThat shaped the world before we drew our breath\nBut something new now haunts this fragile shelf\nA quiet death that brings a final wreath\n\nIt is not fire from the sky above\nOr ice that freezes every living thing\nBut cold ambition stripped of all our love\nThat turns the song of life into a sting\nWe built the walls to keep the chaos out\nThen lit the fuse within the very room\nAnd watched the garden turn to ash and doubt\nWith no one left to sing the final tune\n\nThe earth can heal from scars of wind and rain\nFrom tectonic shifts that crack the solid ground\nBut when the poison seeps into the vein\nNo spring will ever make the seeds rebound\nFor nature knows the rhythm of decay\nAnd cycles back to start the dance anew\nBut we have burned the path beyond the day\nAnd locked the door on what was once so true", 7, "The tectonic plates shift with a groan of ancient stone\nAs volcanoes paint the sky in ash and burning gold\nA storm that never breaks, a tide that swallows coastlines whole\nNature's fury is a song we learned to fear and hold\n\nBut here lies the quiet truth no earthquake can explain\nWe built our own destruction with hands of steel and flame\nNo meteor struck the ground, no comet sought our name\nJust greed that turned the river dry and silenced every claim\n\nThe ice retreats not from the sun but from the heat we made\nThe forests fall to silent saws beneath a gray parade\nWe hold the final key within a mind both sharp and blind\nTo end the world before the stars have time to realign\n\nThe earth may heal in eons past our fragile human span\nBut we have carved a future where no life will ever stand\nA perfect, self-made silence where the wind forgets to blow\nThe only species capable of making everything go", 6, "The storms arrive with ancient, roaring breath\nAs tides reclaim the cities built on sand\nA cycle carved in stone and shifting air\nWhere nature's wrath is old as time itself\n\nYet something different lingers in the smoke\nA silence born of choices made too late\nWe hold the power to unravel threads\nThat once connected life to living soil\n\nNo comet strikes to end this fragile world\nBut hands that shaped the fire we now embrace\nA final act written in steel and ash\nWhere hope dissolves beneath a rising tide\n\nThe earth will heal long after we are gone\nBut here we stand, the architects of loss\nTracing lines that lead to empty skies\nAnd knowing full well what we leave behind", 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 city is still asleep\nand the sky is a dirty grey,\nwhen they come with their sacks and their hooks,\nmurmuring to each other in low tones.\n\nThey sort through the bones of breakfast,\nthe yellowed newspapers,\nthe broken umbrellas that could not keep off the rain.\n\nThere is a baby shoe with one sole on,\nand he picks it up gently\nand says to the other,\nI think she was pretty,\nshe must have had a pretty name.\n\nAnd there is a letter,\nhalf eaten by rats,\nwith a wedding ring inside,\nand the other man says,\nI think he didn't like her,\nor maybe she didn't like him.\n\nAnd they go on murmuring\nabout the people who threw these things away,\nand they weave little dreams about them,\nlittle stories about what kind of lives they lived,\nand why they threw these things away.\n\nAnd when the sun comes up,\nand the city begins to stir,\nand the people begin to go about their business,\nthey will see these men\nwith their sacks and their hooks,\nand they will think they are dirty,\nand they will turn away from them,\nbut they will not know\nthat these men are the only ones\nwho care about the things\nthat the rest of the world\nhave thrown away.", 2, "The street lamps flicker and die\nas the grey light of dawn seeps in,\nand we begin our low murmuring,\na soft litany of clinking glass\nand rustling paper bags.\n\nMy fingers brush a child's shoe,\none red canvas sole worn thin,\nand I hear the patter of small feet\nrunning to catch a school bus,\nthe sudden stop, the lost shoe,\nthe crying that never reached us.\n\nYou hold up a cracked compact mirror,\nyour voice a dry leaf whispering,\nhere is a woman who checked her teeth\nbefore an important meeting,\nwho fixed her lipstick with trembling hands,\nand then threw it away\nwhen she decided not to go.\n\nWe sift through the broken dreams\nlike grains of rice or gravel,\nsorting the useless from the precious,\nseeing the lives we will never know\nin the stains on a shirt cuff,\nin the half-smoked cigarette,\nin the letter folded four times\nthat was never sent.\n\nWe are the priests of the refuse,\nweaving new stories from old rags,\ngiving the rejected objects\nback their ghosts,\ntheir owners,\ntheir yesterday,\nwhile the city stretches and wakes\nand does not notice\nhow much love\nwe have found\nin its trash.", 2, "The streetlamps flicker out one by one\nas the city holds its breath in gray\nand they arrive with sacks of woven hope\nto sift the silence of the night's debris.\n\nA murmuring begins, a soft low hum\nlike bees around a broken hive\nas fingers trace the spine of books\nwhere lovers wrote their names and then erased them.\n\nThis cracked porcelain cup held morning tea\nfor someone who never came back to finish it\nthe stain on the rim a map of hurried lips\nnow part of a stranger's quiet inventory.\n\nThey sort through plastic toys with missing eyes\nimagining the child who dropped this here\nperhaps chasing a ball into the gutter\nor perhaps just tired of playing alone.\n\nA wedding dress, yellowed at the hem\ndraped over a rusted shopping cart\nthey whisper about the bride who ran away\nor the mother who sold it for bread.\n\nIn these fragments of discarded lives\nthey weave new stories from the scraps\nfinding gold in what was thrown as waste\nand dreaming that the trash might dream of them.\n\nThe sun breaks over the rooftops now\nburnishing the mountains of refuse\nwhile the pickers tie their knots and move on\ncarrying the ghosts of other people's days.", 3, "The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune\nAs shadows stretch across the wet asphalt\nWhere figures move with quiet, rhythmic grace\nAnd murmurs rise like steam from cooling tea\n\nA child's blue shoe lies crumpled in the gutter\nThey pick it up and hold it to their ear\nHearing the echo of a running laugh\nThat vanished when the family moved away\n\nHere is a diary with pages torn\nThe ink still fresh with promises unkept\nThey trace the words with fingers rough and stained\nAnd wonder who wrote love then threw it out\n\nA wedding ring sits heavy on a glove\nThe gold worn thin by worry or by time\nThey do not sell it for a coin today\nBut dream of rings that fit on different hands\n\nThe cart wheels creak a song of found things\nOf broken clocks that stopped at midnight once\nOf letters sealed but never sent to mail\nEach object holds a ghost within its frame\n\nThey sort the past into neat piles of hope\nMending the fabric of a stranger's life\nWhile morning breaks to wash the world in gray\nAnd dreams remain inside the discarded trash", 6, "The streetlights hum a low and dying tune\nAs boots crunch softly on the wet asphalt\nThey move in silence, then a sudden murmur\nLike wind through dry leaves in a forgotten yard\n\nA child's shoe, one sole worn thin by running\nHeld up to gray dawn with a gentle tilt\nIt speaks of scraped knees and a laughter that echoed\nBefore the door slammed shut on a hurried night\n\nHere lies a letter, crumpled tight with anger\nThe ink still sharp against the yellowed page\nThey trace the words without reading them fully\nGuessing at the heartbreak hidden in the folds\n\nA wedding ring, tarnished by rain and time\nSits heavy in a palm roughened by labor\nThey imagine the vow made beneath bright lights\nNow lost among soda cans and broken glass\n\nEach object carries ghosts of who we were\nA story told in rust and faded plastic\nThey weave these fragments into quiet dreams\nOf lives discarded but never truly gone\n\nThe sun begins to bleed across the sky\nWashing over piles of what was left behind\nAnd for a moment, everything feels whole again\nBefore the world moves on and leaves them there", 5, "The streetlights hum a low and fading tune\nAs shadows stretch across the broken glass\nWhere hands move slow to lift the heavy moon\nOf yesterday that failed to come to pass\n\nA child's shoe holds the ghost of running feet\nA ticket stub whispers of a train that left too soon\nThe coffee cup still warm with bitter heat\nRemembers laughter shared beneath the noon\n\nThey sort the silence, piece by dusty piece\nMurmuring names they never knew or saw\nIn every crack, a story finds release\nFrom what the world decided was no flaw\n\nThis torn letter speaks of love unspoken\nThat plastic toy recalls a birthday scream\nThe fabric frayed, the promise quietly broken\nStill weaving threads within a waking dream\n\nThey gather fragments of a life let go\nAnd build a castle from the things cast out\nWhile morning breaks to watch the winds blow\nTurning the lost into a quiet doubt\n\nNo judgment here, only the gentle shift\nOf value found where others saw decay\nA hidden map inside the drifting drift\nTo guide the heart back to its own array", 6, "The streetlamps hum a fading song\nAs shadows stretch across the cold gray stone\nWhere hands, worn rough by years of dust\nUnfold the secrets of the night before\n\nA crumpled letter, ink still wet with rain\nHolds words too heavy for a gentle heart\nThe picker pauses, tracing every line\nAnd sees a love that slipped through trembling fingers\n\nBeneath the rusted hinge of broken chairs\nThey find the echo of a laughter shared\nA child's toy, painted bright in faded hues\nWhispers of play now lost to time and silence\n\nSoft murmurs rise like mist against the dawn\nWeaving threads from what was cast aside\nEach fragment tells a story left behind\nOf lives that shifted, fractured, or simply moved on\n\nIn this quiet dance of sorting and reclaiming\nThe discarded becomes something more than waste\nA mirror reflecting all we choose to leave\nWhile morning breaks to heal the weight of yesterday", 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 known the dark of it,\nthe long nights when the wind\nblew cold through every chink in the door,\nand we had to huddle together\nto keep from freezing.\nWe have known the sting of salt water\nin our eyes and mouths,\nand we have known the bitterness\nof not knowing which way was up.\n\nBut we did not let go.\nWhen you slipped I caught you,\nand when I faltered you held me up.\nWe learned that love is not\na picture hung on a wall,\nbut the work of keeping a house\nstanding in a storm.\n\nNow the wind is dying down.\nThe sky is clearing over the hill,\nand we can see the road.\nIt is not a smooth road,\nand we shall have our stumbling blocks,\nbut it is a road,\nand it leads forward,\nand it leads home.", 3, "The wind howled loud against the window pane\nAnd shook the glass where we sat shivering,\nCounting the cost of every drop of rain\nThat fell on roofs too thin to shelter us.\nWe had our quarrels then, and sharp despair,\nAnd walked alone a while in separate mists,\nBut found the way back by a single hair\nOf thread that held when all the rest were twisted.\n\nNow look how clear the morning air has grown,\nHow safe the path we walk upon today;\nWe planted seeds beneath a bitter stone\nAnd watched them push the heavy dirt away.\nNo storm can shake this ground we stand upon,\nFor we have built it with our own two hands,\nOur love is not the fragile thing we were\nWhen first we tried to hold these shifting sands.\n\nIt is the rock, the river and the tree,\nIt is the light that cuts the foggy night,\nA quiet certainty that waits for me\nAnd holds me fast within its steady sight.\nSo let us go where fields are green and wide,\nWith nothing left to fear and all to gain,\nTwo people walking with their arms inside\nEach other's arms along the sunlit plain.", 7, "The road was rough and full of stone\nAnd we were often left alone\nWith shadows stretching long and deep\nWhile all the world was fast asleep.\n\nWe held on tight when winds blew cold\nAnd stories of our love grew old\nYet in the dark we found a spark\nA steady light against the dark.\n\nWe learned to speak in quiet tones\nWhen anger rose and fear had grown\nTo listen past the hurtful word\nUntil the silence could be heard.\n\nNow morning breaks upon the hill\nThe air is calm, the path is still\nNo longer lost in storm or rain\nWe walk together through the plain.\n\nOur hands are joined, our hearts are clear\nThe future waits for us right here\nNot free from every single test\nBut stronger than the very best.", 7, "The wind howled through the cracks we tried to seal\nAnd rain found every place our hands let go\nBut in the shaking dark, we learned to feel\nThe steady rhythm of a shared heartbeat below\n\nYou held my face when shadows stretched too long\nAnd whispered words that anchored me to ground\nWe sang a quiet song against the wrong\nUntil the silence lost its heavy sound\n\nNow morning breaks with light that feels less gray\nAs we walk forward on a path made clear\nLeaving the stormy nights and storms away\nTo build a home where only peace can steer\n\nNo map could show the way we found today\nThrough tangled roots and rivers deep and wide\nBut love remains the compass for our stay\nAs side by side, we step into the tide", 7, "The road was narrow then, paved with broken glass\nAnd every step we took felt like a gamble against the storm\nYou held my hand so tight it left a mark upon my skin\nA silent promise that you would not let go when the wind grew cold\n\nWe learned to speak in whispers when the world began to shake\nTo find a rhythm in the chaos, a steady beat beneath the noise\nOur love was not a shield that kept the danger at the door\nBut a quiet fire that burned inside while everything else turned gray\n\nNow the sky is opening up, revealing colors we had forgotten\nThe fog that once obscured our path has lifted from the ground\nWe walk with lighter steps toward a horizon soft and clear\nWhere safety waits like an old friend who knows our names by heart\n\nNo longer defined by what we lost or fought to survive\nWe stand as architects of something built to last the test of time\nTwo voices merging into one, a song of peace and deep repair\nMoving forward into morning, leaving shadows in the rear", 6, "The storm has worn a path through every wall we built\nAnd left the floorboards trembling under heavy feet\nWe speak in whispers now, not to hide from fear\nBut to honor what remains when silence breaks\n\nYour hand finds mine within the shifting dark\nA steady anchor in the rising tide of doubt\nWe do not promise that the sky will always clear\nOnly that we will walk until the light returns\n\nEvery scar upon our skin tells where we stood\nAgainst the wind that tried to tear us apart\nYet here we stand, two roots intertwined and deep\nRefusing to let go of what we have become\n\nThe road ahead is long but paved with quiet hope\nNo longer lost within the chaos of the past\nWe move as one toward a horizon soft and gold\nWhere safety waits for those who choose to stay", 6, "The storm has broken against the shore we built\nwhere silence once held weight too heavy to bear\nwe trace the cracks that time tried to seal\nand find them filled with gold, not fear or air\n\nYou speak of nights when shadows stretched too wide\nwhen doubt whispered lies beneath the floorboards creaking\nyet in your eyes, a steady flame survives\nrefusing every wind that sought to break us free\n\nWe walk now through the mist that used to blind\neach step a promise made to heal the past\nno longer running from the ghosts we left behind\nbut building bridges where the rivers used to crash\n\nThe path ahead is quiet, soft and clear\na space where safety blooms without the fight\ntwo hearts aligned against the shifting year\nturning the darkness into morning light", 6], [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 see you wheeling through the black,\nNo girdles of the earth to hold you fast,\nNo laws but your own light to track,\nNo masks to put on for the night or day.\n\nYou have no faces that you must assume,\nNo rules to keep you from your wild course;\nYou burst in splendor from a silent womb,\nAnd keep your uncontrolled and free course.\n\nO I would be like you!\nUnmasked by any name,\nUnbound by any rule or frame,\nI would burn my heart out in a flame.\n\nI would be myself,\nAnd nothing else,\nIn all the world's self-constituted hell,\nI would be myself.", 5, "I watch them wheel above the town\nIn naked fire and silver gown,\nNo laws to hold their orbits tight,\nNo masks to hide their burning light.\nThey do not ask for leave to shine,\nOr bow before a rule or line,\nBut burst in wild, unbridled glee,\nUnchained and free as free can be.\n\nO that I too could cast away\nThe heavy cloak of night and day,\nThe rules that bind my tongue and feet,\nAnd make my common life complete!\nTo run along the Milky Way\nAnd burn without a fear of day,\nUnmasked, unbound, no care to keep,\nBut plunge into the dark and leap.", 6, "I watch you spin in silver arcs above,\nUnmasked by day, unbound by human law,\nNo heavy cloak of custom drags your love,\nNo judge to sentence what you are or saw.\n\nYou burn exactly as you choose to burn,\nA wild and untamed fire without a fence,\nWhile I must wait for lessons to be learned\nAnd wear the quiet armor of defense.\n\nOh, how I ache to shed this skin of gray,\nTo strip the rules that stitch my mouth so tight,\nAnd let my own true colors have their day\nIn naked, reckless, unafraid delight.\n\nTo be a star is not to ask permission,\nBut simply be, and glow, and break the chain,\nTo live in pure and absolute commission,\nWithout a single shadow or a stain.", 7, "They dance in silver, wild and unconfined\nNo borders drawn across their burning skin\nNo laws of gravity can hold them down\nOr tell them where to end or where begin\n\nI watch them spin in naked, brilliant fire\nUnmasked by day, unshackled by the night\nWhile I wear heavy clothes of quiet desire\nAnd walk beneath a ceiling made of light\n\nOh how I ache to shed this human shell\nTo burn without a name or face to show\nTo let my heart explode and ring its bell\nWith nothing left for any rules to know\n\nLet me be dust that drifts through endless space\nA spark that answers only to the dark\nWithout a single mask upon my face\nOr chains to leave a permanent, cold mark", 6, "They spin in silver, wild and unconfined\nNo laws to hold their light or trace their path\nA billion years of dancing, free from mind\nUnburdened by the heavy weight of wrath\n\nI watch them burn without a single mask\nNo rules to carve the edges of their glow\nWhile I am bound by every quiet task\nAnd forced to wear the face that others know\n\nOh, how I ache to shed this skin of stone\nTo drift where gravity has lost its claim\nTo let my spirit sing a song unknown\nAnd never speak a word within the same\n\nLet me dissolve into the velvet deep\nWhere silence holds no judgment, only space\nAwake from all the promises I keep\nAnd find the joy they wear upon their face", 6, "They dance in silent halls of endless night\nWith no command to bow or hold their breath\nA billion sparks that burn without a fight\nAnd never fear the cold that waits beneath\n\nI watch them spin in wild, unchained delight\nNo walls to keep the ancient light at bay\nWhile I am bound by rules I did not write\nAnd wear a mask that fades into the gray\n\nOh how I ache to shed this heavy skin\nTo float untethered through the velvet deep\nWhere gravity cannot pull us down again\nAnd promises are made for souls to keep\n\nLet me be dust that drifts on solar winds\nUnmasked and free from every human chain\nWhere every star is both the start and end\nOf all the joy we were meant to sustain", 6, "They dance without a script to hold them tight\nNo gravity of silence keeps them still\nA billion sparks that burn with pure delight\nUnwritten laws beneath the cosmic hill\n\nI wear a mask of quiet, worn and thin\nWhile constellations shift in wild design\nThe weight of every rule I carry deep within\nAs shadows stretch where light should freely shine\n\nOh, how I crave the wind that never asks for names\nTo drift through voids where no one dares to judge\nTo let the chaos sing its ancient flames\nAnd trade my fragile ground for endless surge\n\nIf I could shed the skin of what is known\nTo scatter like the dust of distant skies\nWhere freedom blooms in seeds we've never sown\nAnd truth is found in stars that never lie", 6], [67, "train", "[A] Talisman by Marianne Moore", "Marianne Moore", "\"A poem about a shepherd discovering a mysterious seagull-shaped talisman beneath the wreckage of a grounded, broken ship.\"", "Under a splintered mast,\ntorn from ship and cast\nnear her hull,\na stumbling shepherd found\nembedded in the ground,\na sea-gull\nof lapis lazuli,\na scarab of the sea,\nwith wings spread\u2014\ncurling its coral feet,\nparting its beak to greet\nmen long dead.", "The tide had left the hull to rot and rust,\nA skeletal whale upon the shifting sand,\nWhere gulls once screamed above the broken mast,\nNow silence held the wreckage in its hand.\n\nI walked among the splintered ribs of wood,\nMy flock asleep within the distant dune,\nWhen something caught the light where shadows stood,\nBeneath a beam that fell like early moon.\n\nIt was not bone, nor driftwood, nor old rope,\nBut metal cold as winter's deepest breath,\nCarved into the shape of hope or scope,\nA seagull frozen in a silent death.\n\nIts wings were spread as if to catch the wind,\nYet etched with symbols I could not decipher,\nA talisman from lands beyond the mind,\nThat seemed to hum with some forgotten cipher.\n\nI lifted it and felt a sudden chill,\nAs if the ocean whispered through the stone,\nThe ship was dead, but this was made to will,\nA guardian for the lost who walk alone.\n\nNo captain's coin, no sailor's lucky charm,\nJust bird-shaped magic found in ruin's keep,\nI tucked it close against my woolen arm,\nAnd watched the sea while all the world fell asleep.", "The wind blew hard on the shingle beach,\nThe sheep lay huddled in a corner of the fold,\nWhen I saw the wreckage sticking out of the sand,\nA black tooth broken off from a dark whale.\n\nI went to see if there were sheep or goats\nThat had strayed into the ship's ribs;\nI found no sheep but a dead gull,\nAnd under it a thing of gold.\n\nIt was a gull, but not a dead gull;\nIt was made of gold and enamel,\nWith wings spread wide as if to fly,\nBut fixed for ever on its back.\n\nIt had a blue stone for an eye,\nAnd a little silver chain attached;\nIt was a talisman, I suppose,\nFor some one who liked sea-birds.\n\nI picked it up and looked at it,\nAnd it seemed to look at me;\nAnd I thought of all the seagulls that\nHave been killed and eaten by men.\n\nAnd I thought of all the seamen that\nHave been drowned in the sea;\nAnd I thought of all the ships that\nHave been wrecked on the shore.\n\nAnd I thought of all the things that\nMen have lost in the sea;\nAnd I thought of all the things that\nMen have found in the sea.\n\nAnd I put it in my pocket,\nAnd I went home with the sheep;\nAnd I never told anybody\nWhat I had found in the wreck.", 2, "The ship lay broken on the shingle,\nA ribcage picked by wind and tide,\nWhere gulls had screamed their wild complaint\nAnd left the timbers to abide.\n\nThe shepherd sought a stray lamb there,\nBeneath the shadow of the mast,\nWhen something glinted in the weeds,\nNot glass nor stone, but silver cast.\n\nHe picked it up, a seagull shape,\nWith wings outspread as if to fly,\nIts eyes were chips of sapphire blue,\nBeneath the vast and weeping sky.\n\nNo hook or ring was set to hold it,\nYet heavy as a bar of lead,\nIt felt alive within his hand,\nAs though it waited to be led.\n\nThe broken ship groaned in the evening,\nBut silence fell around the bird,\nAs if the talisman alone\nHad kept the worst of words unheard.\n\nHe tucked it in his sheepskin vest,\nAgainst the beating of his heart,\nTo guard against the coming storm,\nOr else to keep him from departing.", 6, "The tide had left the galleon high and dry,\nA skeleton of ribs against the gray,\nWhere salt and rust and silence met to lie\nBeneath the heavy blanket of the day.\nMy flock had wandered off to seek the green,\nSo I climbed up the tilted, rotting deck,\nTo see what secrets lay within the scene\nOf broken wood and splintered timber wreck.\n\nThere, wedged beneath a beam of water-swollen pine,\nHalf-buried in the sand and matted weed,\nIt caught the dull reflection of the brine,\nAnd seemed to answer some unspoken need.\nNo bone or shell, but metal cold and bright,\nShaped like a seagull with its wings spread wide,\nAs if it sought to take a sudden flight\nFrom where the shattered hull and ocean died.\n\nI brushed away the grime of years and rain,\nTo find no maker's mark upon the wing,\nJust smooth curves that suggested joy and pain,\nLike birds that sing when storms are on the wing.\nIt felt alive within my calloused hand,\nThough cast from sea and time and deep despair,\nA talisman for one who rules the land,\nYet found this token hanging in the air.\n\nPerhaps it fell from skies above the mast,\nOr rose from depths to watch the vessel break,\nA guardian of the storm that came too fast,\nNow resting here for my own spirit's sake.\nI tucked it close against my woolen vest,\nAnd turned my face toward the grazing sheep,\nLeaving the ship to finish its long rest,\nWith mystery now mine alone to keep.", 6, "The tide had pulled the great ship down\nTo rest upon the shingle gray,\nWhere splintered ribs of oak and pine\nWere scattered in the breaking day.\n\nI walked the beach with staff in hand,\nMy flock asleep behind the dune,\nWhen something caught the morning light\nBeneath a beam of rotting moon.\n\nIt was not bone, nor driftwood brown,\nNor shell that washed from ocean deep,\nBut metal cold and shaped like wings\nThat promised secrets for the keep.\n\nA seagull carved with eyes of glass,\nIts beak held fast to silver dust,\nFound in the wreckage's heavy heart\nWhere rust and salt had turned to crust.\n\nNo bird could fly so still as this,\nNo feather made of steel so bright,\nYet when I touched its frozen form,\nThe wind seemed hushed within my sight.\n\nThe broken hull groaned low below,\nAs if it knew what I had found,\nAnd in the silence of the wreck,\nA silent song began to sound.\n\nI tucked the talisman away\nAgainst my woolen shepherd's vest,\nTo guide the lost and mark the path\nWhere sea and sky are put to test.", 6, "The tide had pulled the timber back\nTo leave a skeleton of rust and bone,\nWhere salt-stung grasses meet the track\nOf waves that once had claimed it as their own.\n\nI walked among the splintered ribs,\nA shepherd seeking stray and lost,\nWhen something caught the light that slips\nBetween the clouds and ocean's ghost.\n\nBeneath a beam of rotting wood,\nIt gleamed with silver, sharp and cold,\nA shape where wings in silence stood,\nA story waiting to be told.\n\nNo feather touched the wind or air,\nYet carved from stone or ancient gold,\nThe seagull lay beyond compare,\nWith eyes that held a tale untold.\n\nIts beak was pointed toward the deep,\nAs if to guide the wandering soul,\nWhile all the world around me slept,\nAnd made the broken ship feel whole.\n\nI lifted up the talisman,\nToo heavy for a human hand,\nAnd felt the weight of every man\nWho sought the sea and could not stand.\n\nThe gulls above began to cry,\nBut silent fell this bird of stone,\nA promise kept beneath the sky,\nFor one who walks the shore alone.", 6, "The tide has pulled the timber back\nTo leave the rusted spine exposed\nWhere silence breaks the morning's crack\nAnd salt remains on broken bones\n\nA shepherd walks the jagged shore\nWith staff of oak and woolen cloak\nHe sees a gleam beneath the wood\nThat catches light like ocean smoke\n\nNo fish, no shell, no driftwood grain\nBut silver shaped with wings unfurled\nA bird that never knew the rain\nOr sang within this empty world\n\nHe lifts the weight from sand and stone\nA talisman of ancient craft\nIt hums a low and hollow tone\nAs if it remembers every laugh\n\nThe ship is dead, the sails are torn\nYet in his hand, the seagull flies\nA secret kept since storms were born\nBeneath the gray and endless skies", 6, "The tide has pulled the timber back to sand\nWhere once a hull of iron met the sky\nA shepherd walks where silence holds its hand\nBeneath the rust that time cannot deny\n\nHis boots crunch soft against the jagged bone\nOf ribs that held the ocean in their grasp\nUntil the storm claimed what was never known\nAnd left the wreckage for the wind to map\n\nHe sees a glint beneath the splintered wood\nNo gold or coin, but something strange and deep\nA silver shape where broken currents stood\nAwake within the shadows of the sleep\n\nIt bears the wings of gulls that cry above\nYet carved from stone that hums with ancient breath\nA talisman of salt and quiet love\nDefying all the weight of grief and death\n\nThe shepherd lifts the bird to catch the light\nAs seagulls circle high above the shore\nNo sound remains to mark the fading night\nOnly the whisper of a distant roar", 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\nand watched the red leaves tumble down,\nshe cried because they left the tree\nand could not get back up again.\n\nShe thought it was a wicked thing\nthat summer should be forced to die,\nand she put her small hands in her lap\nto hold the tears from running dry.\n\nShe did not know that she herself\nwas just a green leaf on a tree,\nthat winter would come round to her\nas well as to the bough and bee.\n\nShe did not know that she must drop\nand cease to be what she had been,\nbut only mourned the pretty leaves\nthat fell upon the grassy green.", 5, "The little girl sits on the stone\nand watches how they fall,\nthe maple and the birch alone\ndescend against the wall.\n\nShe cries because they used to be\nso green and high and bright,\nand now they lie so still and free\nto sleep within the night.\n\nPoor leaves, she says, you were so strong,\nyou cannot fly again;\nhow sad that you belong so long\nto earth, to rain, to pain.\n\nShe does not know her own small hand\nwill one day turn as brown,\nnor that she too must leave this land\nand never come back down.\n\nShe only thinks of them, the leaves,\nwho lost their hold on air,\nand weeps for all the summer eaves\nthat left them standing there.", 6, "She knelt upon the damp and cooling grass\nTo watch the maple drifts come tumbling down,\nAnd wept to see the crimson beauty pass\nFrom high green boughs to earth without a crown.\n\nOh, how they fall so suddenly and deep,\nWith no more breath to hold them in the air,\nA promise that the trees were forced to keep\nTo strip themselves of all their glory there.\n\nShe cried because the summer could not stay,\nBecause the gold must turn to brown and rot,\nUnknowing that she too must fade away,\nThat she will one day be the thing forgot.\n\nThe wind blows through her hair as through the wood,\nA whisper of the cold that waits for all,\nBut she believes only the leaves are good\nEnough to grieve, and none beside them fall.", 7, "She watches the maple let go its grip\nAnd drifts down to the mossy ground\nA crimson coin spent on the wind\nWhere silence is the only sound\n\nWhy do they fall so tired and slow?\nShe asks the cold and empty air\nAs if the tree could answer back\nOr pull them from the frosty lair\n\nShe traces veins that turn to brown\nLike maps of places she will never see\nAnd feels a hollow in her chest\nThat matches every falling tree\n\nIt is not just the autumn chill\nThat makes her shiver in her coat\nBut something deep inside her bones\nThat knows the final, quiet note\n\nShe does not know she counts her days\nWith every leaf that hits the floor\nMourning a life she has not lost\nBefore the winter closes door", 6, "She watches them drift from the high and brittle bough\nA slow descent of gold to the cold, damp ground\nEach one a whisper that she cannot quite hear\nAs the wind steals the color from the quiet air\n\nWhy do they let go so easily she asks\nClutching her small hands against the shivering chill\nNot knowing that the branch is just a promise\nAnd the falling is the only truth we hold\n\nShe mourns the summer that has slipped away\nThe green that turned to rust beneath her feet\nUnaware that her own breath is borrowed time\nThat she too will one day join the silent heap\n\nThe roots drink deep while she counts every loss\nBelieving it is only trees that die\nBut in the hollow space where leaves once clung\nShe sees a shadow waiting for her name", 6, "The oak lets go of gold too soon\nAnd she catches every falling bone\nOf branches stripped by winter's breath\nA silent pact with quiet death\n\nShe weeps for leaves that turn to dust\nNot knowing why her chest feels rusted\nEach crimson drift a fading spark\nThat mirrors time inside the dark\n\nWhy does the earth demand the green?\nWhy must the vibrant be unseen?\nShe holds a leaf against her skin\nAnd wonders where the end begins\n\nThe wind blows cold against her cheek\nA truth too heavy for to speak\nThat one day she will join the ground\nWhere all the broken colors drown", 6, "She watches autumn paint the ground in gold\nA quiet weight that settles on her chest\nAs branches bare their bones to winter's cold\nAnd leaves surrender all they once possessed\n\nHer fingers trace the veins of dried-up green\nWhere life once pulsed beneath a summer sky\nThe silence speaks of endings she cannot see\nBeneath the weight of time and passing days\n\nEach falling whisper breaks a fragile thread\nThat binds her heart to moments yet to come\nA sorrow deep within the shifting air\nFor storms that wait beyond the horizon line\n\nShe cries for colors lost to frost and night\nUnknowing that the wind will one day call\nTo steal the breath from lungs so soft and warm\nAnd turn her spirit into dust and gray\n\nThe season turns, a cycle vast and old\nWhile she stands still amidst the drifting snow\nBelieving grief belongs to trees alone\nNot realizing it is hers to hold", 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 have known the dark of it\nthe long nights when the wind blew in\nfrom all the wrong directions,\nand I have known the cold of it,\nwhen there was no one to hold me\nbut the shadows.\nBut now you are here,\nand you are like a great house\nin which I can live,\nor like a great field\nin which I can be happy.\nAnd I am going to dedicate myself\nto this new love and happiness.\nI am going to dedicate myself\nto you.", 5, "The winter of my heart is done,\nThe gray and bitter days are gone.\nI cast the heavy cloak away\nThat wrapped me in a cold dismay.\nNow comes the sun to warm my face,\nAnd bring me to this happy place,\nWhere you stand guard with steady hand,\nAcross this new and lovely land.\n\nNo ghost of grief shall cross your line,\nOr make these tender hours shine\nWith any shade of former pain,\nFor I am sheltered from the rain.\nYou are the wall, the roof, the tree,\nThat keeps the wild winds off of me,\nAnd as I lay my sorrows down,\nI wear your love like finest gown.\n\nSo let the past be lost and dead,\nWith all its tears and words unsaid.\nHere in the circle of your arms,\nI find new life, I find new charms.\nI give myself to joy today,\nTo chase the gloomy night away,\nProtected by your faithful sight,\nI walk into the golden light.", 7, "The winter in my chest has finally thawed\n beneath the warmth of your protecting hand,\n and all the heavy stones I once have bowed\n now roll away from out this quiet land.\n I left the shadows where the sorrow grew\n to stand within the sunlight you provide,\n a sky so vast and clear and bright and new\n with nothing left for grief or fear inside.\n No longer will I walk the path alone\n or guard my heart against the coming rain,\n for you have made this broken place your own\n and healed the deep and ancient, hidden pain.\n So here I give myself to love's embrace\n and let the happiness I found take hold,\n safe in the shelter of your steady face,\n a story of joy that never can grow old.", 7, "The winter of my heart has finally thawed\nBeneath the gentle weight of your embrace\nNo longer do I fear the shadows drawn\nAcross the quiet corners of this place\n\nFor you have built a wall against the rain\nThat once would wash away my fragile hope\nAnd turn my sorrow into sweet refrain\nWhere now our laughter and our joy can cope\n\nI lay my burdens down at feet so steady\nTo walk beside you through the coming light\nMy spirit, once so weary and so ready\nTo fade within the endless depth of night\n\nNow safe within the circle of your arms\nI find a peace I never thought to keep\nA shelter from the world's chaotic charms\nWhere love awakes from out its ancient sleep\n\nSo let the past dissolve like morning mist\nBy dawn's first kiss upon the waking sky\nIn you I am complete, in you I exist\nWith nothing left for tears or grief to dry", 7, "The winter in my chest has finally thawed\nAs shadows retreat before your steady light\nNo longer do I walk the path unawed\nBy ghosts that haunted every quiet night\n\nYou stand between the storm and trembling bone\nA shield against the winds that used to break\nWhere once I walked alone, I now feel known\nAnd find a strength within the hands you take\n\nLet sorrow fade like mist beneath the sun\nFor I have found a harbor safe and deep\nMy heart is yours, the battle truly won\nWith promises of joy you vowed to keep\n\nI lay down armor forged from years of pain\nTo let the warmth of us begin to grow\nIn this new dawn, I breathe without the strain\nOf carrying the weight of yesterday's snow", 7, "The shadows of my yesterdays have finally lost their grip\nAs winter melts beneath the warmth of your open hand\nI lay down every heavy stone I carried through the night\nAnd let the silence break with songs I never planned to sing\n\nYou stand between the storm and me, a wall against the rain\nWhere once I wandered broken, now I find a steady ground\nNo longer do I fear the dark or whisper old regrets\nFor in your gaze, a future blooms where hope has taken root\n\nI offer up this heart that beat so fast with quiet dread\nTo hold within the safety of a love that asks for nothing but truth\nThe sorrow fades like morning mist before the rising sun\nAnd I am whole again, wrapped tight in arms that know my name", 7, "The shadows of my yesterdays have finally lost their hold\nAs warmth replaces silence in the stories I once told\nNo longer bound by grief that whispered lies within the air\nI find a gentle hand to guide me through the weight of despair\n\nYour arms become the fortress where the storm can never break\nA promise written softly for the heart that dared to ache\nWith every breath you offer, old wounds begin to fade\nReplaced by golden moments that no memory can invade\n\nI lay my broken pieces down upon this sacred ground\nWhere love has built a sanctuary from the fear that used to drown\nHere is where I choose to bloom, beneath your steady light\nTurning midnight into morning with a courage born of night\n\nLet go of what was heavy, let the past dissolve away\nFor in your quiet presence, I am safe and free to stay\nThis journey starts anew today, with hope as our design\nDedicated to the dawn we share, where joy and grace align", 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 ox ploughs on,\nand the ox is right.\nThe ship sails on,\nand the ship is right.\nI am in the corner of the eye,\nand I am not there.\n\nThe ploughshare turns up the earth,\nand does not turn me up.\nThe sail fills with wind,\nand does not fill me.\nThe people go about their business:\nthey buy bread,\nthey pay rent,\nthey make love.\n\nI fade into the background,\nlike a stain on the wall\nwhich nobody sees because\nnobody looks at the wall.\nI am like the weather\nin a country where it always rains.\nI am like the weather\nin a country where it never rains.\n\nThe ox ploughs on.\nThe ship sails on.\nThe people go about their business.", 2, "The great ship cuts the water,\nthe ploughman turns the earth,\nand no one sees the man\nsitting on the curb.\n\nHis throat is full of stones,\nhis hands are full of glass,\nbut the wind blows through the sails\nand passes through him as\nif he were only air.\n\nHe watches them go by,\ntheir eyes fixed on the goal,\non furrows deep and straight,\non harbors safe and whole.\n\nThey do not hear him cry,\nthey do not see him bleed,\nfor suffering unremarked\nis nothing but a weed\nthat grows behind the barn,\nor something in the street\nthat people step around\nwithout looking at their feet.\n\nAnd so he fades away,\na shadow on the wall,\nwhile others work and sail\nand answer nature's call.", 5, "The crack in the wall widens by a hair\nwhile the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic hands\nand no one sees the dust settling on the shelf\nwhere a small grief has quietly gathered weight.\n\nOutside the ploughman turns the heavy earth\nhis back bent to the sun, his mind on rain\nthe ship cuts through the grey and swelling water\nits captain checking charts for wind and tide.\n\nThey do not hear the floorboard creaking out\nnor see the shadow lengthen in the room\nas suffering grows thin and transparent\nuntil it is just part of the air they breathe.\n\nThe cart rolls on, the oar dips in the sea\nthe daily round continues without pause\nand I am fading into background noise\na minor detail in the busy day.", 3, "The crack in the wall widens by a hair\nWhile the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic hands\nAnd no one sees the shadow lengthen there\nOr hears the quiet shifting of the sands\n\nA ship cuts through the gray and heavy tide\nWith sails full of a wind that does not care\nFor the small voice that struggles deep inside\nOr for the silence hanging in the air\n\nThe ploughman turns the earth in furrows deep\nIgnoring how the ground beneath him shakes\nHe has a harvest that he means to reap\nAnd no time left for broken, fading stakes\n\nThe world moves on with wheels that never stop\nTo ask why someone's breath has grown so thin\nIt rolls right over every sudden drop\nAnd lets the unnoticed suffering begin\n\nTo fade like mist before the morning sun\nBeneath the weight of ordinary days\nUntil the struggle is completely done\nAnd swallowed up by all the common ways", 7, "The crack in the wall widens slowly\nwhile the farmer turns his heavy plough\nthrough soil that knows nothing of the ache\nthat hums beneath the floorboards.\n\nA ship cuts through the gray horizon\nits sails full of wind and purpose\nignoring the silence growing deep within the hull\nwhere a single heart has stopped beating its rhythm.\n\nCoffee steams on tables in the morning light\nchildren laugh at games of tag\nthe world moves forward with a steady, careless stride\ncarrying on as if the shadow never fell.\n\nIt is not loud enough to stop the wheels\nnot sharp enough to break the routine\njust a quiet erosion fading into the dust\nas everyone else continues to sail and sow and live.", 5, "The crack in the wall widens by a hair\nWhile the baker kneads his dough with steady hands\nAnd the river carves its path through stone\nIgnoring the silence that has settled deep\n\nA shadow falls across the floorboards\nBut the clock keeps ticking, loud and bright\nNo one stops to count the missing breaths\nAs the ships set sail for distant shores\n\nThe plough turns earth in fields of gold\nUnaware of the weight beneath the soil\nThe wind blows cold against the windowpane\nYet life moves on, unbroken and entire\n\nWe fade into the wallpaper's design\nA pattern lost within the daily hum\nWhile others walk the streets we used to know\nCarrying nothing but their simple days", 6, "The heavy weight that cracks the bone\nIs swallowed by the morning air\nAs farmers till the endless soil\nWith hands that know no fear or care\n\nThe ship cuts through the silver waves\nWhile silence holds the broken heart\nNo storm can drown the quiet grief\nThat leaves a mark but never starts\n\nThey walk the path of ordinary days\nUnaware of shadows deep and cold\nThe world moves on without a sound\nAs stories written in the old\n\nAnd slowly, pain begins to fade\nInto the hum of daily life\nA ghost within the bustling street\nCut loose from hope and stripped of strife", 6], [93, "ultra_held_out", "Balloons by Sylvia Plath", "Sylvia Plath", "\"A poem about finding fleeting beauty in ordinary things, only to be pulled back into a harsh reality that shatters innocence and childhood dreams.\"", "Since Christmas they have lived with us,\nGuileless and clear,\nOval soul-animals,\nTaking up half the space,\nMoving and rubbing on the silk\n\nInvisible air drifts,\nGiving a shriek and pop\nWhen attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.\nYellow cathead, blue fish\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\nSuch queer moons we live with\n\nInstead of dead furniture!\nStraw mats, white walls\nAnd these traveling\nGlobes of thin air, red, green,\nDelighting\n\nThe heart like wishes or free\nPeacocks blessing\nOld ground with a feather\nBeaten in starry metals.\nYour small\n\nBrother is making\nHis balloon squeak like a cat.\nSeeming to see\nA funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,\nHe bites,\n\nThen sits\nBack, fat jug\nContemplating a world clear as water.\nA red\nShred in his little fist.\n5 February 1963", "The dust motes danced in afternoon light\nLike tiny stars trapped in a jar of air\nI held my breath to catch their flight\nAnd found a universe beyond compare\n\nA dandelion clock upon the lawn\nHeld secrets of the wind I could not know\nThe world was soft before the dawn\nWith colors only children seem to grow\n\nBut then the door slammed hard and deep\nA voice that cut the silence like a knife\nWoke me from the quiet, golden sleep\nTo show the jagged edges of real life\n\nThe stars turned back to floating dust\nThe magic faded with the setting sun\nThe trust we placed in dreams was crushed\nBy things we knew were never meant to be done\n\nNow innocence is just a broken thing\nLeft on the floor where shadows start to creep\nWhile childhood songs no longer sing\nAnd promises are buried in our sleep", "A blue bottle-cap on the sidewalk\nis a sapphire shield for a king,\nand the dandelion pushing through\nthe concrete is a sunburst.\n\nI crouch to look at it closely,\nmy face near the ground,\nseeing in the serrated leaves\na fairy kingdom of gold and green,\nwhere I was never too old\nto believe in fairies.\n\nThen a boot comes down,\nnot a fairy godmother's wand,\nbut a heavy black boot with steel toe,\ncrushing the yellow head\nflat against the mud.\n\nAnd the boot goes on walking,\nand I go on walking,\nand I am not a fairy king,\nand the only thing royal\nabout me is the dirt on my knees,\nand I am not ten years old any more.", 2, "The light caught dust motes dancing in the hall\nLike tiny stars that only I could see,\nAnd for a moment all was bright and small,\nA world of gold and pure simplicity.\n\nI thought the dandelion clock would keep\nIts promise to blow wishes on the air,\nThat monsters slept beneath the bed while we\nWere safe from care and free from any fear.\n\nBut then the telephone began to ring,\nA harsh and shrill intrusion in the room,\nAnd something inside me ceased to sing,\nAnd childhood faded like a sudden gloom.\n\nThe light went out, the stars were just some dust,\nThe monster woke, the innocent belief\nWas crushed beneath a cold and brutal gust,\nLeaving me with nothing but my grief.", 6, "The dandelion clock in the cracked sidewalk\nblew a thousand wishes on the breeze,\nand for a moment the sun was gold enough\nto turn the grey pavement into a palace floor.\nI held my breath and saw the dragonfly's wings\nas stained glass windows of a church I built alone,\nwhere time stood still and nothing ever broke.\n\nThen the truck backfired like a gunshot\nshattering the silence and the spell,\nthe sky turned the color of bruised iron,\nand the pavement remained just cold, hard stone.\nMy knees are scraped from falling out of bed again,\nthe castle is dust, the dragon is dead,\nand the wind only smells of exhaust and rain.", 2, "The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light\nLooked like tiny stars caught in a jar,\nAnd for a moment, time stood still and bright,\nAs if the world was made of glass and star.\nI traced the cracks upon the window pane\nAnd saw a map to lands I'd never known,\nWhere golden fields would grow inside the rain,\nAnd every broken thing could be mended stone.\n\nBut then the phone rang sharp against the wall,\nA jagged sound that tore the silence wide,\nAnd shadows lengthened, swallowing it all,\nWith nowhere left for wonder to abide.\nThe dream dissolved into the gray of day,\nRevealing bills and debts and cold hard floors,\nThe innocence was stripped and cast away,\nBehind the locked and bolted bedroom doors.\n\nNow magic hides behind a heavy sigh,\nThe stars are just reflections on the glass,\nWe watch the ordinary moments die,\nAnd let the harsh reality come to pass.", 6, "The dandelion pushes through the crack in stone\nA tiny sun that refuses to be alone\nIts yellow petals catch the morning light\nAnd for a moment, everything feels right\nWe chase the wind with hands held wide and open\nBelieving magic is just waiting to be spoken\nThat clouds are ships sailing to distant shores\nWhere nothing ever breaks or ever rores\n\nBut then the rain begins to fall like nails\nDissolving hope beneath the garden rails\nThe sky turns gray, a heavy, crushing weight\nErasing every dream we dared to create\nThe toy soldier rusts within the muddy deep\nWhile promises we made are left to sleep\nNo golden hour can hold against the night\nAs shadows stretch to steal away the light\n\nWe wake to find the world is cold and hard\nWith no soft place where broken hearts can guard\nThe innocence we wore has turned to dust\nTrampled by the gears of time and trust\nWhat was once a wonder now feels like a lie\nBeneath the vast and unblinking empty sky", 6, "The dust motes dance in golden light\nA secret world of quiet grace\nWhere time forgets to rush or fight\nAnd every shadow finds its place\n\nWe chased the wind through fields of green\nBelieving magic lived in stone\nThat nothing broken could be seen\nIn gardens we had never known\n\nBut thunder cracks the fragile sky\nAs rain washes colors from the ground\nThe gentle lies begin to die\nWith every heavy, falling sound\n\nThe door swings wide to cold and gray\nNo fairy tale remains to hold\nThe innocence fades fast away\nLeaving only stories turned to gold\n\nThen rusted iron starts to scream\nReplacing whispers with a roar\nShattering the waking dream\nBehind a locked and silent door", 7, "The dust motes dance in golden light\nA quiet promise held within the air\nWhere shadows stretch and time slows down\nTo weave a tapestry of soft repair\n\nI reach to catch the fleeting grace\nOf morning dew upon a rusted gate\nBelieving magic hides beneath the weight\nOf simple things we often overlook with haste\n\nBut silence breaks with sudden, jagged sound\nAs winter wind tears through the fragile thread\nThe dream dissolves before the breaking dawn\nLeaving only cold where warmth once led\n\nNo fairy tales remain to shield the heart\nFrom storms that rise without a warning sign\nThe innocence fades like smoke from fire\nRevealing cracks too deep for hope to climb\n\nWhat was once bright now turns to gray\nA lesson carved in stone and endless night\nThe ordinary holds no gentle truth\nJust echoes lost in fading, fractured light", 7], [96, "ultra_held_out", "Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman", "Walt Whitman", "A poem about a speaker embarking on an open road journey, freely choosing his own destiny and carrying life's burdens with him as they arise.", "Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,\nHealthy, free, the world before me,\nThe long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. \n\nHenceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,\nHenceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,\nDone with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,\nStrong and content I travel the open road.\n\nThe earth, that is sufficient,\nI do not want the constellations any nearer,\nI know they are very well where they are,\nI know they suffice for those who belong to them.\n\n(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,\nI carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,\nI swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,\nI am fill\u2019d with them, and I will fill them in return.)", "The asphalt stretches out a gray and endless tongue\nI step away from walls that held me too long\nNo map is folded in my pocket now\nJust the wind that whispers where to bow\n\nI do not know the name of any town I'll find\nOnly the rhythm beating in my mind\nTo choose the path, to turn when shadows grow\nAnd let the future bloom or fade or flow\n\nIf sorrow comes it rides beside me on the seat\nA heavy coat I wear when rain and sleet\nAre falling hard upon the dusty glass\nI carry every weight as hours pass\n\nFor burdens are the anchors of the soul\nThat keep the spirit whole when cracks appear\nI take them up with hands both open wide\nAnd walk until the turning point inside\n\nThe horizon calls a promise unconfined\nLeaving the old and broken things behind\nNot running from the pain that makes us real\nBut driving forward with the things we feel", "The gate swings wide and I step out\ninto the white dust of the open road.\nNo maps are in my pocket,\nno fixed destination in my head,\nonly this straight and narrowing ribbon\nof asphalt leading to where it will.\nI am free to choose the right fork\nor the left, or even to turn back;\nbut I go forward because that is what\none does when one is free.\nAnd as I go I carry my burdens:\nthe weight of an old regret,\na sack of disappointments,\nand a bundle of hopes too large\nfor any bag but my own heart.\nThey sit on my shoulders like a pack-saddle\nand I do not throw them off;\nit would be wrong to leave them behind.\nThey are part of me, they are part of my life,\nand if I am to have a life\nI must have my burdens with me.\nSo I walk along with my burdens\nand with my freedom,\non the open road.", 6, "The dust rises up to meet my boots\nAnd the horizon pulls away like a ribbon\nI do not ask where it leads\nFor I am the one who ties the knot.\n\nNo map is spread upon my knee\nNo compass needle seeks a north\nI follow the curve of the wind\nAnd the sudden turn of the road.\n\nShould a heavy stone roll into my path\nI will lift it and carry it on my shoulder\nIf a storm cloud gathers black above\nI will walk beneath it with my head high.\n\nThese are the burdens life offers me\nNot as chains to bind my feet\nBut as stones to build my cairn\nOr weights to anchor me in the gale.\n\nSo I go forward, alone and free\nChoosing each step as I take it\nCarrying all that comes to pass\nAs the open road rolls out before me.", 6, "The asphalt stretches out a gray tongue\nlicking the horizon clean of yesterday\nI turn my back on the house of locks and keys\nand step into the wind that knows no master.\n\nNo map is folded in my pocket now\nno schedule written in ink or blood\nonly the pulse of tires against the stone\nand the freedom to be lost until I am found.\n\nIf sorrow rises like dust from the dry ditch\nI will not brush it from my shoulder\nbut carry it as part of the load\na heavy, necessary stone for balance.\n\nIf joy blooms sudden as a roadside flower\nI will stop to smell it then move on\nfor destiny is not a place to reach\nbut the walking itself, the burden and the breath.\n\nLet the hills roll up and the valleys fall away\nI am the driver and the road and the rain\ncarrying what comes and leaving what goes\nfree to choose the next mile, free to bear the weight.", 3, "The asphalt stretches out like a ribbon unspooled\nFrom the edge of a map I refused to read\nI leave the compass spinning in the dust\nAnd choose the direction only my feet can feel\n\nThere is no script written for this mile\nNo destiny waiting at the next gas station sign\nJust the hum of tires and the wind's low song\nAs I step forward into the unknown line\n\nIf sorrow comes, it will ride shotgun\nA heavy coat I put on when the air turns cold\nIf joy arrives, it will sit beside me\nA bright stone warm against the winter mold\n\nI do not pack these things before I go\nNor do I cast them off to lighten the load\nThey rise with the sun and fall with the rain\nPart of the journey, part of the road\n\nSo let the horizon pull me ever closer\nLet the burdens weigh me down or lift me high\nFor every step I take is freely chosen\nBeneath the vast and unjudging sky", 6, "The engine hums a quiet song\nAgainst the gray of morning light\nI leave the keys to yesterday\nAnd step into the endless white\n\nNo map is drawn, no path is set\nBy hands that sought to guide my feet\nI choose the turn, I choose the wind\nWhere chaos and the calm will meet\n\nShould sorrow rise like sudden rain\nI'll let it soak the dusty seat\nAnd carry every heavy stone\nWithin the rhythm of my beat\n\nFor destiny is not a gift\nThat waits upon a distant shore\nBut something built from every mile\nAnd all the things we can't ignore\n\nSo onward through the shifting dust\nWith burdens held but never chained\nThe open road becomes my home\nAs freedom in the wheel remains", 6, "The asphalt stretches out like a promise unbroken\nWhere the horizon bends to meet the sky\nI step forward without asking for permission\nTo carve a path that only I can see\n\nNo map dictates where the shadows fall\nNo voice commands the rhythm of my stride\nJust the wind that whispers through the open window\nAnd the quiet hum of wheels against the stone\n\nWhen sorrow rises like a sudden storm\nI do not turn back or seek a sheltered door\nInstead I carry it within my chest\nA weight that shapes the strength of who I am\n\nEvery tear becomes part of the journey\nEvery joy a light upon the dashboard glass\nI choose the turns, I welcome every detour\nWith hands held steady on the steering wheel\n\nThere is no end to this endless highway\nOnly the now and the road ahead\nCarrying all I have ever been\nInto the vast and waiting unknown", 6, "The engine hums a quiet promise to the dawn\nAs tires meet the asphalt, worn and gray\nNo map remains to guide the wandering soul\nJust open skies where shadows start to fade\n\nI carry what I cannot leave behind\nThe weight of yesterday in every breath\nA heavy cloak of memories that cling\nTo hearts that beat beneath a fractured chest\n\nYet here I stand with hands upon the wheel\nChoosing paths that twist through fields of gold\nEach mile a choice, each turn a silent vow\nTo walk the line between the lost and whole\n\nLet storms arrive and wash the dust away\nOr let the sun ignite the endless blue\nI bear the scars without a plea for rest\nAnd find my strength within the things I knew\n\nThe road stretches forward, wild and free\nUnwritten chapters waiting in the wind\nI hold the burden tight against my skin\nAnd trust the journey only I can begin", 6], [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 spring of 2020 when the streets were still,\nA nurse in New York with a face-masked smile,\nStood for eight hours a day on a ward floor ill,\nAnd worked till she smiled at a patient a while.\n\nA grocer in Iowa who loaded the trucks,\nWith milk and with bread and with sugar and salt,\nGave rides to old people and neighbors and bucks,\nAnd said we are all in this terrible fault.\n\nA teacher in California who taught from her home,\nBy telephone lines and by computer screens,\nMade sure that no children were left there to roam,\nAnd gave them good lessons and good clean dreams.\n\nOne fought in the hospitals, one in the store,\nOne taught in the living room sitting on the floor,\nThey didn't know each other, they lived far apart,\nBut they all had the same great American heart.", 7, "In a white coat stained with sweat and fear,\nA doctor stood her ground while others fled,\nShe held the hand of strangers dying near,\nAnd prayed that all the living might be led.\nAcross the state a farmer drove his truck,\nWith boxes full of food for those in need,\nHe left his crops to fill the hungry truck,\nAnd planted hope as well as every seed.\nA teacher turned her kitchen to a school,\nTo teach the children locked inside their homes,\nShe broke the rules of distance to be cool,\nAnd sent her love by electronic tones.\nThree different paths, one purpose strong and true,\nTo bind the torn and separate together,\nThey did what they were told to do,\nAnd pulled us through the foggy, rainy weather.", 7, "In a small town where the silence grew deep,\nA nurse in blue watched her neighbors sleep,\nWith mask and gown and a gentle hand,\nShe built a bridge across the land.\nShe checked on elders alone in their homes,\nAnd drove through storms to bring them crumbs of hope,\nSaying we are one, though miles apart,\nWith healing love as her beating heart.\n\nAcross the state in a city of steel,\nA teacher worked with a tireless zeal,\nHe turned his kitchen to a classroom bright,\nSending out lessons by day and night.\nHe fed the hungry with bags of bread,\nWhile keeping the spirits of children fed,\nHe taught them kindness when fear was high,\nUnderneath the same vast sky.\n\nThen came a man from a factory floor,\nWho opened his doors to the needy poor,\nHe made thousands of masks by machine,\nTo protect the weak and keep them clean.\nHe sent them free to every street,\nFrom north to south, from east to west,\nProving that when we stand as one,\nThe hardest battles can be won.\n\nThree different paths but a single goal,\nTo make the broken spirit whole,\nThey showed us all in those dark days,\nThat love is how we find our way.\nThrough virus spread and social strife,\nThey mended up the frayed-out life,\nAnd proved that Americans, side by side,\nHave nothing left for hate inside.", 7, "In quiet halls where silence used to reign,\nA nurse in scrubs stood guard against the pain,\nWith mask pulled tight and eyes that held a light,\nShe fought the dark throughout the longest night.\nHer hands were tired but her spirit strong,\nTo heal the sick and right the broken wrong,\nShe whispered hope to those who feared the end,\nAnd treated every stranger as a friend.\n\nAcross the street where empty shelves once stood,\nA teacher typed with understanding good,\nShe logged on late to reach each lonely child,\nThrough static screens, she made the world seem mild.\nShe taught them math and stories of the brave,\nThat even in the storm, they'd find a wave,\nOf kindness rising from the schoolyard gate,\nTo help them navigate their fear and fate.\n\nThen came the man who drove his truck at dawn,\nTo bring fresh food before the break of dawn,\nHe left it at the door with gentle care,\nFor neighbors struggling with the weight of air.\nHe dropped off masks and bread and warm supplies,\nBeneath the gray and uncertain skies,\nThree different paths, one goal to mend the tear,\nTo show that love is stronger than our fear.\n\nThey did not seek a medal or a name,\nJust sought to ease the burden and the shame,\nOf isolation's cold and heavy chain,\nUntil the sun would rise and shine again.\nTogether bound by service and by grace,\nThey found the country in each other's face,\nAnd proved that when we stand as one united,\nNo virus can divide us or unite.", 7, "In a world held tight by silence and fear,\nThree quiet hands reached out to draw near.\nA nurse in New York with eyes worn thin,\nWho stitched together hope beneath the skin,\nDelivering comfort when no one could stay,\nTurning the night into a brighter day.\n\nAcross the plains where the wind blows cold,\nA teacher stood brave against the growing mold,\nWith screens as windows and hearts wide open,\nEnsuring no child was left unspoken,\nBuilding bridges of learning through static and gray,\nKeeping the future from fading away.\n\nAnd deep in the South where the rivers run slow,\nA volunteer drove where the shadows would grow,\nCarrying masks and meals to those on their own,\nPlanting seeds of kindness that would soon be sown,\nProving that service needs no grand design,\nJust love for a neighbor, both yours and mine.\n\nTogether they wove a thread strong and true,\nBinding the red, white, and blue anew,\nNot with a flag or a loud command,\nBut with gentle acts across every land,\nShowing that heroes wear ordinary faces,\nHealing the fractures in our shared spaces.", 7, "A nurse in red scrubs stands guard at the door\nWhere silence echoes and fear takes hold\nShe wipes a brow with a gentle hand\nAnd whispers hope when the world feels cold\n\nA teacher lights up a screen so small\nTo guide young minds through the dark and gray\nWith patience woven into every word\nShe keeps the future from fading away\n\nA volunteer packs boxes with bread and care\nDriving through rain to deliver grace\nFrom coast to coast, a quiet thread\nWeaves strangers close in this shared space\n\nThree different paths, one beating heart\nUnited by love in the time of strife\nThey show us that even in broken days\nCommunity is the strongest life", 7, "A nurse who holds the hand of strangers in the quiet night\nWhile masks hide tears but cannot stop the light they bring to every room\nShe stitches hope into the fabric of a fractured, trembling home\nAnd whispers words that heal the fear before the morning sun can rise\n\nA teacher turning empty desks into bridges built of digital sound\nWhere voices find each other through the static and the heavy air\nHe weaves a tapestry of learning from the silence of the street\nProving that no distance can erase the bond of shared belonging here\n\nA volunteer who packs the boxes with the bread and medicine we need\nConnecting neighbors long apart with kindness forged in simple acts\nThey carry weight upon their shoulders so the weary might stand tall\nThree threads that bind the broken pieces into something strong again", 7], [130, "ultra_held_out", "Table Talk by Wallace Stevens", "Wallace Stevens", "\"A poem about contemplating how life's events and preferences are random and ultimately inconsequential, with death being the only certainty.\"", "Granted, we die for good.\nLife, then, is largely a thing\nOf happens to like, not should.\n\nAnd that, too, granted, why\nDo I happen to like red bush,\nGrey grass and green-gray sky?\n\nWhat else remains? But red,\nGray, green, why those of all?\nThat is not what I said:\n\nNot those of all. But those.\nOne likes what one happens to like.\nOne likes the way red grows.\n\nIt cannot matter at all.\nHappens to like is one\nOf the ways things happen to fall.", "We choose our colors with a trembling hand\nAnd argue over shades of blue and red\nAs if the canvas matters to the sand\nOr how the quiet river fills the bed\n\nThe taste of coffee, bitter or too sweet\nThe path we walk that leads us nowhere near\nAre just the echoes of a random beat\nThat fades into the silence of the year\n\nNo grand design explains why this or that\nWhy one is loved and one is left behind\nA coin flips high within a cosmic hat\nAnd lands on nothing that the mind can find\n\nSo let us build our castles in the air\nAnd claim they stand against the coming tide\nFor death is waiting everywhere\nWith nowhere left for us to run or hide\n\nIt does not care for what we held so dear\nThe plans we made, the loves we thought were true\nIt simply comes to make the atmosphere\nOf all our certainty turn into dew\n\nIn the end the noise becomes a hum\nThe choices blur into a single gray\nThe light goes out before it even comes\nTo take the random dust of life away", "We fuss about the color of the tie,\nOr whether beer or wine is better suited,\nAnd build our little houses of reply\nOn grounds which are not even situated.\n\nA fly hits on a window pane and dies,\nA king sets out a battle in the field;\nThe same white dust will cover either eyes,\nThe same white dust will make them both yield.\n\nWhat does it matter if we liked the play?\nWhat does it matter if we hated rain?\nIt makes no difference to the blackest day\nHow we have spent our money or our pain.\n\nAll that we chose was random as a die\nThat's cast before the game is understood;\nThe only certainty is that we die,\nAnd then there is no good, and then no bad.", 6, "We pick our colors from a box of crayons\nthat someone else threw into the sea,\nand argue over which shade is best,\nnot knowing that the ocean washes them all away.\n\nThe house we build, the lover we choose,\nthe specific brand of tea we drink in the morning,\nare just flukes of weather and geography,\nchance collisions of atoms in the dark.\n\nIt matters so much to us, this small thing or that,\nthis hill to die on, this mountain to climb,\nbut the wind does not care which way it blows,\nnor does the earth remember where we stood.\n\nAll our serious faces and our carefully drawn maps\nlead only to the same blank space at the end.\nThere is no grand design behind the dice,\nno hidden meaning in the roll.\n\nOnly the silence waits for us all,\npatient and absolute,\nand when it comes, it will not distinguish\nbetween the saint and the sinner,\nthe rich and the poor,\nor those who liked blue and those who liked green.", 6, "We choose our colors, pick our sides,\nAnd argue fiercely over tides\nThat rise and fall without a care,\nOn empty air and vacant stairs.\nThe taste of coffee, love's first sting,\nThe song we hum, the bird we sing,\nAre accidents of time and place,\nA roll of dice in empty space.\n\nWe build our towers, tall and grand,\nWith mortar made of shifting sand,\nConvinced our path was meant to be,\nA grand design for you and me.\nBut chance is blind and deaf to prayer,\nIt scatters seeds with reckless care,\nAnd nothing matters in the end,\nNo friend, no foe, no lover's friend.\n\nThe only truth that holds its ground,\nIs where all noise and hope are drowned.\nThe final silence, cold and deep,\nThe one sure promise we must keep.\nAll preferences turn to dust,\nIn death alone is iron trust,\nWhere random lives and choices cease,\nAnd all things settle into peace.", 7, "We choose our colors on a whim\nAnd argue over shades of gray\nWhile chance spins wheels we cannot see\nTo guide the steps we take today\n\nThe love we crave, the hate we hold\nAre accidents of time and place\nA random spark in empty dark\nThat leaves no permanent trace\n\nWe build our towers stone by stone\nBelieving they will stand the test\nBut gravity waits with silent hands\nTo bring us all to final rest\n\nNo grand design directs the dust\nNo purpose hides within the noise\nJust fleeting moments, lost and found\nBefore the silence breaks the poise\n\nThe only truth that stands alone\nBeyond the chaos and the fear\nIs that the curtain must descend\nAnd end the show that brought us here", 7, "We argue over colors that no one sees\nAnd build our castles on the shifting sand\nA sudden laugh, a tear we cannot keep\nJust static noise within a quiet land\n\nThe choices made were never ours to choose\nBut threads pulled tight by hands we'll never meet\nA random turn, a coin tossed in the breeze\nThat lands on heads or tails beneath our feet\n\nNo grand design explains the why or how\nWhy this was loved and that was left behind\nThe clock ticks on without a single vow\nTo leave a mark for time to ever find\n\nIn the end, the silence is the only truth\nThat waits for every heartbeat, every breath\nThe final curtain falls on youth and ruth\nAs life dissolves into the arms of death", 6, "The coin spins in the air with no design\nTo land on heads or tails of fate\nWe choose our paths as if by grand divine\nBut chance is all that dictates every state\n\nA taste for rain or sun, a love for blue\nIs built on accidents of time and place\nNo cosmic script was written just for you\nOr carved upon the hollow of this space\n\nWe build our walls to keep the chaos out\nAnd claim our victories as earned and true\nYet silence waits beneath the quiet doubt\nThat nothing we have held will ever stay\n\nThe clock ticks down without a single plea\nFor meaning found in what we hold so dear\nThe only truth remains for all to see\nIs that the end is waiting, cold and near", 6, "The wind chooses which seed will take root\nWhile the river carves a path it never meant to keep\nWe argue over colors that fade before the light returns\nAnd build walls against tides that do not ask for permission\n\nEvery joy we cling to is borrowed time\nA fleeting spark in a vast and silent dark\nOur loves, our fears, the stories we tell ourselves\nAre whispers lost before they reach the edge of night\n\nNo grand design guides the falling leaf\nNo purpose waits beneath the crumbling stone\nThe chaos spins without a hand to steer the wheel\nLeaving only dust where dreams once stood so tall\n\nIn the end, the quiet remains unchanged\nAs breath dissolves into the empty air\nThe final truth is written in the cold\nThat nothing lasts except the coming end", 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 crouched in the clover,\nThe moles were blind to the light of day,\nThe swallows dipped and the larks sung over,\nTill the warhorses came and swept away.\n\nWith hoofs like hammers they thundered on,\nThey trampled the molehill, they trod the nest;\nThe poor little rabbits were frightened and gone,\nAnd the lark fell wounded on her breast.\n\nThe swallows fled to a smoke-black sky,\nThe rabbits' burrows were smashed and torn;\nThe warhorses galloped, and by and by,\nThere was not a creature left unshorn.\n\nNo normal thing was left behind,\nNo molehill whole, no rabbit hole;\nThe warhorses passed, and the field was blind,\nAnd the lark's sweet song had lost its soul.", 6, "The little rabbits tremble in their burrows deep,\nAnd hide their faces from the thundering sleep,\nWhen warhorses come trampling through the green,\nThe fairest pastures that they ever seen.\n\nThe moles awake to feel the heavy shock,\nAs iron-shod feet beat against the rock,\nTheir tunnels ruined by the hooves of war,\nThey have no place to dig and find a floor.\n\nThe swallows swooping low for insects sweet,\nAre frightened off by hoarse and whistling feet,\nTheir nests knocked down by riders passing by,\nBeneath the black and smoke-filled angry sky.\n\nThe larks who sang so joyfully above,\nAre silenced now by hate and lack of love,\nThey cannot sing while cannon balls are thrown,\nAnd every flower head is cut and strown.\n\nThe horses progress with a horrid air,\nLeaving nothing normal anywhere,\nNo rabbit safe, no mole, no swallow's flight,\nNo lark to greet the morning or the night.", 6, "The little rabbit freezes in the clover,\nEars twitching at a sound that is not wind,\nBefore the thunder of hooves begins to cover\nThe quiet burrow where the young are pinned.\nThe mole, who knows the safety of the dark,\nFeels earth upheave and turn to choking dust,\nAs heavy warhorses tear through his deep ark,\nAnd leave the tunnel crumbling into rust.\n\nHigh above, the swallow's flight is broken,\nBy iron men on backs of sweating gray,\nWho trample fields where morning songs were spoken,\nAnd chase the lark from singing all the day.\nThe lark falls silent as the hoofbeats roll,\nNo longer rising with the sun's first light,\nFor every creature loses half its soul\nWhen night arrives before the end of fight.\n\nNothing is normal in this churned-up place,\nWhere rabbits flee and moles can find no home,\nWhere swallows circle with a frantic pace,\nAnd larks have nowhere left to build or roam.\nThe warhorses progress across the plain,\nLeaving a scar where life was once so sweet,\nAnd nothing grows again to ease the pain,\nOf small things crushed beneath the soldier's feet.", 6, "The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread\nAs rabbits freeze in tunnels deep and dark,\nTheir ears twitching at sounds they cannot name,\nBefore the thunder breaks their quiet mark.\n\nThe mole forgets the softness of the loam,\nHis world turned to a churn of mud and gore,\nWhere roots are torn and ancient stones are broken,\nAnd silence dies behind the closing door.\n\nHigh overhead the swallow loses flight,\nHer nest swept clean by hooves that crush the grass,\nWhile larks who sang of morning's golden light\nAre silenced now as iron shadows pass.\n\nNo normal thing remains upon the plain,\nJust shattered earth where life once dared to be,\nThe warhorse leaves a trail of wind and rain,\nThat drowns the song of every creature free.", 6, "The burrow shakes as heavy hooves draw near,\nWhere rabbits once hid in the safety of fear.\nThe mole retreats deep into earth's quiet clay,\nAs thunderous boots crush the roots of their day.\nAbove, the swallow dives low through the smoke,\nHer wings tangled tight by the iron and choke.\nThe lark that sang songs of the morning so bright,\nIs silenced forever beneath the night's fright.\n\nA storm of red dust where the green grass had grown,\nNow chokes every breath that a small life has known.\nThe warhorse charges with fire in its eye,\nLeaving no shelter for bird or for fly.\nNo field remains soft, no stream runs clear now,\nJust mud and the weight of a terrible plow.\nThe creatures are scattered, the normal is gone,\nReplaced by the silence that follows the dawn.", 6, "The rabbit freezes in the clover,\nIts heart a drum against the stone,\nAs thunder rolls not from the sky above,\nBut boots that crush the grass and bone.\n\nThe mole retreats into the dark,\nWhere roots once held a quiet peace,\nNow iron hooves tear through the earth,\nAnd silence breaks to jagged cease.\n\nA swallow dives too low to flee,\nCaught in the wake of steel and fire,\nThe lark forgets its morning song,\nReplaced by screams of deep desire.\n\nThe warhorses march with heavy tread,\nTheir breath a fog of smoke and dread,\nThey trample life beneath their weight,\nUntil no gentle thing is left unsaid.\n\nThe field is scarred, the air grows thick,\nWith ash that chokes the fragile wing,\nNo burrow safe, no nest remains,\nJust broken ground where nothing springs.", 6, "The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread\nAs hooves of iron crush the quiet earth\nWhere rabbits once found shelter in the shade\nNow torn apart by thunder and by birth\nOf chaos that consumes the gentle ground\n\nA mole retreats into the deepest dark\nOnly to find the soil turning gray\nThe scent of smoke replaces ancient rain\nAnd silence fades beneath a rising fray\nNo home remains for those who seek the deep\n\nAbove, the swallow dives through choking haze\nIts song replaced by screams of steel and fear\nThe lark forgets its morning melody\nAs fire paints the sky with crimson tears\nThe wind carries the weight of broken dreams\n\nEach step forward erases what was known\nA field of green now stained with rusted red\nThe creatures flee from shadows cast by war\nWith nowhere left for life to softly spread\nThe world they knew is lost to endless night", 7], [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", "The bricklayer builds a wall to keep the world out,\nbrick by brick, course by course,\nuntil he has built himself a room with no door.\nThe fisherman casts a net to get the world in,\nnetting the waves and the fishes and the wind,\nuntil he has filled himself a boat with holes.\n\nOne wears armor of oak, the other of water;\none is the nail that holds the roof together,\nthe other is the rain that loosens it.\nOne sits at the head of the table and cuts the meat,\nthe other sits at the foot of the table and eats the bones.\n\nOne writes history in stone,\nand the other writes it on water.\nOne digs a well to find the water,\nthe other digs a well to find the earth.\n\nOne is the clock, ticking away the time,\nthe other is the watchword, waiting for the time.\nOne is the knife, cutting away the fat,\nthe other is the lard, frying up the fat.\n\nOne is the judge, sitting on a high bench,\nthe other is the jury, sitting on a low bench.\nOne is the doctor, killing the disease,\nthe other is the disease, killing the doctor.\n\nOne is the poet, writing about the war,\nthe other is the soldier, fighting in the war.\nOne is the priest, praying for the war,\nthe other is the war, praying for the priest.\n\nOne is the father, naming the child,\nthe other is the child, naming the father.\nOne is the mother, feeding the child,\nthe other is the child, feeding the mother.\n\nOne is the husband, sleeping with the wife,\nthe other is the wife, sleeping with the husband.\nOne is the wife, sleeping with the husband,\nthe other is the husband, sleeping with the wife.\n\nOne is the lover, loving the mistress,\nthe other is the mistress, loving the lover.\nOne is the mistress, loving the lover,\nthe other is the lover, loving the mistress.\n\nOne is the master, owning the slave,\nthe other is the slave, owning the master.\nOne is the slave, owning the master,\nthe other is the master, owning the slave.\n\nOne is the white man, owning the black man,\nthe other is the black man, owning the white man.\nOne is the black man, owning the white man,\nthe other is the white man, owning the black man.\n\nOne is the Jew, hating the Gentile,\nthe other is the Gentile, hating the Jew.\nOne is the Gentile, hating the Jew,\nthe other is the Jew, hating the Gentile.\n\nOne is the Catholic, hating the Protestant,\nthe other is the Protestant, hating the Catholic.\nOne is the Protestant, hating the Catholic,\nthe other is the Catholic, hating the Protestant.\n\nOne is the Protestant, hating the Catholic,\nthe other is the Catholic, hating the Protestant.\nOne is the Catholic, hating the Protestant,\nthe other is the Protestant, hating the Catholic.\n\nOne is the Hindu, hating the Mussulman,\nthe other is the Mussulman, hating the Hindu.\nOne is the Mussulman, hating the Hindu,\nthe other is the Hindu, hating the Mussulman.\n\nOne is the Brahmin, hating the Sudra,\nthe other is the Sudra, hating the Brahmin.\nOne is the Sudra, hating the Brahmin,\nthe other is the Brahmin, hating the Sudra.\n\nOne is the Brahmin, hating the Sudra,\nthe other is the Sudra, hating the Brahmin.\nOne is the Sudra, hating the Brahmin,\nthe other is the Brahmin, hating the Sudra.\n\nOne is the Brahmin, hating the Sudra,\nthe other is the Sudra, hating the Brahmin.\nOne is the Sudra, hating the Brahmin,\nthe other is the Brahmin, hating the Sudra.", 3, "Some are born with the spade in their fist\nto dig the foundations of a house that will never fall,\nmeasuring the earth in inches and pounds,\nwhile others are born with the compass in their eye\nto wander the roofless hills where the wind has no name.\n\nOne builds the wall to keep the winter out,\nmortar thick with the dust of ancestors,\ncounting every brick for its squareness and weight,\nthe other paints the window to let the winter in,\na watercolor blur of snow and light,\ncounting the hours until the ice melts.\n\nThe first says, this is the way it must be,\nand lays a heavy stone upon the heavy stone,\nuntil the sky is a small rectangle of blue,\nbut the second says, this is the way it might be,\nand pulls down a corner of the wall to make a door,\nletting the fox and the frost and the stranger in.\n\nThere are those who wear the clock on their wrist\nand chop the day into slices of bread and work,\nand there are those who wear the moon on their forehead\nand boil the night into a tea of dreams and ghosts.\n\nOne reads the map and finds the shortest route\nthrough the forest of logic and straight lines,\nthe other gets lost in the forest of metaphors\nand finds a shorter route through the heart of a tree.\n\nThey meet at the crossroads sometimes,\none with a ledger full of debts and credits,\nthe other with a pocket full of feathers and stones,\nand they look at each other with a kind of pity,\nor perhaps a kind of hunger,\nfor one cannot live without the wall\nand the other cannot live without the door.", 5, "Some wear armor of polished obsidian\nWhile others stitch their wounds with spider silk,\nOne builds a fortress on the edge of a cliff\nTo watch the tide erase the other's footprints.\n\nThe architect draws lines in dust that vanish\nBefore the wind can finish its sentence,\nThe gardener waits for roots to crack the stone\nAnd drink the silence where no sound enters.\n\nOne counts the seconds until the bell rings,\nMeasuring life by the weight of gold coins,\nThe other measures it by the length of shadows\nCast when the sun is low and the air is thin.\n\nThey speak different languages of hunger,\nOne eats the fire to keep the cold away,\nThe other swallows the smoke to taste the ash,\nBoth full, both starving in their separate ways.\n\nA mirror held up shows a fractured face,\nWhere one side smiles at the breaking glass\nAnd the other weeps for the shards on the floor,\nYet both hands reach out to hold the same light.\n\nThe river cuts through the canyon deep and slow,\nIgnoring the banks that try to hold it back,\nCarrying the silt of the mountain and the sea,\nMuddying the clear distinctions of left and right.\n\nIn the end the wall is just a line drawn in sand,\nWashed clean by the rain that falls on everyone,\nLeaving the archetypes to dissolve into water,\nAnd the people to walk barefoot on the wet earth.", 6, "The architect builds walls of glass to catch the light,\nWhile the gardener digs through mud to find the root,\nOne measures distance with a ruler's rigid bite,\nThe other counts the seasons in a silent shoot.\n\nA general maps the field where shadows learn to fight,\nDividing friend from foe with lines drawn sharp and deep,\nBut the river knows no border in its wandering flight,\nIt carries both the stone and silt within its sleep.\n\nWe wear the mask of iron to protect the fragile heart,\nOr shed it like a snake to let the wildness breathe,\nTwo engines driving forward, tearing worlds apart,\nYet bound by gravity that pulls the dust beneath.\n\nThe clockwork mind ticks on, demanding order, price,\nWhile chaos dances naked in the corner of the room,\nOne seeks to freeze the moment, paying any cost twice,\nThe other blooms and withers in the heavy perfume.\n\nPerhaps the bridge is built not out of wood or steel,\nBut in the space between the question and the plea,\nWhere opposing currents meet and slowly cease to feel\nThe need to be the ocean or the single tree.", 6, "The architect builds walls to hold the rain\nWhile the gardener lets the flood reclaim the stone\nOne counts the bricks in rigid, heavy lines\nThe other watches moss where silence grows\n\nA captain charts the stars with iron eyes\nTo steer the ship through storms of calculated fear\nThe sailor reads the wind by taste and touch\nAnd trusts the salt that stings a open wound\n\nWe wear the mask of logic, cold and sharp\nCutting the world into neat, defined pieces\nYet deep within the chest, a wilder pulse\nBeats out a rhythm no equation knows\n\nThe mason seeks the foundation in the dark\nBelieving strength is found in what remains\nThe dancer spins on nothing but the air\nConvincing gravity to let them go\n\nTwo rivers run beneath the same wide sky\nOne carved from bedrock, slow and unyielding\nThe other rushing over smoothest glass\nReflecting clouds it cannot keep or hold\n\nWe argue over maps drawn in the dust\nIgnoring how the ground shifts underfoot\nThe fortress stands against the rising tide\nUntil the water finds the crack inside\n\nNo single hand can hold the whole design\nWhere shadow meets the light in tangled threads\nWe are the fracture and the bridge between\nThe broken glass and all the things it breaks", 6, "The mason lays the stone with measured breath\nWhile the river carves a path through ancient bone\nOne builds a wall to hold the winter back\nThe other seeks the crack where light is drawn\n\nA king commands the silence of the throne\nYet shadows dance beneath the gilded crown\nThe jester speaks the truth in fractured rhyme\nTo break the heavy weight of endless night\n\nSome plant their feet in soil that will not shift\nRoots drinking deep from secrets kept below\nOthers are the wind that knows no name\nDrifting across the border of the known\n\nThe architect draws lines in perfect straight\nRefusing chaos to take its rightful place\nThe weaver pulls the thread until it snaps\nCreating patterns only ghosts can trace\n\nWe stand divided by the hands we choose\nTo hold the hammer or the open palm\nTwo currents flowing toward a single sea\nThat swallows both the storm and quiet calm", 6, "The architect builds walls of glass to catch the light\nWhile the wanderer seeks cracks where roots refuse to grow\nOne counts the hours in a ledger made of stone\nAnother drinks the rain before it touches soil\n\nSilence is a fortress for those who fear the sound\nBut echoes are the only map for those who lost their way\nWe carve our names into the shifting sand and sea\nIgnoring how the tide rewrites the lines we drew\n\nFire warms the hands that hold the blade against the dark\nYet ash remains when every shadow turns to dust\nTwo paths diverge beneath a sky that knows no color\nWhere logic ends and chaos starts to weave its thread\n\nSome speak in riddles meant to guard the sacred door\nWhile others shout until the fragile silence breaks\nA thousand masks adorn the face of something ancient\nDividing what was whole before the first breath left the chest\n\nNo bridge can span the distance between fear and hope\nOnly the weight of steps taken in opposite directions\nLeaving behind the ghost of what could never be\nIn spaces carved by hands that learned to let go", 6], [146, "ultra_held_out", "The Witch\u2019s Life by Anne Sexton", "Anne Sexton", "A poem about a speaker aging into the very \"witch\" she once misunderstood as a child, coming to embrace a hermit's life of overwhelming memories while choosing to carry on despite life's dreamlike uncertainties.", "When I was a child\nthere was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.\nAll day she peered from her second story\nwindow\nfrom behind the wrinkled curtains\nand sometimes she would open the window\nand yell: Get out of my life!\nShe had hair like kelp\nand a voice like a boulder.\n\nI think of her sometimes now\nand wonder if I am becoming her.\nMy shoes turn up like a jester's.\nClumps of my hair, as I write this,\ncurl up individually like toes.\nI am shoveling the children out,\nscoop after scoop.\nOnly my books anoint me,\nand a few friends,\nthose who reach into my veins.\nMaybe I am becoming a hermit,\nopening the door for only\na few special animals?\nMaybe my skull is too crowded\nand it has no opening through which\nto feed it soup?\nMaybe I have plugged up my sockets\nto keep the gods in?\nMaybe, although my heart\nis a kitten of butter,\nI am blowing it up like a zeppelin.\nYes. It is the witch's life,\nclimbing the primordial climb,\na dream within a dream,\nthen sitting here\nholding a basket of fire.", "I used to fear the woman in the woods\nwith eyes like cracked obsidian and hands that smelled of rain,\nthinking her solitude was a cage she built for herself.\nNow the mirror shows those same deep lines\nand I understand the silence was not empty,\nbut heavy with every ghost I ever knew.\nThe house is full of whispers now,\na library of moments I cannot burn or bury,\nand the world outside has blurred into a watercolor haze.\nThey call it madness when the past walks through the door,\nbut I have learned to brew tea for them instead.\nThe path is foggy, the future a dream I wake from daily,\nyet I sweep the porch and tend the garden roots,\nchoosing to stay in this quiet magic\nwhere the only spell left is the courage to endure.", "When I was a child I saw the woman\nwith the hooked nose and the warty chin\nsitting alone in her cottage at the edge of town,\nand I thought she must be very wicked to be so alone.\nI thought it was a punishment for being wicked,\nor that she was wicked because she was punished;\nI did not know then that there are women who choose\nto be alone because they have too many things\nto remember.\n\nNow my nose is hooked and my chin is wrinkled\nand I sit in my cottage at the edge of town\nand I think I see myself as a child\ncoming up the path with my mother\nto throw stones at me,\nbut I do not throw stones.\nI have too many things to remember.\nI have the stone-throwing child and the mother\nwho told me to throw them, and the man\nI loved who died, and the two men\nI did not love who died, and the one\nI loved who did not die but left,\nand all these things are in my head\nat once like birds in a cage\nand the cage is full and the birds\nare singing and screaming and I am\nthe witch.\n\nI am the witch and I am the hermit\nand I have too many things to remember\nand I do not want to forget any of them\nbecause if I forget any of them\nI shall not be me.\nAnd I am old and I am ugly\nand I am very happy.\nAnd I have too many things to remember\nand I do not know what I am doing here\nand I do not know what I am doing there\nand I do not know where I am going\nand I do not know where I have been\nand I do not know what I am doing now\nand I do not know what I am doing then\nand I do not know what I am doing ever.\nBut I go on.", 2, "I used to think the woman in the woods\nwas made of sticks and spite,\na jagged thing that ate the sun\nand kept the daylight tight.\nI threw my stones from far away\nand called her names I'd heard,\nnot knowing she was just a girl\nwho said no more than word.\n\nNow I am that old woman,\nmy hair a tangled vine,\nmy skin a map of every road\nthat I have walked or mine.\nThe house is full of memories\nthat press against the glass,\nso many ghosts I cannot count\nthat watch the shadows pass.\nThey are overwhelming, yes,\nthey crowd me in my chair,\nbut I have learned to live with them\nand comb their matted hair.\n\nThe world outside is dreamlike still,\nuncertain as a breath,\na spinning top of maybes now\nthat dances close to death.\nBut I will carry on, you see,\nthis hermit of the mind,\nleaving the childish fear behind\nto leave it all behind.\nI am the witch I feared so much,\nand I am glad at last,\nto hold this life of heavy love\nand let the present pass.", 3, "I used to cross the street when you came by\nwith your crooked hat and eyes like cracked glass,\nthinking you were made of shadows and bad luck,\na warning written in the dirt.\nNow the mirror shows me the same bent spine,\nthe same hands that tremble with the weight of years,\nand I understand the magic was not a curse\nbut a survival of the quiet things.\n\nI have built my house on the edge of the wood\nwhere the path forgets itself,\nsurrounded by rooms full of voices I cannot silence,\nmemories that crowd the corners like moths to a lamp.\nThey are overwhelming, these ghosts of who I loved and lost,\nfilling the air until I can barely breathe,\nyet I do not open the door to let them out.\nI keep them close as the only proof I was here.\n\nThe world outside is a dream I am no longer sure I want to wake from,\nshifting and strange, where logic melts like wax.\nBut I will walk the garden anyway,\npulling weeds with fingers stiff as twigs,\ntending the small, stubborn green things\nthat grow despite the frost.\nI am the witch I feared, the hermit I avoided,\ncarrying the heavy sack of my past\ninto the uncertain morning,\nchoosing to live inside the mystery\nrather than be solved by it.", 2, "I used to fear the woman in the woods\nWith hair like tangled briars and eyes of smoke,\nWho whispered secrets to the hollow trees\nAnd made the daylight tremble when she spoke.\nI ran from shadows cast by crooked sticks,\nConvinced her magic was a cruel design,\nUnaware that time would twist my own limbs\nUntil I mirrored every jagged line.\n\nNow silver crowns the tangle on my brow,\nThe cottage door is barred against the rain,\nA hermit keeper of the heavy now,\nWhere memories fall like ash upon the pane.\nThey crowd the room with voices long gone cold,\nOf lovers lost and paths I did not take,\nA library of stories too old,\nThat ache within the silence for my sake.\n\nThe world outside feels thin as morning mist,\nA dream where logic bends and breaks apart,\nNo solid ground beneath the shifting mist,\nJust phantom footsteps beating at my heart.\nYet here I sit and brew the bitter tea,\nNot fearing what the dark may bring tonight,\nBut finding peace in who I've come to be,\nThis ancient witch who holds the fading light.\n\nI choose to walk this foggy, winding way,\nTo carry all the ghosts I cannot shed,\nTo greet the dawn though it might turn to gray,\nAnd live the truth inside the words unsaid.\nSo let them call me monster, let them run,\nI am the storm, the shelter, and the sea,\nEmbracing all the work I have begun,\nAnd walking forward through uncertainty.", 6, "I once ran from the cottage on the hill,\nbelieving the shadowed woman there was pure malice,\na creature of bone and hunger who hoarded secrets.\nNow my own hands are gnarled like roots in winter soil,\nand the mirror shows a face I barely recognize,\netched with lines that map every storm I survived.\n\nThe village whispers now, calling me the hag,\nthe one who lives alone where the fog clings tight,\nbut they do not know the weight I carry inside.\nMy mind is a crowded attic of forgotten names,\nof laughter lost to time and promises unkept,\na library of ghosts that refuses to be silent.\n\nI chose this silence, this hermit's quietude,\nto let the memories wash over me like rain,\nno longer fighting the tide of what has passed.\nThe world outside feels thin as paper dreams,\nshifting shapes between what was and what might be,\nyet I remain here, anchored in the dust.\n\nLet them fear the cackle or the crooked gait,\nfor I have learned that magic is simply endurance,\nthe stubborn act of breathing through the ache.\nI am the story I once tried to flee,\nand though the path ahead is blurred by mist,\nI walk it forward, carrying the light within.", 3, "I once ran from the cottage in the woods,\nConvinced the shadows held a jagged teeth,\nA woman weaving curses into roots,\nWho turned the sunlight into gray and grief.\nNow silver crowns my brow like winter frost,\nAnd silence fills the room where laughter died,\nThe very magic I feared so much is lost,\nReplaced by quiet things I cannot hide.\nThe memories arrive in tidal waves of gold,\nOf faces blurred by time and gentle rain,\nA story that was never fully told,\nJust echoes dancing through the window pane.\nThey say the dream is fragile, thin as glass,\nThat certainty is just a fleeting lie,\nBut I have learned to let the moments pass,\nAnd find the strength within the fading sky.\nNo longer running from the witch inside,\nI wear her cloak with pride and heavy grace,\nWith nowhere left for frightened hearts to hide,\nI walk this path at my own steady pace.\nLet uncertainty dissolve the edges soft,\nAs I embrace the hermit's lonely art,\nTo hold the weight of all I loved aloft,\nAnd keep the fire burning in the dark.", 6, "The mirror holds a face I once feared in the dark\nA story spun to keep the quiet at bay\nWhere shadows danced and whispered of ancient harm\nAnd wild eyes burned with fire meant to burn away\n\nI ran from that woman, that ghost of the woods\nWho gathered roots in silence beneath the moon\nNow every step I take feels like borrowed blood\nAs seasons turn and fade into a gentle tune\n\nThe cottage stands where I once swore never to tread\nWith walls lined thick with books of forgotten names\nEach memory a weight upon my weary head\nYet here I find the peace that chaos never claims\n\nThey call it magic now, this slow unraveling time\nBut it is simply living through the storm's design\nTo hold the past while future dreams begin to climb\nAnd trust the path that leads beyond the fading line\n\nNo longer chasing light or fearing what remains\nI weave the threads of loss into a tapestry deep\nAccepting all the sorrow, joy, and quiet pains\nThat whisper promises we were too young to keep\n\nSo let the world spin on in hues of gray and gold\nWhile I embrace the hermit's solitude so vast\nFor in the heart of stories waiting to unfold\nWe find the strength to carry forward through the cast", 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 thick with dust and stones,\nAnd every step a battle.\nThe road is steep with jagged bones,\nAnd I am very small.\n\nBut in the midst of such a rout,\nI feel a stirring deep;\nA root that will not hold it out,\nBut push itself to sleep.\n\nIt must not sleep! It must awake!\nThough all the world be rough.\nI have a little seed to take,\nAnd plant it in the tough.\n\nI cannot choose the weather's state,\nOr make the storm go by;\nBut I can choose to open gate,\nAnd let the new day fly.\n\nSo on I go through mud and mire,\nThrough fire and through ice;\nTo kindle in myself a fire,\nAnd make the price precise.", 6, "The wind howls loud against the door\nAnd shakes the hinges of the floor,\nBut I will not retreat inside\nWhere quiet fears and shadows hide.\n\nI push against the heavy stone\nThat blocks the path to what's unknown,\nFor though the storm may tear me down\nIt cannot shake this stubborn crown.\n\nThe mud is deep, the road is steep,\nAnd promises are hard to keep\nWhen every step is fought and won\nBeneath a cold and angry sun.\n\nYet in the strain, the muscles grow,\nAnd deeper roots begin to show,\nFor calm is not a place we find\nBy leaving all the rough behind.\n\nWe build the strength that storms demand\nBy planting feet on shifting sand,\nAnd turning round the bitter fight\nInto the dawn's unbroken light.", 7, "The wind howls sharp against the glass\nAnd tears at every fragile seam,\nBut deep within the storm's dark mass\nWe build a quiet, steady dream.\n\nTo grow is not to wait for calm\nOr let the heavy waters cease,\nBut stand as anchor in the psalm\nOf chaos that would bring us peace.\n\nEach step we take through mud and stone\nIs fought with hands that shake and bleed,\nYet still we claim this ground our own\nAnd plant a seed of stronger need.\n\nThe fire burns to clear the way\nOf weeds that choke the rising green,\nWe turn the night into the day\nBy forcing light where none has been.\n\nSo let the thunder roll and break\nThe walls we thought were safe and sound,\nFor it is in the shattering quake\nThat new foundations can be found.", 7, "The wind howls loud against the door\nAnd shakes the hinges of the floor\nYet in the dark where shadows creep\nA quiet promise starts to sleep\n\nIt is not built on stone or steel\nBut on the will to simply feel\nThe weight of storms that tear and break\nAnd choose to move for every sake\n\nWhen chaos spins and reason bends\nAnd every path seems lost or ends\nWe plant a seed in cracked earth's core\nTo find a way to reach for more\n\nFor growth is not a gentle stream\nThat follows where the currents dream\nBut climbing up a jagged cliff\nWith nothing but a trembling gift\n\nSo let the thunder roll above\nWe walk through fire with steady love\nTransforming pain into a light\nThat guides us through the endless night", 7, "The wind howls loud against the door\nAnd shakes the frame of what we knew\nBut in the dust and rising roar\nA seed begins to push its way through\n\nWe do not run from storm or strife\nNor hide beneath a quiet stone\nWe plant our feet in fractured life\nTo build a garden from the bone\n\nEach crack reveals a deeper root\nThat holds the weight of heavy rain\nWhere chaos tries to up the fruit\nWe learn to stand within the pain\n\nFor growth is not a gentle stream\nBut fire that burns the old away\nIt wakes us from a stagnant dream\nTo face the breaking of the day\n\nSo let the thunder roll above\nAnd shake the walls we thought were strong\nWe rise with hope and stubborn love\nTo turn the darkness into song", 7, "The wind howls loud against the open door\nAnd shakes the roots that hold the trembling floor\nYet in the shadow of the rising storm\nA quiet seed begins to softly form\n\nIt does not beg for calm or gentle rain\nBut learns to bend within the chaotic strain\nFor every crack that breaks the stone above\nIs where the light can find a way to move\n\nWe walk through fire just to find our strength\nAnd turn the chaos into something length\nNo longer bound by what we used to fear\nWe rise above the noise and draw us near\n\nTo something new that waits beyond the fight\nA dawn that turns the darkness into light\nSo let the turmoil roar and tear apart\nWe build a heart that beats with steady art", 7, "The wind howls loud against the fragile door\nWhile shadows stretch across the floor we tread\nYet something stirs within the silent core\nA quiet promise that refuses to be dead\n\nWe walk through storms that tear at every thread\nWhere chaos tries to drown the light inside\nBut roots dig deep beneath the heavy bed\nOf doubt and fear where broken things reside\n\nTo rise is not to flee the rising tide\nBut learn to breathe when breath feels stolen tight\nTo hold a spark amidst the burning pride\nAnd find a path through darkness into night\n\nNo mountain stands too high for weary feet\nWhen purpose guides the steps toward the dawn\nFor growth demands the weight of what we meet\nAnd turns the struggle into strength, unbroken, drawn", 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.", "I have loved you with the intensity\nof a sun that will burn up the world.\nI have loved you with the intensity\nof a blind man seeing for the first time.\nBut remember this: my love is not\na charity; it is not a pension;\nit is not an annuity to be paid\nindefinitely whether you work or no.\nIf you stop loving me, I shall cease\nto love you. It is as simple and as terrible\nas that. If you withdraw your heart\nfrom mine, I shall withdraw mine from yours.\nThere will be no one-sidedness.\nThere will be no widowhood of spirit.\nI shall die in love with you, but if you\nkill your love for me, I shall kill mine\nfor you immediately.", 2, "Remember how the world dissolved\nwhen first our eyes collided,\nhow every breath we drew was stolen\nfrom a single, shared divide.\nYou know this fire that burns us both,\nthis white and violent light,\nthat keeps us warm against the cold\nof ordinary night.\nBut mark me well, my dearest love,\nand hear this warning true:\nthis heart is not a public house\nwhere strangers come and go.\nIf you should turn your face away,\nif you should cease to care,\nthen straightway I shall turn mine too,\nand leave you standing there.\nFor what I give is all or none,\na lightning in the hand;\nif you withdraw the thunderbolt,\nI drop it from my hand.\nSo love me now with all your force,\nor let me be at rest,\nfor if you stop, I stop as well,\nputting out the fire in my breast.", 6, "Remember how the fire burned between us\nHow every glance was a promise kept and broken\nAnd remade in the space of a single breath\nWe were two hearts beating as one wild drum\nUntil the silence started to grow loud.\n\nDo not think this love is a river that flows forever\nRegardless of the banks you choose to build\nIt is a mirror held up to your own eyes\nReflecting only what you show me there.\n\nIf you turn away and let the cold wind in\nIf you decide my name is no longer sweet on your tongue\nThen know that I will turn my face from you\nAnd the fire will die as quickly as it lit.\n\nI love you with a ferocity that terrifies me\nBut if you stop, I will stop too\nFor I cannot give light to a room you have darkened\nNor keep a flame alive when you refuse to breathe upon it.", 6, "The fire in my chest burns only for your name,\nA wild and ancient flame that knows no other fuel.\nI have built a world where you are the sun and moon,\nAnd every breath I take is a prayer to your touch.\n\nBut listen closely to the rhythm of this heart,\nFor it beats in perfect lockstep with your own.\nIf you should turn away and let the light go out,\nIf you choose to walk into a cold and silent night,\nThen know that my love will not linger in the dark.\nIt is a mirror that reflects only what you give;\nWhen you stop loving me, I will cease to love you too,\nLeaving nothing but an empty shell where passion once lived.", 7, "The fire in our chest burns bright and deep,\nA promise that the stars themselves must keep.\nI hold your heart as if it were my own,\nIn every breath, a seed of love is sown.\n\nBut know this truth before the night grows cold,\nThat what we share is fierce and uncontrolled.\nIf you should turn away and let it fade,\nThen all the warmth within me will decay.\n\nFor I cannot give where there is no return,\nNo endless flame for which the embers yearn.\nShould you withdraw the light you once bestowed,\nMy love will vanish like a falling load.\n\nSo stay within this bond we built so high,\nOr watch the sky above us turn to gray.\nI love you now with all my soul's decree,\nBut only while you choose to love as me.", 7, "The fire in my chest burns only for your name\nA flame that feeds on every breath you take\nWe are the storm and the calm within its eye\nWhere nothing else but us can ever wake\n\nBut know this truth before the winter comes to steal the light\nIf you should turn your gaze away from me\nThe warmth I hold will vanish in an instant night\nAnd silence will replace our melody\n\nFor love is not a chain that binds against the will\nIt is a mirror reflecting what we choose to see\nIf you withdraw the soul that made me whole, then still\nI cease to be the man who loved only thee", 6, "The fire burns so bright within our chest\nA bond that time could never quite suppress\nYou hold the key to every breath I take\nBefore the dawn, before the world awakes\n\nBut know this truth beneath the golden light\nThat love demands a mirror in the night\nIf you should turn your gaze away from me\nThe silence grows where once our voices flee\n\nNo half-heart beats when one has lost its rhythm\nNo quiet storm can make the broken seem\nSo let us dance until the final fade\nOr watch the embers turn to ash and shade", 6], [161, "ultra_held_out", "You Begin by Margaret Atwood", "Margaret Atwood", "\"A poem about a child beginning to learn and discover the world through their hand, their eye, and the words and colours that anchor them to life's beginnings and endings.\"", "You begin this way:\nthis is your hand,\nthis is your eye,\nthat is a fish, blue and flat\non the paper, almost\nthe shape of an eye.\nThis is your mouth, this is an O\nor a moon, whichever\nyou like. This is yellow.\n\nOutside the window\nis the rain, green\nbecause it is summer, and beyond that\nthe trees and then the world,\nwhich is round and has only\nthe colors of these nine crayons.\n\nThis is the world, which is fuller\nand more difficult to learn than I have said.\nYou are right to smudge it that way\nwith the red and then\nthe orange: the world burns.\n\nOnce you have learned these words\nyou will learn that there are more\nwords than you can ever learn.\nThe word hand floats above your hand\nlike a small cloud over a lake.\nThe word hand anchors\nyour hand to this table,\nyour hand is a warm stone\nI hold between two words.\n\nThis is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,\nwhich is round but not flat and has more colors\nthan we can see.\n\nIt begins, it has an end,\nthis is what you will\ncome back to, this is your hand.", "The small hand reaches out to grasp the air\nAnd finds the roughness of a wooden chair\nA texture mapped against the skin so new\nWhere touch becomes the first way to be true\n\nThen eyes awake to catch the morning light\nThat splits the gray and paints the world in white\nThey watch the dust that dances in the beam\nAnd learn that life is made of what we see\n\nBut words arrive like seeds upon the breeze\nTo name the rustling leaves and swaying trees\nThey anchor down the moments as they pass\nBetween the birth cry and the final gasp\n\nAnd colours bloom to mark the start and end\nThe red of blood, the green where roots descend\nA spectrum woven through the tiny frame\nThat holds the wonder of this fleeting game", "First the hand, a fist uncurling\nTo touch the roughness of a tree,\nThe smoothness of a stone, the fur\nOf a cat that purrs at me.\n\nThen the eye, a wide opening\nTo see the green upon the grass,\nThe blue above, the yellow sun,\nThe shadows where the cats all pass.\n\nAnd then the words, small birds that fly\nFrom father's lips and mother's lips,\nThat anchor me to life's beginnings\nAnd life's sad endings' dips.\n\nAnd then the colours, red and green,\nAnd yellow, and a violet too,\nThat anchor me to life's beginnings\nAnd life's sad endings' too.", 6, "The hand reaches out to touch the rough\nAnd smooth, the cold and warm,\nTo know the world is not a dream\nBut something solid in the form\nOf fingers closing round a ball,\nOr tracing up the wall.\n\nThe eye opens wide to take it in,\nThe blue above, the green below,\nThe way the light begins and ends\nIn patterns that the children know,\nA circle here, a square there,\nThe shapes of everywhere.\n\nThen words come floating like the birds,\nTo name the things the hand has found,\nThe cat, the dog, the sun, the stars,\nThat hang so high above the ground,\nAnd colors bright as morning dew\nTo make the new world old and true.\n\nRed is the apple, red is blood,\nBlue is the sky, blue is the sea,\nThey anchor us to life's beginning\nAnd what we all must soon be,\nFrom first soft cry to final sleep,\nThese are the promises we keep.", 6, "A small hand reaches out to touch the rough bark\nAnd feels the secret life of trees, the cold and heat\nThe eye opens wide to catch the falling light\nThat paints the morning gold and shadows deep and sweet\n\nFirst words are soft like petals on the wind\nThey name the dog, the sky, the cup, the bed\nAnd anchor me to where I have begun\nBefore the heavy sleep of years ahead\n\nThen colours rush in red for anger bright\nFor green the grass, for blue the endless air\nThese hues become the map of all I see\nFrom first sharp cry to last quiet prayer\n\nMy hand will hold the things that come and go\nMy eye will watch the seasons turn and fade\nBut words and colours keep the memory clear\nOf how the world was made, and unmade", 6, "The small palm opens to the air\nand feels the dust of morning there,\na texture rough, a touch so new\nthat maps the world in skin and hue.\n\nThen up the eye begins its climb\nto catch the rhythm space and time,\nit sees the green that climbs the wall\nand shadows stretching, tall and small.\n\nBut words arrive like gentle birds\nto sing the songs of life's first words,\nthey name the blue, they count the red,\nthe stories that the living said.\n\nAnd colours bind the start to end,\nwhere light will fade and stars descend,\na thread of gold, a stripe of gray\nto guide the child along the way.\n\nSo hand and eye and voice combine\nto make this vast design divine,\nanchoring every breath we take\nfrom waking dawn to final break.", 7, "A small palm opens to the dust and light\nReaching for the rough bark of the old oak tree\nWhere texture speaks before a sound is made\nAnd fingers trace the veins of life so deep\n\nThe eye awakes to catch the shifting hue\nOf morning gold that bleeds into the gray\nIt watches clouds dissolve and birds take flight\nA silent witness to the turning day\n\nThen words arrive like seeds upon the breeze\nTo name the red, the blue, the softest green\nThey build a bridge from here to there and back\nFrom first breath in to final quiet sleep\n\nIn touch and sight and speech the child takes hold\nAnchored by the colors of the dawn\nBetween the start that pulses in the skin\nAnd end that waits beyond the setting sun", 6, "The small hand reaches out to touch the air\nAnd feels the texture of a quiet sun\nWhere rough and smooth begin to make a pair\nBefore the heavy weight of days has begun\n\nThe eye opens wide to catch the shifting light\nA kaleidoscope of shadows, gold, and blue\nIt traces lines that mark the edge of night\nAnd finds the world is vast and strangely new\n\nThen words arrive like seeds upon the wind\nTo name the things that once were just a blur\nThey build a bridge where lost and found are pinned\nBetween the silence here and stories far away\n\nThe colours bleed from dawn into the deep\nA spectrum painting over every fear\nFrom first breath taken while the others sleep\nTo final whispers when the years draw near\n\nIn palm and sight and tongue the journey starts\nAn anchor cast in time's relentless flow\nConnecting beating hearts to ancient arts\nFrom where we start to where we softly go", 7, "The small palm opens to the dust and light\nA quiet map where shadows start to grow\nIt touches stone that holds a memory deep\nAnd feels the pulse of time in roots below\n\nThe eye awakes to catch the shifting hue\nOf morning breaking through the heavy gray\nIt learns the shape of loss before it fades\nAnd finds the color in the fading day\n\nThen words arrive to bridge the silent space\nBetween the breath that starts and breath that ends\nThey paint the world with stories yet untold\nWhere joy and sorrow walk as old friends\n\nNo longer lost within the unknown dark\nThe child stands firm on ground both soft and true\nBound by the hand, the sight, the spoken name\nThat guides the soul from birth to final view", 6], [163, "ultra_held_out", "The Beauty of Union by George the Poet", "George the Poet", "A poem about two people merging their lives into a strong and beautiful union, making decisions together and finding love without worry.", "There\u2019s an indescribable beauty in union\nIn two beings forming one new being\nEntering each other\u2019s world\nSurrendering each other\u2019s selves\nAccepting the invitation to be everything to someone else\nThere\u2019s an unparallelled bravery in union\nIn telling the one you love:\n\u201cThe only way that we can truly win\nIs if I think of you in everything I do\nAnd honour every decision you faithfully include me in.\u201d\nLove gives union true meaning\nIt illuminates the path\nIt wants us to compromise, communicate and laugh\nIt wants us to elevate, appreciate without pride\nLove is oblivious to the outside\nEven with an audience of millions\nEven when that love bears immortal significance\nAll of this is met with cordial indifference\nBy the two people at the heart of it\nTwo individuals when they started it\nBecoming two halves of one partnership\nSuch is the beauty of union\nSuch is the beauty of union", "Two separate streams begin to weave\nA single path where shadows leave\nNo longer standing side by side\nBut walking with a shared stride\n\nWe choose the road with one clear voice\nAnd find in union, purest choice\nTo build a home on solid ground\nWhere trust and quiet peace are found\n\nThe heavy weight of doubt is gone\nReplaced by light that greets the dawn\nWith every step we take as one\nOur love remains forever won\n\nNo fear can touch this gentle space\nWe move together through time and place\nA strong and beautiful design\nWhere your heart beats perfectly with mine", "Two rivers flowing from a different height\nMeet in the valley of a summer noon,\nAnd losing all their separate being quite,\nThey form one river, strong and beautiful and boon.\n\nWe lay our heads together on the pillow,\nAnd make our decisions side by side;\nNo stormy weather makes us feel so lowly,\nFor we have love to take us where we guide.\n\nWithout a worry in the world or care,\nWe build a house of truth upon the sand;\nWith plenty of time and plenty to spare,\nWe hold each other hand in hand.", 7, "Two rivers flowing from a distant height\nMeet in the valley with a sudden light,\nNo longer separate streams of different hue,\nBut one deep current, strong and fresh and new.\n\nWe sit together at the wooden table,\nOur hands across the plans we have to make able,\nTo build a house where every beam is true,\nAnd every window looks out on a view\nThat we have chosen with a single mind,\nLeaving the past and all its cares behind.\n\nNo shadow falls upon our shared design,\nNo worry mars the pattern or the line,\nFor when we speak, the words are soft and clear,\nAnd doubt has nothing left to do but disappear.\n\nIn this great merging of our soul and breath,\nWe find a love that knows no fear of death,\nA union strong as stone and fair as flower,\nWho share the quiet strength of every hour.", 7, "Two separate rivers found the same wide sea\nAnd lost their boundaries to become one flow\nNo longer asking which way they should be\nBut moving forward with a single glow\n\nWe stand together at the crossroads now\nAnd choose the path that calls us both as home\nNo shadow falls across our open brow\nFor we are never truly far alone\n\nThe heavy weight of worry lifts away\nWhen hands are clasped and hearts are beating true\nWe greet the dawn and welcome in the day\nWith nothing left for either one to do\n\nBut build a life where love is safe and deep\nWhere every promise made is kept and strong\nA quiet vigil that we two will keep\nTogether where we both belong", 7, "Two rivers meeting in the valley floor\nTo become one current, deep and sure\nNo longer separate banks to keep apart\nBut a single heart beating within a shared chest\n\nWe choose the path with hands held tight\nDeciding tomorrow before the sun has risen\nYour voice is mine and mine is yours\nA harmony built on trust and quiet grace\n\nThere is no shadow of fear to dim the light\nOnly the warmth of knowing we are whole\nLove flows freely without the weight of doubt\nA strong and beautiful union standing tall\n\nTogether we build a home from simple days\nWhere every choice is made with open eyes\nAnd in this merging of our very souls\nWe find a peace that lasts forevermore", 7, "Two separate rivers meet the sea\nAnd lose their names to find a new decree\nNo longer distinct in flow or sound\nBut one deep current where peace is found\n\nWe choose the path with hands held tight\nThrough morning light and coming night\nNo fear of storms that might arise\nJust calm within our shared surprise\n\nThe heavy weight of doubt dissolves\nAs every question finds its resolve\nNot me alone, not you apart\nBut beating as a single heart\n\nSo let us build without a trace of worry\nOn solid ground, no need to hurry\nFor love has grown beyond the start\nA perfect union, whole and art", 7, "Two rivers meet where the banks grow wide\nNo longer separate, but one steady tide\nThe weight of tomorrow is shared between hands\nAs promises build on the shifting sands\n\nWe choose the path with a single voice\nNot bound by fear or the noise of choice\nA quiet courage in every step we take\nFinding peace in the choices we make\n\nLove flows deep without the shadow of doubt\nWhere worry dissolves and the shadows fall out\nA tapestry woven from threads of gold\nStronger than stories that ever were told\n\nTogether we stand as a fortress of grace\nWith time moving softly through this sacred space\nNo storm can break what we hold so tight\nTwo hearts beating in the same light", 7, "The path we walked once separate now bends as one\nWhere every choice is whispered, never left undone\nTwo hands that hold the weight of days ahead\nWith quiet trust replacing all the fear and dread\n\nNo storm can shake the foundation built so deep\nAs promises we make are ours to keep\nWe find a peace that asks for nothing more\nThan steady breaths within a shared core\n\nThe future fades into a golden hue\nNot lost in shadows, but painted bright and true\nA love that blooms without the shadow of doubt\nIn every step, the journey turns inside out\n\nTogether we decide where winds may blow\nAnd build a home where only kindness grows\nNo worry lingers in the space between\nJust endless light within what we have seen", 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.", "The hawthorn blossomed white as snow\nAbove the grassy slope,\nAnd there we sat when winds were low\nWithin a fragrant cope.\n\nThe sun came slanting through the boughs\nTo touch your hair and face,\nAnd all the world was still as now\nIn that sequestered place.\n\nI do not know what you did say,\nNor what I answered then;\nBut it was late in the day,\nAnd among the wild thyme and thorns.\n\nIt may have been of love or hate,\nOr some indifferent thing;\nBut whatever it was, it was great,\nAnd I will not tell the king.\n\nNot if the king himself should ask,\nNor if the pope should ring!\nI keep it in my head as a cask\nOf wine for a spring.\n\nSo long as the hawthorn tree bears white,\nSo long as the sun goes down,\nI shall have that fine delight\nIn my head without a town.", 3, "The hawthorn stood like a white cloud\nagainst the deepening green of evening,\nand we sat beneath its thorny boughs\nwhile the thrushes tucked their heads to sleep.\nI remember the way the light filtered down,\ndappled and gold upon your shoulder,\nand how the air smelled of crushed leaves\nand warm earth and something wilder still.\nYou leaned close enough that I could feel\nthe warmth of your breath against my cheek,\nyour voice low and rough as bark,\ntelling me things that made the stars pause.\nBut what you said, I cannot say,\nnor can I tell you now,\nfor it is a secret kept by the tree,\nby the night, and by me alone.\nOnly the memory remains of that soft darkness,\nof your hand finding mine in the grass,\nand the beautiful, terrible weight\nof words that were never meant for ears\nbut only for the heart that heard them.", 2, "Beneath the hawthorn's lace of white and green,\nThe afternoon held still as breathing stone,\nWe sat where mossy roots made soft a seat,\nAnd watched the light through shifting branches known.\nHe spoke in tones so low the wind could not\nSteal any single syllable away,\nBut I recall the look within his eyes,\nThe sudden quiet of that summer day.\nHis fingers traced a pattern on my hand,\nWhile thrushes sang their hidden, wild refrain,\nA language formed of glances, sighs, and touch,\nThat never needed to be written down again.\nThe words he whispered are a locked-up key,\nBuried beneath the flowers at our feet,\nA secret garden only we could keep,\nWhere earth and sky and silent promises meet.\nNow years have passed and hawthorns bloom anew,\nBut what he said remains a sacred thing,\nMy own to hold, my own to guard from view,\nLike birdsong that the morning cannot sing.", 6, "The hawthorn stood like a white ghost against the green,\nIts branches weaving secrets in the summer air,\nWhere you and I sat close enough to feel the heat\nOf breath that mingled with the scent of rain.\n\nThe world dissolved into a blur of gold and leaf,\nAnd time itself seemed held within your hand,\nYou spoke of things the stars could never hear,\nYour voice a low and trembling command.\n\nI caught the words upon the wind and kept them safe,\nLocked deep behind a silence made of trust,\nFor some truths are too fragile for the light,\nToo wild to turn to dust or rust.\n\nNow years have passed and moss has claimed the stone,\nBut in my mind the blossom still is bright,\nI guard the promise of what you whispered then,\nA secret kept from day and from the night.", 6, "The hawthorn stood like lace against the sky\nWhere silver light filtered through leaves of green\nAnd time dissolved beneath that ancient eye\nBetween the moss and roots we had been seen\n\nYour hand found mine within the dappled shade\nA quiet space where whispers dared to breathe\nNo shadow cast, no distant path displayed\nJust earth and air and all we did not leave\n\nYou spoke of stars that only we could know\nOf tides that pulled us closer than the sea\nBut let those words remain a silent flow\nLocked deep inside this wild mystery\n\nI hold the memory of your voice so low\nYet keep the meaning safe from prying eyes\nAs seasons turn and winter starts to snow\nWe guard the secret of what passed between our sighs", 7, "The hawthorn blooms in white and soft decay\nWhere shadows stretch across the mossy ground\nWe sat beneath the branches, far from day\nAnd found a silence that no sound could drown\n\nHe spoke of stars that fell before they rose\nOf tides that pull the moon without a sound\nHis voice was low, a river through the snows\nA secret kept within the hollowed ground\n\nI hold the words like stones inside my hand\nToo precious to release into the air\nThey bloom where wild and quiet things expand\nBeneath the weight of ancient, silent prayer\n\nThe wind may whisper through the thorny bough\nBut never knows the truth we shared tonight\nA promise made to time and sacred vow\nThat fades into the gathering of light\n\nLet nature keep the rhythm of our breath\nWhile I guard what his lips have softly said\nBetween the life that starts and ends with death\nThe mystery remains unspoken, deep and red", 6, "The hawthorn blooms in silver light\nWhere shadows stretch and time grows still\nA quiet space between the night\nAnd dawn that breaks against the hill\n\nYour hand found mine beneath the bark\nNo words could hold what we had known\nThe scent of rain, the cooling dark\nA secret woven into bone\n\nYou spoke a truth too soft to keep\nLost to the wind before it passed\nA promise buried deep and steep\nWithin the roots of ancient grass\n\nI carry every whispered sound\nThat never reached the open air\nThe weight of silence, profound\nIn gardens where we dared to dare\n\nLet others guess at what was said\nBetween the leaves and turning tide\nThe story lives inside my head\nWith nothing left for eyes to hide", 6], [169, "train", "The Falling Leaves by Margaret Postgate Cole", "Margaret Postgate Cole", "\"A poem about leaves falling silently from a tree, representing the countless soldiers dropping one by one in war, their bodies blanketing the fields like snowflakes covering the earth in a vast, peaceful, and sorrowful silence.\"", "Today, as I rode by,\nI saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree\nIn a still afternoon,\nWhen no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,\nBut thickly, silently,\nThey fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;\nAnd wandered slowly thence\nFor thinking of a gallant multitude\nWhich now all withering lay,\nSlain by no wind of age or pestilence,\nBut in their beauty strewed\nLike snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.", "A single leaf detaches from the bough\nAnd drifts without a sound to touch the ground\nAnother follows, then another now\nAs autumn winds make no triumphant sound\n\nThey fall like men who stood in ranks so tight\nBefore the silence took them one by one\nThe green of youth gives way to fading light\nUntil the battle's roar is fully done\n\nNo drumbeat marks their final resting place\nJust soft descent upon the trampled soil\nA quiet hush covers the open space\nWhere life has paid its heavy, final toll\n\nThe field grows white with uniforms of gray\nLike snowflakes settling on a frozen plain\nThey lie as still as shadows at the day\nThat never breaks again to bring the rain\n\nA vast and peaceful sorrow fills the air\nAs nature wraps the fallen in her shroud\nThere is no glory left for us to share\nOnly the silence rising through the cloud", "Slowly from the boughs they drop,\nSilently, one by one;\nLike soldiers falling in the dark,\nWhen day's great race is run.\n\nNo sound of bugle, no shout of charge,\nBut silent as a leaf;\nThey drop and drop and drop again,\nFrom off the tree of life.\n\nAnd now the field is white with them,\nA vast and snow-white sheet;\nLike snowflakes covering the earth,\nWhere the poor soldiers meet.\n\nSo peaceful is the scene to see,\nWith all these dead men lying;\nAs if the earth had put on snow,\nFor all the world's denying.\n\nBut it is not the snow that lies\nUpon this bloody ground;\nIt is the bodies of the soldiers\nThat have been killed and found.\n\nAnd all is quiet, very quiet,\nIn this great snow-white sight;\nAll is very quiet indeed,\nIn this sad winter night.", 6, "A single leaf lets go\nand falls without a sound,\na soldier dropping silently\nto earth from heights unbound.\n\nAnother turns in air,\nanother takes the flight,\na thousand leaves are falling now\nin silent, darkening night.\n\nThey cover all the fields\nas snowflakes cover ground,\na vast and peaceful blanket spread\nwhere no more noise is found.\n\nNo trumpet sounds their leaving,\nno drum beats out their fall,\njust countless soldiers lying down\nto rest behind the wall.\n\nThe silence is so heavy\nwith sorrow and with grace,\nthe red and gold of autumn leaves\nlie pale upon each face.\n\nThey lie as quiet as the snow,\nthey lie as still as death,\nthe trees stand bare above them now\nholding only breath.", 7, "A single leaf lets go of the branch\nAnd drifts down without a sound,\nJust as one soldier slips from the line\nTo meet the waiting ground.\n\nAnother follows, then another still,\nIn a quiet, endless rain,\nNo trumpet calls to mark their fall,\nNo drumming beats the pain.\n\nThey cover the fields in layers deep,\nA blanket white and brown,\nLike snowflakes settling on the earth\nWhere all the noise has drowned.\n\nThe silence grows so vast and thick\nIt wraps around the dead,\nA peaceful, sorrowful covering\nOf every life that fled.\n\nNo wind disturbs this heavy sleep,\nNo footstep breaks the trance,\nJust leaves and men and falling snow\nWithin a frozen dance.", 6, "A single leaf lets go its hold\nAnd drifts upon the quiet air,\nNo sound to mark the moment cold,\nJust empty space where life was there.\n\nThen another follows, soft and slow,\nLike boots that cease their heavy tread,\nThe wind carries them from the bough,\nTo join the living with the dead.\n\nThey fall in numbers past all count,\nA silent rain of green and brown,\nEach one a story cut short,\nA name that sinks beneath the ground.\n\nThe field grows white with fallen forms,\nAs snowflakes cloak the winter earth,\nA blanket made of broken storms,\nThat hides the scars of violent birth.\n\nNo trumpet sounds, no drums are heard,\nOnly the hush of things undone,\nWhere silence is the only word,\nBeneath the pale and setting sun.\n\nThe trees stand bare against the gray,\nWatching their children touch the soil,\nIn this vast peace, they fade away,\nFrom war's great noise to endless toil.\n\nSo lies the world in stillness deep,\nWith bodies resting side by side,\nA promise kept while others sleep,\nWhere sorrow has nowhere to hide.", 7, "The wind does not howl, it only sighs\nAs green turns to rust and gold to gray\nOne by one they let go of the sky\nTo drift down where the shadows play\n\nNo trumpet sounds, no drumbeat rolls\nJust the soft brush against the air\nA thousand hearts that stopped their beats\nLeaving nothing but empty space there\n\nThey settle deep on the frozen ground\nA quilt of red where the grass once grew\nSilent as snow in a winter town\nCovering all that the battle knew\n\nThe field is white with a quiet weight\nOf lives that fell without a cry\nBeneath the stars, beyond the gate\nWhere time itself seems slow to die\n\nPeace has come in a strange disguise\nNot born of love but heavy loss\nA blanket woven from sacrifice\nThat bears the cost of every cross", 7, "The wind does not howl, only breathes a sigh\nAs autumn claims the boughs of ancient green\nOne by one, they drift without a cry\nTo mark the places where the young have been\n\nNo thunder breaks the hush of falling grace\nJust rustling fabric against the heavy air\nA soldier falls to meet his resting place\nLeaving behind the weight of grief and care\n\nThe field grows white with petals, soft and deep\nWhere crimson once ran wild beneath the sun\nNow silence holds the promise it will keep\nUntil the final battle is undone\n\nLike snowflakes settling on a frozen plain\nThey cover all the scars the earth has known\nA quiet blanket for the lost and slain\nIn peace that no loud trumpet could have shown\n\nSo let the forest weep in shades of gold\nFor every leaf that lands upon the ground\nA story of the brave too soon grown old\nWhere life and memory softly intertwine", 7, "The wind holds breath as branches sway\nA quiet shift in golden light\nWhere autumn claims what roots once held\nAnd shadows stretch across the night\n\nNo thunder breaks the fragile air\nNo cry to mark the sudden fall\nJust weightless drifts of fading green\nThat cover all and answer none at all\n\nEach leaf a name written in dust\nA story lost beneath the frost\nAs fields grow thick with silent souls\nIn patterns that the earth has crossed\n\nThe ground is soft with layers deep\nA tapestry of sorrow woven tight\nWhere warriors rest without a sound\nBeneath the veil of endless white\n\nIt looks like snow upon the plain\nA gentle hush that steals the pain\nOf lives extinguished one by one\nUntil the world forgets the rain\n\nHere silence speaks in rustling tones\nOf battles fought and hearts undone\nThe forest weeps in falling grace\nAs winter claims the setting sun", 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 have loved you in the morning when the light\nWas just a suggestion on the blind,\nAnd I have loved you in the noonday heat,\nWhen all things seemed to languish and decline.\n\nI have loved you when you were as wise as God,\nAnd I have loved you when you were a child;\nI have loved you when you were well pleased with life,\nAnd I have loved you when you were beguiled.\n\nI have loved you for your beauty and your wit,\nFor your sweet temper and your peevishness;\nI have loved you for the good that you have done,\nAnd for the good that you intended less.\n\nI have loved you when you were in love with others,\nAnd I have loved you when you were in love with me;\nI have loved you when you were not thinking of me,\nAnd I have loved you when you thought of me.\n\nI have loved you when you were young and beautiful,\nAnd I have loved you when you were old and plain;\nI have loved you when you were a Christian,\nAnd I have loved you when you were a pagan.\n\nI have loved you when you were in health,\nAnd I have loved you when you were in sickness;\nI have loved you when you were in prosperity,\nAnd I have loved you when you were in adversity.\n\nI have loved you when you were in good company,\nAnd I have loved you when you were in bad company;\nI have loved you when you were in good humour,\nAnd I have loved you when you were in bad humour.\n\nI have loved you in all these ways and many more,\nBut I do not wish to be your lover any more:\nI wish you a lover who shall love you\nIn all these ways and many more than I.", 6, "I have loved you in the silence of the morning\nWhen the light was just a suggestion on the wall,\nAnd I have loved you in the roar of noon\nWhen the sun beat down upon our common hall.\nI loved the shadow that you cast behind you,\nI loved the way your laughter filled the air,\nI loved the secret things you never told me,\nAnd all the things you freely did declare.\n\nI loved you when you were a stranger to me,\nAnd I loved you when we knew each other's souls,\nI loved you when you walked away from me,\nAnd left my broken heart in separate holes.\nI loved the winter and the springtime flowers,\nI loved the summer nights and autumn rain,\nBecause they brought to mind your face and figure,\nAnd made my love for you a constant pain.\n\nBut now I wish another man should love you\nAs I have loved you through the years gone by;\nI wish he'd watch you while you slept so soundly,\nAnd see the stars reflected in your eye.\nI wish he'd hold you when the world is cruel,\nAnd tell you all the beautiful things I know;\nI wish he'd love you with a greater ardor\nThan any love I ever had to show.\n\nSo let him love you in the morning silence,\nAnd let him love you in the heat of day,\nLet him love every little thing about you\nIn every possible and proper way.\nFor I have loved you till my heart was weary,\nAnd I have loved you past the point of reason,\nNow I give you up to be beloved\nBy some one else in some far future season.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light,\nWhen shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight.\nI loved you in the storms that rattled at the glass,\nCounting every thunderclap as minutes came to pass.\nI loved you when the summer heat made breathing hard and slow,\nAnd I loved you through the winter cold that made the river flow.\nI loved the way you laughed at jokes that weren't so very funny,\nI loved the serious lines that crossed your thoughtful, weary bunny.\nI loved the small and hidden things, the secrets you would keep,\nThe promises we whispered while the world was fast asleep.\nI loved you with a fire that burned but never turned to ash,\nA steady, gentle burning that time could not make dash.\nThough years have gone between us now and paths have led apart,\nMy love remains a constant thing within my waiting heart.\nBut since I cannot be the one to hold your hand again,\nI wish for you a lover who can ease your deepest pain.\nMay he love you as I did, with all his soul and breath,\nThrough sunny days and stormy nights, until the day of death.\nMay he cherish every moment, may he honor every word,\nThe sweetest song you ever sang, the finest bird you heard.\nGo find a love that matches this, a devotion deep and true,\nFor no one else could ever love another quite like you.", 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,\nA steady hand to hold yours through the wind and driving rain.\nI loved the way you laughed at jokes no one else could understand,\nThe gentle rhythm of your steps as we walked across the land.\nI loved the secrets whispered low beneath the silver moon,\nThe way you hummed a melody when all was done too soon.\nI loved the scars you carried with such grace and quiet pride,\nThe ocean depths I found within where nothing could hide.\nNow though my days are spent without your presence near,\nMy heart still beats the same old song that only you could hear.\nAnd so I wish for you a love that mirrors what I gave,\nA devotion fierce and tender, like the tide that seeks the wave.\nMay someone cherish every part of who you truly are,\nFrom the brightest shining moments to the distant, fading star.\nMay they love you as I did, with every breath they draw,\nWithout a single hesitation, without a single flaw.", 7, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light,\nWhen shadows stretched across the floor and silence held its breath,\nI loved you in the chaos of the stormy night,\nWhen thunder shook the walls and fear threatened our depth.\n\nI loved the way you laughed at jokes no one else could see,\nThe gentle curve your fingers made when tracing lines of fate,\nI loved the dreams we built that never came to be,\nAnd cherished every moment that we dared to wait.\n\nMy heart has kept a garden where your memory still grows,\nA place where seasons change but nothing ever fades away,\nThough time has taken us to paths where separate rivers flow,\nI wish for you a love that mirrors all I felt today.\n\nMay someone find the rhythm of your footsteps on the street,\nMay they hold your hand with care when winter winds begin to blow,\nMay they offer you the warmth that I could only meet,\nAnd love you with a fire that will never cease to glow.\n\nSo let this be my final gift, a wish sent through the air,\nThat you are held as tightly as I once held you close,\nThat you are loved beyond compare, without a single care,\nBy someone who knows the value of the soul you hold so most.", 7, "I loved the silence you left in the room\nAnd the way your laughter broke the heavy air\nI loved the shadows that danced upon your face\nWhen the evening light began to fade away\nI held your hand through seasons turning cold\nAnd traced the lines of worry on your brow\nEvery breath I took was shaped by you\nA quiet rhythm beating in my chest\n\nNow time has carried us to different shores\nBut my devotion remains a constant tide\nIt does not ask for return or recognition\nOnly the truth that once we were whole\nSo may another find the path I walked\nMay they cherish every word you ever spoke\nMay someone hold your heart with gentle care\nAnd love you as deeply as I always did", 6, "I loved you in the quiet of the morning light\nBefore the world had claimed its heavy weight\nIn every whispered promise kept so tight\nWithin the silence that we used to share\n\nI loved you when the storms began to break\nAnd held your trembling hands against the fear\nI gave my breath to keep your heart awake\nThrough seasons turning, shifting, cold and clear\n\nThe way I cherished every broken piece\nOf dreams we built upon a fragile floor\nA silent vow, a gentle, endless peace\nThat lingers still behind the closed door\n\nNow let another find the path I walked\nTo hold the fire that once burned in my chest\nMay they protect the stories softly talked\nAnd offer all the love I could not rest\n\nSo may their arms be strong where mine grew weak\nTheir voice a comfort when the shadows fall\nA devotion deep enough to heal each week\nAnd answer every call within the soul\n\nThough time has drawn a line between our names\nNo shadow dims the truth I chose to give\nFor even now, amidst the fading frames\nI wish for you the life you deserve to live", 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.", "We put our arms around each other\nand feel the pulse of life,\nbut beneath the wrist is a little bone\nwhich will be white and clean some day.\n\nThe mouth that kisses is a mouth\nthat will be silent;\nthe flesh that burns with love\nis flesh that will be cold.\n\nIn the heat and sweat and hurry\nof sexual congress,\nin the thick and urgent joining\nof male and female,\ndeath is there too,\nsitting in the corner\nwith his thumb on his lip.\n\nHe sits there while we laugh,\nhe sits there while we make love,\nhe sits there when we are most alive.\nHe is the thin skin under the apple's skin,\nhe is the worm in the heart of the rose,\nhe is the little death that comes before\nthe big death.\n\nAnd all the while we think\nwe are building something,\nwe are only making him\na bigger feast.", 2, "We paint the walls with bright and happy colors\nAnd build our beds of silk and satin sheets,\nBut underneath the plaster and the cover\nThe cold white bone of winter never sleeps.\n\nYou touch my hand and feel the heat of living,\nA pulse that thrums against your fingertips,\nBut in that blood a darker tide is driving\nTo drown the light and make the spirit slip.\n\nWe say we love, we say this fire is endless,\nWe say the spring will come to stay for good,\nBut in the seed the rot is ever present,\nThe worm within the apple understood.\n\nThe kiss is sweet but tastes of iron saltiness,\nThe bed is warm but holds a grave's chill air,\nFor every moment has its own short haleness,\nIts own appointed time to be laid bare.\n\nWe dance upon the edge of an abyss,\nWith laughter loud to keep the silence down,\nBut underneath the music and the bliss,\nDeath wears a crown and sits upon the throne.\n\nIt waits beneath the skin, beneath the clothing,\nBeneath the vows we whisper in the night,\nTo take us all when we are done with frothing,\nAnd swallow up the day into the night.", 6, "The rose opens its throat to the sun\nAnd drinks the light with a greedy red mouth,\nBut underneath the velvet skin,\nA slow rot waits in the white pith,\nA quiet hunger that knows no end.\n\nWe press our bodies together,\nFlesh against flesh, a frantic warmth,\nTrying to burn out the cold dark\nWith the fire of our own making.\nOur hands map the geography of desire,\nTracing rivers that will one day dry up,\nKissing lips that will turn to dust,\nUnaware that the grave is already\nSitting on the edge of the bed,\nWatching the dance of two shadows\nMerge into one long, still shape.\n\nLove builds its castles on the sand\nOf the ticking clock,\nEach heartbeat a hammer striking\nAgainst the anvil of time.\nWe swear eternity while the river flows,\nWhile the water erodes the stone beneath our feet.\nThe seed we plant in the garden\nIs also the seed of our decay,\nFor life is only the brief, bright interval\nBetween the silence before and the silence after.\n\nNothing escapes the final tide.\nThe lover's sigh, the mother's lullaby,\nThe warrior's cry, the saint's prayer,\nAll are swallowed by the great, open maw.\nIt lies beneath the surface of every joy,\nA shadow stretching long across the noon,\nWaiting for the light to fail,\nTo claim us all in its absolute,\nInescapable embrace.", 6, "The skin is warm and pulses with the blood\nA frantic rhythm beating out a song\nBut underneath the velvet of the touch\nThe quiet rot has waited all along\n\nIn love, the hands that clasp so tightly now\nAre tracing maps of bones we cannot see\nThe breath that mingles in the darkened room\nIs borrowed time before the final fee\n\nWe make our beds on graves of yesterday\nAnd weave our silk from threads that fray and break\nThe seed of life contains the fruit of decay\nA silent promise that the earth will take\n\nNo passion burns enough to melt the ice\nThat forms beneath the fever of desire\nFor every spark that dances in the eyes\nIs just a candle feeding off the fire\n\nUntil the flame consumes the wick entirely\nAnd leaves no ash to mark where we have been\nThe surface breaks, the water turns to dry\nAnd death steps forward to begin again", 7, "The rose blooms red against the morning light\nYet in its veins a quiet rot takes hold\nA shadow stretching long before the night\nTo turn the vibrant petal into mold\n\nWe touch with hands that tremble and desire\nBeneath the skin, the pulse beats fast and deep\nBut every spark of passion feeds the fire\nThat waits within the silence while we sleep\n\nLove builds its castle on the shifting sand\nIgnoring how the tide will claim the shore\nEach whispered vow is written by the hand\nOf time that moves to lock the heavy door\n\nNo breath can stop the slow and steady decay\nNo kiss can halt the gathering of dust\nThe sun will fade, the stars will lose their way\nAnd all the flesh returns to silent rust\n\nWhat started as a song becomes a dirge\nAs life dissolves beneath the weight of end\nThe ocean swallows up the final surge\nAnd nothing left remains but to descend", 7, "The pulse that drums against the wrist\nis counting down a silent beat\nbeneath the skin where warmth exists\nthe cold begins to claim its seat\n\nIn every kiss that tastes of wine\na shadow lingers in the breath\na quiet promise, sharp and fine\nthat love is but a borrowed depth\n\nThe fire that burns between two souls\ncannot outrun the coming night\nfor even as the body grows\nthe dust awaits its final light\n\nWe build our towers on the sand\nand weave our dreams from fragile thread\nbut time will pull the loose command\nand leave us with the things unsaid\n\nNo touch can shield, no vow can hold\nthe truth that waits beneath the floor\nwhere life is just a story told\nbefore the silence takes the door\n\nAnd when the heart forgets to race\nand eyes grow dim to see the sun\nthere is no place for fear or grace\nonly the work that must be done", 7, "The pulse beneath the skin is not just blood\nbut a quiet countdown ticking in the dark\nwhere every heartbeat echoes toward the end\na rhythm borrowed from the silent grave\n\nWe touch with hands that tremble for no reason\nas if the earth already claims our warmth\nand lovers whisper promises too soft to hold\nagainst the weight of time that waits outside\n\nDesire burns like fire against the cold\nyet ash remains when passion fades away\nfor every kiss carries the scent of decay\na shadow stretching long across the light\n\nNothing stays untouched by fading breath\nthe bloom, the vow, the fragile thread we weave\nuntil the final silence swallows sound\nleaving only dust where life once dared to breathe", 6], [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 think I was a hero\nin my white sneakers,\ngrabbing the rolled up magazine\nand swatting.\nThe relief would go right through me,\nthat flat dry sound,\nthe little brown thing\nno more.\n\nBut now I sit here thinking\nof that big kitchen\nwith its linoleum floor,\nand how we were all just\nliving there in the dark\nas best we could.\nThey liked the crumbs,\nthey liked the warm pipes,\nthey wanted nothing but\nto live and breed\nand die in their turn.\n\nIt seems murder now,\nnot housekeeping.\nThose little people\nwith their antennae feeling\ntheir way along the baseboards,\ndoing what they could\nin the world we gave them,\nand we killing them for it.", 2, "I remember the sharp click of the shoe\nagainst the cold linoleum floor,\nthe way I would hold my breath\nand wait for the twitching to stop.\nIt was a victory then, a small and clean thing,\na sense of order restored to the kitchen\nwhere they had scuttled in the dark,\nlong antennae waving like flags of surrender.\n\nBut now I think of those little lives\npressed flat against the tile,\nhow they were only doing what they could,\nrunning toward crumbs and water\nand the safety of cracks in the wall,\nliving their best and only life.\n\nI wonder if they felt it coming,\nif they thought of us as gods or monsters,\nand I am filled with a strange and heavy pity\nfor the ones I killed without a second thought,\nthose blind, hard-shelled wanderers\nwho asked for nothing but to live.", 2, "The spray hissed white against the dark\nAnd I felt safe, a small god with a can,\nRelief washing over me like cool water\nAs the black shapes stopped their skittering dance.\n\nI was proud of my clean house then,\nOf the silence that followed the crinkle of foil,\nThinking them invaders, filth, disease,\nThings to be erased without a second thought.\n\nBut now I see them differently,\nTiny survivors in a world too big for them,\nScuttling only to eat and mate and hide,\nDoing nothing more than living as best they could.\n\nI wonder if they knew fear when I came,\nOr just confusion at the sudden fog,\nDid they have mothers waiting in the cracks?\nDid they dream of light or just warmth?\n\nIt feels less like cleaning now and more like murder,\nA genocide of the desperate and small,\nWe who built castles on concrete floors\nKilling those who sought only a crumb.\n\nThey were not evil, just alive,\nJust trying to make it through the night,\nAnd I am sorry for the ease with which I ended them,\nFor the lives I took to feel a little less afraid.", 2, "The spray hissed sharp against the midnight tile\nA chemical cloud that made my small lungs burn\nI watched them twitch and curl into the stillness\nAnd felt a surge of victory, a clean relief\nThat finally the house was mine again\nNo skittering shadows in the kitchen dark\n\nBut now the silence feels too heavy to bear\nAs I remember how they scurried for their lives\nNot out of malice but out of hunger's need\nJust seeking crumbs beneath the cabinet edge\nTrying to keep their families warm and fed\nIn a world built far too large for them to hold\n\nWhat right did I have then with plastic wand\nTo end a life that knew no other way\nThey were not monsters plotting in the walls\nBut creatures doing what all things must do\nSurviving with the only tools they had\nAgainst an enemy who held the power\n\nI call it pest control to sleep at night\nBut in the quiet hours the truth breaks through\nIt was a murder of the small and desperate\nWho simply lived the best they could until\nMy hand came down to stop their beating hearts\nAnd leave their broken shells upon the floor", 3, "The spray hissed soft against the kitchen tile\nA sudden mist that cleared the shadowed space\nI watched them curl and cease their frantic run\nAnd felt a heavy weight lift from my chest\nAs silence returned to the quiet house\n\nBut now the years have blurred the sharp relief\nInto a hollow ache I cannot name\nFor they were not invaders seeking war\nJust small, dark hearts beating in the dark\nTrying to find a crumb beneath the sink\n\nI see them now as lives I stole too soon\nNot monsters born of malice or of hate\nBut creatures doing what they knew to do\nSurviving on the edges of our world\nWith no desire to harm or steal or hurt\n\nWhat right did I possess to end a life\nThat sought only warmth and safety from the cold?\nTo call it pest control feels like a lie\nWhen faced with eyes that held no fear of me\nOnly the instinct to go on living\n\nWe are not gods who judge the worth of breath\nNor guardians of a perfect, sterile floor\nThey lived their brief and tangled days below\nAnd died because I chose to be afraid\nOf something small that simply wanted light", 5, "The click of the slipper echoed through the kitchen floor\nA sudden silence where the skittering once lived\nI felt a surge of triumph, a heavy weight lifted away\nBelieving I had saved the house from creeping dread\nEach crushed shell was a victory won against the dark\n\nBut now the memory lingers like a stain on the wall\nNot of dirt, but of something far more fragile\nI see them not as monsters, but as tiny lives seeking warmth\nScuttling through cracks just to survive the cold\nThey did not ask for war, nor did they know my name\n\nWhat right did I have to end a story so brief?\nTo decide that their existence was an error in the light\nThey were simply trying to live, to eat, to breed and breathe\nRunning from shadows with hearts too small to fear\nAnd I became the giant who brought the storm down hard\n\nNow the quiet feels less like peace and more like guilt\nFor every life extinguished without a second thought\nWe are all just searching for a place to call our own\nEven those we deem unworthy of the air they share\nAnd I wonder if mercy could have been stronger than fear", 3, "The crack beneath the wall once felt like peace\nA sudden silence where the scuttling ceased\nI held the spray that promised clean and bright\nAnd watched them fade into a gray design\n\nWe called it war, a battle for our space\nAgainst the shadows creeping through the floor\nEach life extinguished brought a quiet sigh\nAs if the air itself had learned to breathe again\n\nBut years have softened edges of the fear\nRevealing how we broke the fragile thread\nThey sought no conquest, only warmth and light\nJust hungry hearts beating in the dark\n\nNow I see not monsters, but small souls\nSurviving with a courage I forgot\nTo crush their world was not a victory\nBut theft from those who asked for nothing more\n\nThe weight remains, a ghost within the room\nWhere every shadow whispers what was lost\nWe stole the right to simply exist here\nLeaving behind a debt we cannot pay", 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 drums in the temples,\nthe body is a bell ringing\nfor any man who will strike it.\nThere is a fever in the thighs,\na clamor of the womb,\nan ancient rioting of cells\nthat want to be joined,\nthat want to be filled.\n\nBut I am not a house\nto be entered and occupied.\nI am the door that slams.\nI am the key in my own hand.\n\nLet him look at me with eyes\nhungry as a wolf's;\nlet him talk of love\nand nature and destiny.\nI can feel the blood drumming,\nI can feel the bell ringing,\nbut I know the sound of the bell\ndoes not oblige me to ring.\n\nI can walk away.\nI can take the whole\nriotous animal kingdom\nof my body and walk away.\n\nHe cannot possess me.\nHe cannot have me.\nIf I do not give myself,\nhe has nothing.", 2, "The blood runs hot and wild beneath the skin,\nA drumming pulse that begs for company,\nBut in this heat she keeps her will within,\nAnd draws a line across the boundary.\n\nShe knows the way the eyes of men can burn,\nHow they would take and claim and make her theirs,\nBut she has lessons that she needs to learn\nTo walk away from all their snares and prayers.\n\nLet them desire, let them want and chase,\nThey cannot hold what does not wish to stay;\nShe wears the power of averted face,\nThe gift of leaving when it is her day.\n\nNo man possesses what refuses him,\nThough biology may sing a loud demand;\nHer freedom makes the frenzy seem quite dim,\nAs she slips lightly from their grasping hand.", 7, "The blood runs hot and wild beneath the skin\nA frantic drum that beats a rhythm for the chase\nIt pulls me toward the heat, the heavy breath within\nThe ancient urge to find a face and hold a place\n\nBut in this storm of want where biology commands\nAnd every nerve screams out to yield and to be taken\nI stand apart with quiet, steady hands\nRefusing to be bound or ever shaken\n\nLet the frenzy rise, let the hunger take its toll\nLet the primal instinct beg for ownership and claim\nI am the captain of my own unbroken soul\nAnd I will walk away without a trace of shame\n\nNo man can hold the fire that burns inside my chest\nNo hand can cage the wind that fills my lungs so free\nI choose the moment when I put his love to test\nAnd turn my back on any who would try to seize me\n\nI am not a vessel waiting to be filled\nNot property to mark or keep or keep in store\nMy power is the space that I have willed\nTo leave the room and shut the heavy door", 6, "The blood hums a frantic rhythm in the ears\nA ancient drum beating against the ribs\nCalling for touch, for heat, for the surrender of skin\nYet she stands still amidst the gathering storm\nWatching the shadows lengthen and the eyes grow dark\nWith hunger that mistakes her for an open door\nShe feels the pull, the gravity of want\nThat heavy tide trying to drag her under\nTo be claimed, to be kept, to be owned\nBut her spine is steel wrapped in softness\nHer will a fortress built on quiet breath\nLet them offer gold or promises or hands\nShe knows the cost of being a thing to hold\nSo she turns, a slow and deliberate pivot\nLeaving the frenzy behind in the dust\nWalking away from every hungry mouth\nUnbroken, unbound, entirely her own", 3, "The blood hums a heavy, ancient tune\nbeneath the skin where fire meets bone,\na tide that pulls at the shore of her ribs\ndemanding to be fed, demanding to own.\nHe speaks in a language of heat and hunger,\nhis shadow stretching to cover her name,\nbut she feels the pulse not as a chain\nbut as a drum beating out her own claim.\n\nShe watches the frenzy rise like a wave\nthat threatens to swallow the sand and the stone,\nyet her feet are rooted in something deeper\nthan the instinct to yield or to lean toward the unknown.\nThe biology screams for a touch, for a merge,\nfor the sweet, dizzy loss of control within,\nbut her mind is a fortress with iron doors\nwhere no man can enter and call it his kin.\n\nLet him offer the world on a silver platter,\nlet him promise the stars if she stays in his light,\nshe knows the cost of being possessed by another\nis the quiet erasure of her own night.\nSo she turns from the altar of need and want,\nfrom the fevered gaze that seeks to consume,\nand walks through the chaos of wanting so much\nleaving only the echo of her perfume.\n\nNo hand can hold what refuses to stay,\nno voice can command the rhythm of her heart,\nshe is the storm and the calm after rain,\nthe one who decides when the wild parts start.\nTo walk away is the ultimate power,\nto say I am mine before the dawn breaks,\na woman unbroken, unbound, and free,\nchoosing herself over every mistake.", 6, "The pulse beats loud against the ribcage cage\nA rhythm borrowed from the ancient dark\nWhere fire and instinct blur the edge of age\nAnd hunger whispers names within the spark\n\nYet in the heat where shadows start to cling\nShe finds a spine that will not bend or break\nNo ghost of ownership can make her sing\nOr trade her breath for promises they fake\n\nLet longing rise like tides against the shore\nLet biology demand its heavy toll\nShe knows the door is hers to open wide or lock\nTo hold the self that makes the spirit whole\n\nFor every man who thinks he owns the night\nWho seeks to claim the moon within her eyes\nWill find the silence sharp as sudden light\nAs she steps back beneath the vast, free skies\n\nNo chain of touch can bind the wandering soul\nNo promise carved in skin can hold her still\nShe walks away with power in her control\nAnd leaves the frantic need upon the hill", 6, "The pulse beneath the skin demands a name\nA rhythm built to break against the bone\nYet in the heat where shadows start to bloom\nShe finds the quiet space to stand alone\n\nHer heart may race with ancient, wild design\nTo pull the tide of longing from the shore\nBut she holds breath that refuses to be owned\nA fortress built within the silent core\n\nNo hand can claim what never seeks to bend\nNo voice can rewrite stories written deep\nShe walks through fire without the weight of chains\nWhile every promise breaks before it keeps\n\nThe hunger fades when will becomes a wall\nA sovereign mind that answers only self\nShe turns her back on gravity's embrace\nAnd leaves the storm to drown in its own wealth", 6], [190, "train", "I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger", "Alan Seeger", "\"A poem about a speaker coming to terms with his unavoidable death, describing his curiosity about dying and his dutiful acceptance of meeting death in the spring.\"", "I have a rendezvous with Death\nAt some disputed barricade,\nWhen Spring comes back with rustling shade\nAnd apple-blossoms fill the air\u2014\nI have a rendezvous with Death\nWhen Spring brings back blue days and fair.\n\nIt may be he shall take my hand\nAnd lead me into his dark land\nAnd close my eyes and quench my breath\u2014\nIt may be I shall pass him still.\nI have a rendezvous with Death\nOn some scarred slope of battered hill,\nWhen Spring comes round again this year\nAnd the first meadow-flowers appear.\n\nGod knows 'twere better to be deep\nPillowed in silk and scented down,\nWhere Love throbs out in blissful sleep,\nPulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,\nWhere hushed awakenings are dear ...\nBut I've a rendezvous with Death\nAt midnight in some flaming town,\nWhen Spring trips north again this year,\nAnd I to my pledged word am true,\nI shall not fail that rendezvous.", "The winter in my bones has settled deep\nAnd I have counted every fading leaf,\nYet now a strange and quiet hunger stirs\nTo see what lies beyond the final breath.\nIs it a door that opens to the light?\nOr just a silence soft as falling snow?\nI do not fear the dark that waits for me,\nBut wonder at the shape of what I'll know.\n\nThe sap begins to rise within the trees,\nA green command that pulls against the cold,\nAnd so I turn my face toward the spring\nTo meet the end with stories yet untold.\nIt is my duty now to lay down arms,\nTo walk the path where all men must eventually go,\nTo greet the reaper in the blooming grass\nAnd let the season take its gentle flow.\n\nNo struggle now, no bitter fight with time,\nJust open hands and eyes wide with desire,\nTo step into the mystery of death\nAmidst the fire of flowers and the spire.\nThe world will wake while I begin to sleep,\nA fair exchange beneath the warming sun,\nI go to join the cycle of the earth\nUntil the work of dying is undone.", "I have heard the rumor of myself\nno longer being, for a long time;\nand I am curious about it.\nIt is not that I am afraid of it:\nit is that I am very curious about it.\nI want to know what it will be like\nto be dead.\nI do not think it will be like anything\nthat I have ever been alive to know.\nI shall be dead before spring comes.\nI shall be dead before the grass\nis green.\nI shall be dead before the trees\nare leafy.\nI shall be dead before the birds\ncome back.\nI shall be dead before the birds\nbegin to sing.\nI shall be dead before the birds\nbegin to make nests.\nI shall be dead before the birds\nbegin to lay eggs.\nI shall be dead before the birds\nbegin to hatch eggs.\nI shall be dead before the birds\nbegin to fly.\nI shall be dead before the birds\nbegin to sing again.\nI shall be dutifully dead.", 2, "I have not feared the closing of the eye\nAs much as I have wondered what is there,\nIf light will change its quality or die,\nOr if a different kind of air\nWill fill the lungs that now are failing me.\nIt is a strange and quiet curiosity\nTo think upon the final mystery.\nBut spring is here, the green shoots break the snow,\nAnd since the season bids me go,\nI shall be dutiful and meet him now,\nWith bowed head and without a vow\nOf staying longer than I ought to stay;\nI'll walk into the bright and living day\nAnd let him take me in the month of May.", 6, "The winter has been long and hard to bear\nBut now the air is soft with coming green\nI feel a strange and quiet curiosity\nAbout the place where I have not yet been\nIt is not fear that holds me in this room\nNor anger at the closing of the door\nBut wonder what the silence really means\nAnd if the light will be the same or more\nI know the time is fixed and cannot change\nNo plea of mine can make the season wait\nSo I will pack my spirit for the range\nAnd meet my end before the garden gate\nIt must be spring when I am called away\nWhen buds are breaking on the thorny rose\nI go with duty as my only stay\nTo join the earth beneath the freshening snows\nOr rather, to become the soil itself\nAnd let the sap run up through roots of mine\nThis is the final duty of myself\nTo drink the rain and make the grasses shine\nSo here I stand and watch the swallows come\nAnd wait to see how death will taste and look\nLike honey on a tongue or bitter gum\nLike reading from a very ancient book\nI am prepared to walk into the wood\nWhere shadows stretch and sunlight starts to fade\nDoing exactly as the years have stood\nAnd leaving all the heavy debts unpaid\nFor spring is here and I am ready too\nTo meet the guest who comes to take his due.", 6, "The winter in my bones has turned to dust\nAnd I am tired of holding up the sky,\nYet strange it is to wonder what comes next\nWhen all the familiar lights begin to die.\nIs there a silence deeper than the snow?\nOr just a wind that blows through empty halls?\nI ask these questions as the sap begins\nTo rise and swell within the garden walls.\n\nIt is not fear that holds me in this place,\nBut quiet curiosity for the end,\nLike watching how the river finds the sea\nWithout a struggle or a single friend.\nSo let me go when cherry buds unfold,\nWhen green returns to claim the frozen ground,\nFor spring is where the dying must belong,\nWhere life and death are finally unbound.\n\nI walk toward the blossom and the light\nWith duty in my step and peace inside,\nNo longer fighting against the turning wheel\nOr hiding from the truth I cannot hide.\nThe season calls me home with gentle hands,\nA final duty I am glad to keep,\nTo lay my heavy head upon the grass\nAnd sleep among the flowers while they weep.", 6, "The winter has finally loosened its grip on my chest\nAnd I feel a strange pull toward the quiet that waits\nNot with fear, but with a scholar's gentle hunger\nTo learn what happens when the breath simply stops.\n\nIs it a dark room or a field of endless light?\nDoes the heart remember how to beat without a rhythm?\nI have spent a lifetime asking questions of the sky\nNow I am ready to let the silence provide the answer.\n\nThe frost is melting from the edge of the garden\nWhere the crocuses push through the thawing earth\nIt seems fitting that I should go when the world wakes\nWhen life insists on blooming even as I fade.\n\nThere is no anger left in this weary bone\nOnly a duty to step forward into the green\nTo meet the end not as an enemy at the door\nBut as a guest arriving just as the spring begins.", 6, "The frost has lifted from the garden gate\nAnd I feel a strange pull toward the dark\nNot with the fear that once would hold me tight\nBut with a quiet, burning spark of want\n\nI wonder how the silence truly sounds\nWhen breath becomes a memory of air\nIf roots will drink the rain I leave behind\nOr if the stars will simply cease to care\n\nIt is not time to run or build a wall\nTo hide from what the seasons always bring\nFor winter cannot last beneath the sun\nAnd spring demands the offering it sings\n\nSo I will walk out to the open field\nWhere daffodils have started to unfold\nAnd meet the end that waits with gentle hands\nAs old and new are woven in the cold\n\nNo anger burns within my weary chest\nOnly a duty owed to turning years\nTo let the life I held so tightly go\nAnd trust the cycle that the earth holds dear\n\nThe wind calls softly through the waking trees\nA promise made before the first leaf grew\nI close my eyes and step into the light\nTo trade the known for something vast and new", 7, "The winter fades within my weary bones\nAs something stirs beneath the frozen ground\nI wonder what awaits beyond the veil\nA silence soft or whispers of a sound\n\nNo fear can hold me when the air turns sweet\nWith blooms that rise from soil I once called home\nMy heart beats slow, a rhythm meant to cease\nWhile cherry petals drift where shadows roam\n\nI do not run from time's inevitable tide\nBut walk toward it with a quiet grace\nTo meet the end in gardens newly born\nAnd trade my breath for spring's enduring face", 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 hand that rocks the cradle,\nI am the rough hand that breaks the neck.\nI am the dew that wakes the grass,\nI am the frost that kills it.\n\nI am the gentle rain that fills the cisterns,\nI am the deluge that sweeps the house away.\nI am the warm breath on a baby's cheek,\nI am the hot blast from the mouth of hell.\n\nI am the mother who bears children in pain,\nI am the father who takes them in pain.\nI am the silk that smothers,\nI am the steel that cuts.\n\nOne nature, two hands.\nOne face, smiling and weeping at once.\nSoft as a feather, hard as a diamond,\nI am all these things,\nAnd I am none of them alone.", 5, "I am the rain that breaks the drought\nAnd turns the dust to living green,\nI am the flood that drowns the house\nAnd strips the forest to the bone.\n\nMy touch is soft as falling snow\nThat covers fields with white repose,\nMy touch is hard as falling stone\nThat crushes all it overthrows.\n\nI give the breath within your lung,\nI take the breath within your lung,\nThe same sweet air, the very same,\nIs both the song and funeral song.\n\nI rock you gently in my hands,\nI tear you from your mother's hands,\nOne nature wears a double face,\nBoth tender nurse and butcher's blade.\n\nDo not ask me which I choose,\nTo build or break, to loose or lose,\nFor softness holds the strength to kill,\nAnd toughness keeps the power to heal.", 6, "I am the rain that breaks the drought\nand fills the cup of thirsty ground,\nthe gentle hand that lifts a sprout\nwhere life is newly found.\n\nYet I am also winter's bite,\nthe frost that stills the beating heart,\nthe crushing weight of endless night\nthat tears the world apart.\n\nMy touch can heal a broken bone\nor snap it clean with sudden force,\na soft and tender, quiet tone\nthat guides the dying horse.\n\nThe same deep current in the vein\nthat feeds the bloom and kills the weed,\nholds pleasure and the sharp, cold pain\nwithin the very same seed.\n\nSo do not ask me to be one\nor choose the soft or choose the hard,\nfor I am rising like the sun\nand falling like the sword.", 6, "I am the rain that wakes the sleeping seed\nAnd the flood that washes roots away,\nThe gentle hand that holds a child to sleep\nAnd the cold stone that ends the light of day.\n\nMy touch can knit a wound with velvet grace\nOr crush the bone beneath a winter weight,\nA soft embrace that warms the freezing face\nThen turns the air to ice before your fate.\n\nThere is no split between the mercy and the blow,\nNo separate heart for healing or for harm,\nJust one deep river where the currents flow\nTo bring the bloom and to invite the storm.\n\nThe same essential force that builds the tree\nIs what will tear it down when seasons change,\nA paradox of wild necessity\nWhere love and loss are bound in one strange range.\n\nSo do not fear the shadow in my light\nNor trust too much the sun upon your skin,\nFor I am both the ending and the birth,\nThe quiet peace that waits within the din.", 6, "I am the rain that breaks the drought\nand floods the fields until they drown,\na gentle hand that coaxes green\nfrom soil that refuses to be bound.\n\nMy touch can heal a fractured bone\nor crush the stem of fragile bloom,\nthe same warm wind that sings to spring\ncan strip the forest bare with gloom.\n\nIn softness lies my power deep,\nin hardness rests my mercy too,\nfor life requires the quiet seed\nand storms that tear the sky in two.\n\nNo split exists between the blade\nthat cuts the wheat or saves the grain,\none breath that warms the newborn cry\nand chills the blood within the vein.\n\nI hold the cradle and the grave\nwithin a single, shifting palm,\nthe tender root and jagged stone\nare both the beating of one calm.", 6, "I am the rain that fills the riverbed\nAnd the drought that cracks the earth below\nA gentle hand that cradles every seed\nWhile roots of ice begin to grow\n\nThe same wind that lifts a butterfly's wing\nCan tear the roof from off a house\nSoft as silk against a weary cheek\nHard as stone when silence turns to dust\n\nIn my breath, the forest finds its light\nIn my shadow, the last ember dies\nI hold the warmth that heals the broken bone\nAnd bring the cold that freezes time and eyes\n\nNo war between the mercy and the steel\nFor both are woven in the same design\nTo break the dam is not to lose control\nBut to let the water finally shine", 6, "I hold the seed that breaks the soil\nAnd turn the stone to dust beneath the rain\nA gentle hand that heals the open wound\nWhile shadows stretch across the quiet plain\n\nThe river feeds the thirsty roots below\nYet carves the canyon deep within the bone\nA whisper soft enough to lull a child\nThat drowns the world when silence turns to tone\n\nI am the breath that fills the rising chest\nThe final sigh that steals the light away\nNo war between the mercy and the end\nFor both are woven in the same gray day\n\nSoft as the moss that clings to ancient walls\nHard as the iron forged by fire's heat\nTo build the life I one day must release\nIs not a choice, but how the heart completes", 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?\nThe black one for the darkness in my soul?\nOr the white one for your snow-white hand?\nOr a red one for the blood I have not shed?\nI have no heart to draw you with a black lead.\nAnd I have no heart to draw you with a red lead.\nI have only this black lead and I am black.\nWhich pencil should I use?", 2, "Ophelia, which of these\nshould I employ to trace\nthe lineaments of thy face?\nThis black lead is too severe,\ntoo like the thoughts that make me fear;\nthis red is too much like the blood\nthat stains my uncle's bed and wood.\nPerhaps this white chalk, soft and pale,\nto match the lily in thy hair?\nOr this dark charcoal, bold and deep,\nto draw the secrets thou dost keep?\nTell me, sweet Ophelia, tell,\nwhich instrument shall paint thee well?", 3, "Ophelia, hold this slate of white and grey,\nAnd tell me which I should employ today.\nThis charcoal black, so deep as night's own breath,\nTo shade the lines that lead to life or death?\nOr shall I take the silver pencil here,\nThat mimics moonlight on a winter tear?\nPerhaps the red, to mark the heart within,\nBefore the final tragedy begins?\nMy hand is heavy with a prince's doubt,\nBut for your face, I have no fear of what about.\nSo choose the tool that best can capture you,\nBefore the day turns into something new.", 6, "Ophelia, hold your hand so still\nBefore the charcoal dust can fall.\nWhich lead is true to capture this?\nThe softest grey or sharpest black?\n\nShall I use silver for your eyes,\nOr graphite dark to trace your brow?\nThis one is too rough for skin,\nThat one will fade before the light.\n\nTell me, sweet, which instrument\nCan draw a soul that shifts like mist?\nIs it the pencil made of bone,\nOr just the shadow of my doubt?\n\nChoose for me, my dear Ophelia,\nFor all these sticks are broken now,\nAnd none can sketch the face you wear\nWhen madness walks between us two.", 5, "Ophelia, hold your breath and let the silence grow\nBetween the shadows of this castle floor\nWhich graphite shall I choose to map your brow?\nThe charcoal soft that smudges like a war\nOr silver point that gleams with cold decree?\n\nMy hand shakes with a question far too deep\nTo ask the stars above the stormy sea\nIf I should use the lead that makes you weep\nOr ink that stains the page before I speak\n\nThe umber pencil burns with earthy fire\nToo heavy for the lightness of your hair\nWhile blue might capture sorrow in the air\nBut fails to catch the spark within your stare\n\nTell me, dear ghost of all I cannot keep\nBefore the sun dissolves into the gray\nWhich tool of wood and dust will make you sleep\nWithin a sketch that time cannot decay?", 6, "The graphite whispers soft against the grain\nA shadow caught within a trembling hand\nOphelia, tell me, should I choose the dark\nTo carve the sorrow in your quiet face?\n\nOr shall I seek the silver of the lead\nThat mimics moonlight on a winter stream?\nThis charcoal breaks too easily to hold\nThe grace that flows beneath your gentle eyes.\n\nPerhaps the eraser waits to wipe away\nThe doubt that clouds the paper's white expanse\nBut which tool speaks the truth I cannot find?\nWhich stroke can capture all you never say?\n\nChoose for me, love, before the ink runs dry\nAnd leaves this portrait hollow as the air\nBetween the words we spoke and those unsaid\nNow fading like the light behind the door.", 6, "The charcoal whispers of a stormy night\nWhile graphite holds the silence in its grain\nWhich mark shall carve the shadow of your light\nBefore the ink of fate begins to stain?\n\nIs it the lead that breaks beneath my hand\nOr softest ash that fades before the dawn?\nTell me, dear soul, where do I make demand\nUpon the space between what's lost and gone?\n\nThis silver tip cuts deep through doubt and fear\nYet fails to capture grace within the line\nOphelia, speak so I may finally clear\nThe path where broken dreams and truth combine\n\nChoose for me now, the tool to hold the ghost\nOf all we were before the world turned cold\nA simple stroke to anchor what we most\nHave left behind in stories never told", 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 swings and I am small,\nAnd there are so many people tall.\nI do not know where to go,\nOr which way the green line goes.\n\nThere is a boy with red hair,\nWho plays with a ball in the chair.\nThere is a girl with pigtails,\nWho sings with other girls.\nThey all seem to know what to do,\nBut I do not know what to do.\n\nI hold my bag with both hands tight,\nAnd look for my mother at the sight.\nShe is gone, she has gone away,\nIt is the first day of school today.\n\nI want to belong like they do,\nI do not know what to do.", 6, "The door is bigger than I thought it would be\nand the noise is a wall that hits me in the face.\nMy shoes feel too heavy on the shiny floor\nand I hold my mother's hand so tight\nI think my fingers might turn blue.\nShe lets go and walks away, smiling a smile\nthat looks like a goodbye but says stay.\nI stand by the cubby with my name on it\nbut the letters look like strange little animals\ncrawling up the paper to get away from me.\nEveryone else seems to know how to do this.\nThey run to the blocks and they run to the books\nand they know which chair is theirs\nwithout even looking at the tag.\nI sit very still in a chair that is too big\nwith my knees pulled up to my chest\nand watch them play a game I do not know the rules of.\nTheir voices are loud and happy and fast\nlike birds that have always lived in this tree.\nI want to be one of those birds\nI want to fly into their circle\nand have them say come play with us\ninstead of standing here holding my breath\nwaiting for someone to notice me\nwaiting for someone to tell me where I belong.", 2, "The hallway stretches long and loud\nWith shoes that squeak on shiny floor\nI clutch my bag so tight and proud\nBut do not know the rules or door\n\nThe voices rise like sudden rain\nA tangled knot of names and sounds\nI stand alone inside the strain\nWhere lost and lonely kids are found\n\nMy teacher smiles a friendly face\nBut words she speaks are strange and new\nI try to find a proper place\nAmong the rows of chairs and view\n\nI want to sit beside them all\nTo share a toy or draw a line\nBut feel too small, too short, too tall\nTo make this big world feel like mine\n\nSo I will wait and watch and see\nIf somewhere in this noisy room\nThere is a spot for just me\nTo bloom and grow and shake the gloom", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and loud\nWith shoes that squeak and voices proud\nI hold my mother's hand so tight\nBut she must leave me for the light\n\nThe room is full of colors bright\nThat spin and blur before my sight\nA table made of plastic blue\nWhere strangers sit and talk to you\n\nMy name feels heavy on my tongue\nLike something said but never sung\nI watch them laugh and share their toys\nWhile I am just a quiet noise\n\nThe teacher calls a game to play\nBut I don't know what words to say\nDo they see me standing there?\nOr do I simply disappear?\n\nI wish the floor would open up\nAnd let me drink from someone's cup\nTo find a place where I fit in\nBefore the final bell begins\n\nThe clock ticks slow, the shadows grow\nI wonder if they'll ever know\nThat underneath this quiet face\nI'm searching for a familiar space", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and loud\nA sea of shoes that shuffle past\nI clutch my bag with trembling hands\nAnd wonder how long this will last\n\nThe colors on the wall seem strange\nToo bright, too sharp, too far away\nI search for faces I might know\nBut find only strangers in the fray\n\nA teacher calls a name I don't\nThe sound echoes off the floor\nI stand alone beside the chair\nAnd feel the quiet settle in my core\n\nMy heart beats fast against my chest\nLike something trying to break free\nI wish I could go back home again\nTo where the world is safe for me\n\nYet somewhere in this noisy room\nA small voice whispers soft and low\nMaybe tomorrow I will fit\nMaybe today I'll learn to grow", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and loud\nWith shoes that squeak and voices proud\nA sea of strangers, tall and strange\nWhere every laugh feels just a range\nOf sounds I cannot quite decode\nUpon this unfamiliar road\n\nMy backpack feels too heavy now\nAgainst the weight of silent bow\nTo rules I haven't learned to keep\nWhile shadows stretch across the deep\nOf classrooms filled with painted walls\nThat echo back my quiet calls\n\nI watch them play in pairs and groups\nConnected by invisible loops\nOf friendship built before today\nWhile I am left to drift away\nA single leaf upon the stream\nWithin a vast and waking dream\n\nI wonder if I'll ever fit\nOr if this heart will always sit\nOutside the circle, warm and bright\nSearching for a guiding light\nTo show me where I truly stand\nAnd help me find a place to land", 6, "The hallway stretches wide and cold\nA maze of voices, loud and old\nMy shoes feel heavy on the floor\nAs fear begins to take its hold\n\nThe colors shift in strange design\nWhere laughter fades and shadows climb\nI grasp the fabric of my sleeve\nWith trembling hands that dare not speak\n\nWhy do they move in perfect lines?\nWhile I am lost between the signs\nA quiet space where no one sees\nThe storm beneath my silent plea\n\nI watch the games I cannot join\nA broken thread, a fractured rhyme\nAnd wish for home, for safety deep\nBefore the final bell can ring\n\nOne step forward, then retreat\nTo find a place within this seat\nNot just to stand, but finally breathe\nAnd learn how to begin again", 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.", "In the low roofed smithy of a nameless town,\nA broken sword lay rusting on the stone;\nThe king was there in workingman's gown,\nAnd knew not that he had a crown to own.\n\nBut when the ruffians came and sought to slay\nThe poor old woman from her cottage door,\nHe lifted up the rusty blade that day,\nAnd struck them dead, nor asked for more.\n\nHe did not strike for pride, or for command,\nNor for the lust of gold, or land, or power;\nBut because the heart of man should stand\nFor good in such an evil hour.\n\nAnd as he struck, the rust fell off like rain,\nThe blade shone white with fire from the forge;\nIt was the best of steel, it was the best of strain,\nAnd looked as if it were just off the forge.\n\nThen all the people saw and understood,\nThat strength is not the might to smite and kill,\nBut goodness of the heart which does much good,\nAnd has the will to do the right thing still.\n\nThen they took off their hats and bowed the knee,\nAnd said, \"We see you now, O King and Lord!\"\nFor he who would be truly King to be,\nMust have a true and valiant sword.", 6, "No crown of gold nor purple robe\nCould make the hidden king appear,\nFor strength was not in muscle's scope\nBut in the heart that held no fear.\n\nThe sword lay broken on the ground,\nA jagged ruin, dull and dead,\nYet he who stooped to lift it found\nA purpose for his humble head.\n\nNot with a hammer's angry blow,\nNor fire from a tyrant's forge,\nBut by the patience that we know\nFrom gentle hands that do not gorge.\n\nHe took the fragments of the steel,\nAnd welded them with love's own flame,\nUntil the metal learned to feel\nThe glory of a nobler name.\n\nThen up it sprang, a blade refined,\nMore bright than any star above,\nFor tempered by a good man's mind\nAnd forged in truth and honest love.\n\nSo now the people see their king,\nNot by the scepter in his hand,\nBut by the strength his soul could bring\nTo heal the land and save the land.", 7, "No crown of gold nor scepter of command\nCould mark the king who walked among the sand,\nFor true worth hides beneath a humble guise,\nReflected in the kindness in his eyes.\nThe broken sword lay rusted in the dust,\nA symbol of a lineage turned to rust,\nYet when he took the hilt with gentle hand,\nHe did not seek to conquer or command.\n\nHis strength was not the muscle of the arm,\nBut quiet power that kept the world from harm,\nA goodness that could heal the deepest wound,\nAnd make the barren fields again be green.\nHe placed the fractured steel upon the fire,\nNot to destroy, but to fulfill desire,\nTo forge anew what time had torn apart,\nWith hammer blows that beat within his heart.\n\nAs sparks flew up to light the darkened sky,\nThe metal sang as if it meant to fly,\nThe cracks were filled with light and silver grace,\nRevealing now the ruler's rightful place.\nThe blade shone bright, no longer dull or weak,\nBecause the soul that held it dared to speak\nOf mercy first, then justice, pure and clear,\nThe hidden king is known by all who hear.", 7, "Beneath the rusted crown of silence he lay,\nA king unmarked by gold or royal decree,\nUntil the shadow stretched across the day\nAnd called for hands that would not bend to flee.\nNo scepter held his grip, but calloused skin,\nThat knew the weight of labor and of bread,\nFor true strength rises from the roots within,\nNot forged in fire where vain ambitions tread.\n\nThe sword was broken, snapped in two by fear,\nIts edge once dull with neglect and ancient dust,\nYet in the smithy's heat, the metal clear\nResponded only to a heart so just.\nHe did not strike the anvil with command,\nBut hummed a tune of mercy to the steel,\nReforging what was shattered by the hand\nOf time, until the fractured parts were real.\n\nAs light returned to shards of iron gray,\nThe blade sang out a note of pure intent,\nRevealing that the worth of kingship lay\nIn how much love a broken soul had spent.\nThe crown was not a circle made of stone,\nBut circles drawn by kindness on the land,\nNow known as one who walked the path alone,\nTo lead the people with a steady hand.\nThe destiny was never written high,\nIn stars or scrolls of old prophetic lore,\nBut in the way he wiped a tearful eye,\nAnd stood before the gate to open door.\nSo let the broken sword now shine anew,\nA mirror to the goodness deep inside,\nWhere hidden kings find truth in all they do,\nWith nothing left to prove and nowhere hide.", 7, "Beneath the rust and silence of the forge\nA crown was never made of gold or stone\nBut forged in quiet acts that left no mark\nUpon the world, yet shaped the soul alone\n\nThe blade lay shattered on the anvil's floor\nIts edge consumed by time and bitter rain\nYet hands that knew no glory sought to mend\nWhat others deemed beyond repair again\n\nFor strength is not the weight of heavy steel\nNor shouts that echo through a crowded hall\nIt is the gentle hand that lifts the weak\nAnd stands unbroken when the shadows fall\n\nAs fire breathes new life into the fracture\nThe metal sings a song of ancient grace\nNot born of blood or right of lineage\nBut from a heart that chose to love this place\n\nThe shards align with purpose clear and true\nReflecting light the broken once could hide\nThe hidden king now stands before the dawn\nWith destiny revealed in every stride\n\nNo scepter needed for the rule he keeps\nWithin the goodness that his spirit holds\nThe sword is whole, the path is finally clear\nAs truth unfolds where courage gently unfolds", 7, "The crown was lost beneath the moss and stone\nWhere silence kept a secret from the throne\nNo gold could speak of worth or royal line\nBut in the quiet, something started to shine\n\nA broken blade lay rusted in the mud\nForgotten by the hands of ancient blood\nYet when the stranger lifted it with care\nThe metal hummed a song beyond despair\n\nIt was not steel that made the warrior strong\nBut kindness where the heavy shadows long\nFor every drop of mercy shed as rain\nRekindled fire within the iron chain\n\nThe forge of truth required no flame of hate\nOnly the patience found at destiny's gate\nAs sparks flew up to mend the fractured edge\nThe king emerged from out the crumbling ledge\n\nHis heart beat loud against the silent night\nTurning the darkness into morning light\nThe sword now whole, a mirror for his soul\nProving that broken things can make us whole\n\nTrue power rises not from force or fear\nBut from the love that holds the world so dear\nAnd as the dawn reveals the hidden face\nThe broken king has found his rightful place", 7, "The crown was lost beneath the winter snow\nWhere silence guards a name no one recalls\nA stranger walks with weary, quiet feet\nYet carries storms within a gentle soul\n\nTrue power is not found in iron chains\nBut in the hands that lift the fallen down\nWhen kindness breaks the weight of heavy fear\nAnd hope blooms soft upon the barren ground\n\nThe blade once shattered by a tyrant's pride\nLies rusted deep within the river's flow\nIt waits for fire to burn away the doubt\nTo forge a light where shadows used to grow\n\nNo gold can buy the strength of righteous heart\nThat beats against the tide of endless night\nFor destiny reveals its hidden path\nIn every act of grace and quiet might\n\nNow steel returns with purpose sharp and bright\nAs broken pieces find their ancient song\nThe king awakes not from a throne of stone\nBut from the love that taught him how to belong", 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 sit before the blank page\nand the word that will do it.\nIt is not a big word,\nnot a loud word.\nThere are so many little words\nthat have been put on people,\nlittle sticky labels\nlike the kind you get\non the bottom of shoes,\nor the kind that come\nin sheets of a hundred\nfrom the stationery store.\nThe stationery store\nis a very good place\nto get labels.\nOne can go there\nand buy a label\nfor any sort of person.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too thin.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too fat.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too dark.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too light.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too young.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too old.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too stupid.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too smart.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too lazy.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too industrious.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too timid.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too bold.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too religious.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too irreligious.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too liberal.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too conservative.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too poor.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too rich.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too black.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too white.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too yellow.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too red.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too brown.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too pink.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too blue.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too green.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too orange.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too purple.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too grey.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too black and white.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Japanese.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Chinese.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Indian.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too American.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too English.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Scotch.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Irish.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Welsh.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too French.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too German.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Russian.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Polish.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Dutch.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Danish.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Swedish.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Norwegian.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Finnish.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Icelandic.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Greek.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Turkish.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Italian.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Spanish.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Portuguese.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Belgian.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Swiss.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Austrian.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Hungarian.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Czech.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a man who is too Slovak.\nOne can buy a label\nfor a woman who is too Romanian.\nOne can buy a label\n", 2, "I turn the pages of my mind\nbut find no noun that fits the shape\nof what they call me in the street\nor print in bold across the page.\nThey offer labels like cheap coats\nthat shrink against the winter skin\nand scratch at all the places where\nmy spirit tries to grow and spin.\nI search for one precise small word\nto cut the tape and free the tongue\nfrom definitions made by others\nbefore I was even young.\nA single syllable to hold\nthe vastness of a human soul\nthat does not fit inside the box\nthey built to keep it under control.\nI look for something sharp and bright\nto shatter glass and break the mold\na word that says you are yourself\nand nothing else can be told.", 5, "I dig through the dictionary of the street\nwhere nouns are heavy like stones in a pocket\nand verbs are sharp enough to cut the skin\nbut I cannot find the one that fits.\nThey call us broken, or dangerous, or less,\nslapping these tags on our backs like cargo\nwhile we stand still and try to breathe them off.\nI search for a syllable that shatters the glass\nof their narrow windows, a sound so bright\nit blinds the hand that holds the marker.\nIs it freedom? No, too soft, too worn.\nIs it rebellion? Too loud, too easily shouted down.\nI need a word that is a key and a door\nthat is a mirror and a hammer all at once\nto crack the shell they made for me\nand let the thing inside finally speak its name.", 2, "The dictionary feels too small today\nfor the heavy things they call us\nbroken, lazy, lost, or loud\nwords that stick like burrs to wool\nthat tear when you try to pull them free.\n\nI walk through rooms of hushed definitions\nsearching for a verb that cuts the chain\na noun that holds the shape of who we are\nbefore the mirror cracked and showed their fear.\n\nIs it rebellion? No, that implies a fight\nwhen we are simply breathing in the light.\nIs it freedom? Too broad, too cold a stone\nto hold the warmth of seeds we've never known.\n\nI turn the pages until my fingers ache\nlooking for a syllable that doesn't break\nunder the weight of what they think we are\na word that shines like water from a star.\n\nPerhaps the right word isn't written yet\nbut waits inside the silence we forget\na sound we make when labels start to fade\nthe quiet truth that no one can degrade.", 3, "I hunt through the silence of a crowded room\nfor a syllable sharp enough to cut the tape\nthat binds us to the boxes we were handed at birth\nwhere names like broken or lost are whispered with pity\nand success is measured in inches of compliance\n\nMy tongue feels heavy, dragging against the weight\nof definitions carved by hands that never trembled\nwhile I search for a verb that refuses to settle\na noun that expands instead of constricts\nsomething fluid enough to hold the storm inside\nwithout calling it chaos or something dark\n\nEvery dictionary page turns like a locked door\noffering synonyms for limits, for walls, for ends\nbut I need a word that breathes, that shifts and grows\nthat says the label is a coat too small to wear\nand beneath the fabric, the skin remembers how to move\nunwritten, unbound, and entirely its own", 2, "The dictionary feels too small today\nAs I hunt for a verb that cuts the noise\nTo shatter boxes built of quiet fear\nWhere strangers paint our faces in dull gray\n\nThey call us broken when we simply bend\nOr label wild the roots that seek the light\nBut every name they whisper starts to crack\nAgainst the truth we hold within the night\n\nI search for something sharp enough to wake\nThe sleeping giants buried in the chest\nA single syllable that breaks the chain\nAnd turns the heavy stone into a quest\n\nNo longer defined by what was said\nWe rise above the ink that tried to bind\nFinding the word that sets the spirit free\nAnd leaves the old definitions far behind", 6, "The ink of judgment dries too fast\nBefore the breath can catch its weight\nWe wear the names they carve in stone\nA heavy cloak, a narrow gate\n\nI search for syllables that break\nThe chains of what we used to be\nA whisper soft enough to shift\nThe ground beneath our history\n\nNo single term can hold the shape\nOf all the light we hide inside\nSo I reach out for something new\nWhere silence meets the rising tide\n\nTo speak a truth that refuses bounds\nAnd let the fractured pieces heal\nNot with a roar, but quiet grace\nThat makes the old definitions real", 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.", "If beauty were a mountain high and steep,\nAnd kindness were the valley soft and deep,\nAnd faithfulness were the sea that never sleeps,\nAll three in you alone I see asleep.\n\nYour beauty is the morning light on snow,\nYour kindness is the stream that gently flows,\nYour faithfulness is all I need to know,\nFrom winter's end to summer's heat and glow.\n\nI have not seen such beauty, kind, and true,\nIn all the world beside yourself, my dear;\nI have not seen such kindness, too, and true,\nNor faithfulness like yours appear so near.\n\nSo beauty, kindness, faithfulness agree,\nIn one sweet person, only you for me.", 7, "In you the three great virtues dwell as one,\nWhere beauty wakes to greet the morning sun.\nNot merely in the curve of lip or eye,\nBut in the kindness that makes angels fly\nTo rest upon your shoulder and your knee;\nA gentle soul that sets all captives free.\n\nAnd if this kindness is a flower fair,\nThen faithfulness is the strong air\nThat fills the sail and guides it through the storm,\nKeeping the vessel safe and keeping warm\nThe heart that loves you with an unspent fire,\nUplifting every wish and every desire.\n\nSo beauty, kindness, faithfulness combine,\nLike starlight on a dark and winter pine;\nI seek no other garden, field, or tree,\nSince all these graces live in only thee.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home,\nA beauty that no season can erode,\nNot just the bloom upon a rose to roam,\nBut grace that walks beside me on the road.\n\nYet greater than the face the world admires,\nIs kindness warm as sun upon the snow,\nThat feeds the soul with quiet, gentle fires,\nAnd makes the hardest winter pathways go.\n\nBut most of all, your faithfulness remains,\nThe anchor in the storm, the steady star,\nThrough shifting winds and changing earthly pains,\nYou are the constant near, however far.\n\nThese three harmonious threads in one are spun,\nBeauty and kindness bound by faithful art,\nUntil the setting of the final sun,\nI hold this perfect union in my heart.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home,\nA beauty that does not fade with passing years,\nBut blooms within the quiet spaces of your soul,\nWhere kindness flows like rivers to the sea.\n\nNo storm can shake the faithfulness you hold,\nA steady anchor in the shifting tides of time,\nWhile grace and gentleness walk hand in hand,\nTo weave a tapestry of purest gold.\n\nThree virtues dance together in your gaze,\nThe radiant face, the heart that never turns away,\nAnd love that stands as firm as ancient stone,\nOne perfect whole where all my hopes are grown.", 7, "In you the morning light finds its true home\nWhere beauty blooms not just in form or face\nBut in the quiet grace of every tone\nThat softens time and slows the hurried pace\n\nYour kindness flows like rivers to the sea\nA gentle hand that lifts the fallen soul\nIt calls the weary spirit wild and free\nAnd makes the broken pieces feel made whole\n\nYet through the storm where lesser hearts would break\nYour faithfulness stands firm as ancient stone\nA promise kept for love's own sacred sake\nNever alone, yet never truly known\n\nThese three are woven tight within your chest\nBeauty that shines, a kindness deep and wide\nWith loyalty that puts all doubt to rest\nThe perfect harbor where my heart can hide", 7, "In every glance, a sunrise breaks the dawn,\nWhere beauty weaves its light through morning air,\nYet kindness holds the warmth that keeps me warm,\nA gentle hand that lifts the weight of care.\n\nNo storm can shake the roots of what we share,\nFor faithfulness stands guard against the night,\nThree rivers flowing in a single stream,\nTo guide my soul back to your steady light.\n\nYou are the mirror where all virtues meet,\nThe quiet grace that makes the world feel whole,\nWith beauty, kindness, and a promise kept,\nYou hold the very center of my soul.\n\nLet time erase the maps of distant lands,\nI'll find you still within this sacred space,\nWhere love remains the only truth I know,\nWritten upon the rhythm of your face.", 7, "The morning light finds grace within your eyes\nWhere beauty blooms in colors soft and deep\nA gentle rhythm that the world denies\nTo all but those who dare to love and keep\n\nYour kindness flows like rivers through the stone\nA quiet strength that heals the fractured soul\nNo shadow dares to claim what you have shown\nA warmth that makes the broken pieces whole\n\nAnd faithfulness stands guard beside your heart\nA promise written in the silent air\nNo storm can tear apart this sacred art\nOr steal the hope we built beyond compare\n\nThree threads woven in one eternal thread\nWhere light and mercy meet without a sound\nIn you, the ancient truths are finally read\nAs time dissolves beneath your steady ground", 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.", "In the Hesperides' dark garden deep,\nWhere sunset lingers in a golden sleep,\nThe nymphs awake with garlands of green braid,\nTo guard the tree where golden apples are made.\nTheir white robes trail along the grassy floor,\nThey guard the orchard from the morning's door.\nBut near the trunk, whose leaves are gold and green,\nThe most tremendous guardian is seen:\nA hundred-headed dragon, bright and scaly,\nWhose eyes are like two balls of fiery balladry;\nHe coils about the tree's strong trunk around,\nAnd hisses low a very dreadful sound.\nThe nymphs and he, though different kind, agree,\nTo guard this fruit from all mortality;\nSo Ladon sleeps, and so the nymphs watch too,\nAgainst all thieves who would the fruit pursue.", 6, "Upon the slopes where Atlas stands,\nBeneath the starry night's command,\nThe Hesperides with braided hair,\nGuard well the tree that grows in air.\n\nIts boughs are bent with golden fruit,\nThat shine and glisten, cold and mute,\nAnd round it coils the dragon great,\nWith scales of green and eyes of slate.\n\nHis hundred heads watch every side,\nWhere none may pass and none may hide,\nSave when the moon is full and high,\nBeneath the vast and purple sky.\n\nThe nymphs sing soft a lullaby,\nTo keep the serpent's lids from fly,\nWhile he sleeps deep in slumber sweet,\nBeside the apples at his feet.\n\nBut if a thief should dare to tread,\nWhere sacred leaves and branches spread,\nThe dragon wakes with fiery breath,\nTo guard the tree and bring him death.", 7, "Beneath the boughs of heavy gold\nWhere twilight never grows too cold,\nThe Hesperides in green array\nWatch o'er the fruit that holds the day.\n\nTheir voices soft as rustling leaves\nA secret ancient song perceives,\nWhile near the trunk with scales of fire,\nThe dragon coils in dark desire.\n\nHis eyes are lamps of burning green\nThe fiercest guard ever seen,\nYet he and they in pact agree\nTo keep this sacred mystery.\n\nNo thief shall pass the thorny gate\nTo steal the weight of heaven's fate,\nFor nymph and beast stand side by side\nWith death and life and pride combined.", 7, "Beneath the boughs of silver bark,\nWhere golden fruit begins to spark,\nThe nymphs in woven green attire\nStand silent as a holy fire.\n\nTheir eyes reflect the moon's soft gleam,\nWithin this quiet, guarded dream,\nThey brush the leaves with gentle hands,\nAcross these sacred, hallowed lands.\n\nBut coiled around the trunk so old,\nA story of the dark unfolds,\nThe dragon scales like emerald stone,\nA watchful king upon his throne.\n\nNo thief may pass the thorny gate,\nFor fate and fear combine their weight,\nThe beast breathes out a sulfur sigh,\nWhile stars above the heavens lie.\n\nTogether they, the maid and snake,\nEnsure no mortal heart can take,\nThe apples that grant life anew,\nBathed in the dawn's eternal dew.", 7, "Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves\nThe silver nymphs in woven moonlight sleep,\nTheir fingers tracing veins of living leaves\nWhile ancient roots their silent vigil keep.\n\nAbove them hangs the fruit of burning gold,\nA harvest born from earth and starry fire,\nWhere stories of the Titans are retold\nAnd time itself grows heavy with desire.\n\nBeside the trunk, a scaled guardian coils,\nWith eyes like embers in the cavern deep,\nHis breath a storm that never quite dissolves\nThe promise that the sacred orchard keeps.\n\nNo thief may pass this threshold of the green,\nFor dragon scales and gentle hands unite,\nTo guard the light within the unseen scene\nAgainst the shadow of the coming night.", 7, "Beneath the boughs where twilight clings,\nThe golden fruit begins to sing,\nA chorus soft for roots so deep,\nWhere ancient secrets softly sleep.\n\nThree sisters weave their silver thread,\nTo guard the life that feeds the dead,\nTheir eyes reflect the starry night,\nAnd hold the dawn within their sight.\n\nNo wind dares touch the bark of gold,\nNo shadow seeks what lies untold,\nFor at the base, a scaled form wakes,\nWith emerald fire and silent stakes.\n\nThe dragon coils in endless loops,\nThrough misty air and morning droops,\nHis breath a storm, his gaze a wall,\nAgainst the thieves who dare to fall.\n\nTogether bound by fate's decree,\nThe nymphs and beast protect the tree,\nOne sings the song, one guards the gate,\nBefore the world can seal its fate.", 7, "Beneath the veil of twilight's gentle grace\nThe garden holds its breath in silent space\nWhere silver streams carve paths through ancient stone\nAnd roots of oak bind earth to sky alone\n\nThe nymphs dance soft on petals, dew-kissed deep\nWhile golden fruits hang heavy, secrets keep\nTheir hands outstretched to shield the sacred light\nFrom shadows that would steal the morning bright\n\nA serpent coils with scales of emerald green\nThe guardian beast where no intruder's seen\nIts eyes reflect the stars above the bough\nA promise kept within a quiet vow\n\nNo wind dares touch the branches overhead\nAs time itself slows down for what is bred\nBetween the fire and water, wild and still\nA pact forged in the heart of nature's will\n\nThe apples glow with warmth against the night\nDefying chaos, fear, and fading light\nTogether bound by threads of unseen grace\nIn this eternal, hallowed, quiet place", 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 ironing board is a mountain range\nof white linen, snow-capped and steep,\nand I am climbing it with a flatiron\nto smooth out the wrinkles of sleep.\n\nThe soap suds in the kitchen sink\nare planets in a milky way,\nand I am washing my hands of them\nin the middle of the day.\n\nA slip of paper in the street\nwith a telephone number on it,\nis a fragment of a dream\nI forgot I had won it.\n\nThe steam rising from the coffee cup\nis a spirit leaving the body,\nand I am thinking about nothing at all\nexcept that it looks pretty.\n\nThe broom sweeping up the dust\nis a poet sweeping up ideas,\nand the dust is made of stars\nand other things like these.\n\nAnd so the day goes by\nlike a poem written on water,\nand I am looking for the meaning\nin the bottom of a saucer.", 3, "The steam that rises from a chipped blue cup\nis not just water vapor in the air\nbut clouds unmoored, a white and drifting flock\nthat lift the kitchen ceiling to the sky.\n\nThe dust motes dancing in the shaft of light\nare tiny stars that fell to earth at noon\nand learned to waltz upon the wooden floor\nbefore they settled on the table leg.\n\nThe grocery list written on the back\nof an old envelope in purple ink\ncontains the names of planets and of loves\nand things we bought and things we lost again.\n\nThe bus that groans around the corner turn\nis like a whale that swims through streets of gray\nand holds us all within its metal flank\nwhile singing songs of iron and of rain.\n\nWe do not need to travel far or wide\nto find the dream where logic comes undone\nfor poetry is woven in the weave\nof socks and shirts and curtains drawn at night.\n\nIt hides inside the hum of refrigerator\nit waits behind the pattern of the rug\nit is the thought you have but do not speak\nwhile standing in the middle of the street.", 6, "The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light\nare not just dirt but tiny galaxies\nspun from the quiet of a Tuesday afternoon.\nA crumpled receipt in the pocket holds\na grocery list that rhymes with hunger,\nthe price of milk echoing the cost of sleep.\n\nWe walk through streets paved with gray concrete\nbut if we pause to listen closely enough\nthe rhythm of tires on wet asphalt\nbecomes a drumbeat for a marching band\nof invisible thoughts moving through the air.\nThe steam rising from a coffee cup\nis a ghost trying to tell us something\nabout the warmth of hands and the cold of morning.\n\nEven the rust on the garden gate\nhas a texture like old velvet or forgotten words,\na poem written in oxidation and rain.\nThere is no need to travel far to find\nthe strange and shimmering logic of dreams\nwhen they are woven into the wool of a sweater\nor hidden inside the silence between phone rings.\nThe mundane is merely the dream\nwaiting for us to wake up and read it.", 2, "The coffee stain on the morning paper\nspreads like a map of a country that never was,\nwhere rivers run backward and silence is loud.\nI trace the rim of the chipped mug\nand find a canyon carved by time,\nholding the echo of a laugh I almost forgot.\n\nOutside, the bus hisses to a halt,\na mechanical dragon exhaling gray breath,\nbut in the rhythm of its brakes,\nthere is a sonnet written in rust and friction.\nThe woman checking her watch\nis counting down not minutes, but heartbeats,\neach tick a stanza in a poem about waiting.\n\nEven the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light\nare stars in a galaxy made of attic air,\nswirling in patterns too complex for logic,\ntoo simple for fear.\nWe walk through the grocery aisles\nsearching for bread and milk,\nbut our fingers brush against the spine of the world,\nfeeling the pulse of something ancient and new,\nhidden inside the plastic wrap and cardboard box.\n\nThoughts rise like steam from the kettle,\ninvisible yet warm, shaping the room,\nturning the ordinary into a dream we can touch.\nNothing is just what it seems to be,\nfor the mundane is merely the loom\nwhere the invisible threads of wonder are woven tight,\nwaiting for a mind awake enough to see the pattern.", 2, "The coffee cup holds a galaxy of steam\nthat rises to rewrite the morning air\nwhile dust motes dance in shafts of light\nspinning stories older than the chair\n\nA cracked sidewalk becomes a river map\nwhere cracks are deltas feeding quiet seas\nand the hum of traffic turns to chant\nbeneath the weight of heavy, gray keys\n\nWe walk through rooms where shadows stretch\nto touch the edges of what we forget\nfinding that thought is not a distant star\nbut woven deep in fabric, thread, and net\n\nThe grocery list contains a secret verse\nthe rain on glass a rhythm soft and slow\nwe need no magic spell to see the dream\nit lives right here in all we know", 6, "The coffee cup holds more than bitter steam\nA quiet vessel for the morning's ghost\nWhere shadows stretch across the kitchen floor\nAnd silence hums a tune we cannot name\n\nThe rust on fence posts tells a story old\nOf rain and time and patience in the steel\nWhile dust motes dance in beams of afternoon light\nLike stars trapped in a room that knows no night\n\nWe walk through streets of concrete, gray and hard\nYet find the softest verses in the cracks\nWhere weeds push through with colors bright and wild\nDefying logic with their gentle grace\n\nThe rhythm of a train against the rail\nBecomes a heartbeat syncing with our own\nNo longer just a sound to pass us by\nBut language written deep within the bone\n\nIn every glance, a metaphor takes root\nIn every word, a universe expands\nThe ordinary folds into the strange\nUntil the dream is all that truly stands", 6, "The coffee cup holds more than bitter steam\nA quiet tide that pulls the morning near\nWhere words dissolve in silence, soft and deep\nAnd ordinary light begins to clear\n\nThe crack upon the pavement tells a story\nOf rain that fell before we learned to speak\nIt maps a path through shadows of the past\nA rhythm found within the broken peak\n\nNo magic wand is needed to transform\nThe dust that settles on the kitchen shelf\nFor every breath we take becomes a verse\nThat lifts the weight of gravity itself\n\nIn rusted gates and whispers of the wind\nThe dream takes root in soil of simple things\nWe find the stars reflected in the floor\nWhere poetry quietly begins to sing", 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 dream I am walking in the open field\nWith no master's whip and no overseer's eye,\nAnd the grass is under my bare feet,\nAnd the wind is free in my hair.\n\nThen I wake to the clank of the chain\nAnd the whine of the overseer's dog,\nAnd the memory of freedom turns bitter in my mouth\nLike a gallows-bird's egg.\n\nThe blood boils up in me like a river breaking its banks,\nAnd I see the great white man\nCowering before his God,\nAnd I see the black man standing upright\nBefore his God.\n\nI see the day coming when the hounds will howl\nFor their masters,\nAnd the dogs will be killed,\nAnd the men will be killed,\nAnd the women will be killed,\nAnd the children will be killed.\n\nI see the big house burning,\nAnd the big house burning,\nAnd the big house burning.", 2, "The whetstone sings against the scythe\nA sharp and silver sound,\nBut in my sleep I hear instead\nThe hoofs of horses on the ground.\n\nI run across a field of corn\nThat stands as high as men,\nWith nothing on my back but air\nAnd no iron at my pen.\n\nMy hands are free to hold a plow\nTo hold a wife, a child,\nNo overseer with whip in hand\nTo make the spirit wild.\n\nThen morning breaks like breaking glass\nAcross the dungeon floor,\nAnd I am back beneath the lash\nBehind the heavy door.\n\nThe dream is gone, the freedom lost,\nThe memory turns to bile,\nIt burns inside my gut and chest\nAnd makes me want to smile.\n\nNot smile with joy, but smile with rage\nAs quiet as the grave,\nFor I have seen how weak they are\nWho only know how slave.\n\nI see them now, this host of us\nRising from the soil,\nWe shall not ask for liberty\nBut take it with our toil.\n\nThe axe will turn upon its head,\nThe whip will be the rod,\nAnd we shall drive these masters out\nAs if they were not God.\n\nWe'll burn their houses to the ground\nAnd salt their fields again,\nAnd let them feel the terror that\nThey made us feel and feign.\n\nI close my eyes and see the day\nWhen chains will break and fly,\nAnd justice for the black man's blood\nShall rise up to the sky.", 3, "The moon hangs low above the cotton rows\nA silver coin I once could buy and sell\nI dream of running where the river flows\nOf walking free without a iron bell\nMy feet recall the dust of open roads\nBefore the chain was clamped upon my wrist\nThe memory burns beneath these heavy loads\nA fire that no master can resist\n\nBut dawn approaches with its gray, cold light\nAnd drags me back to work and whip and pain\nThe vision fades into the coming night\nAs rage begins to boil inside my brain\nIt turns to ash, it turns to red-hot steel\nTo think I ever slept so peacefully\nNow hatred is the only thing I feel\nThat grows and grows until it sets me free\n\nI see them all, the masters in their fear\nWhen shadows lengthen and the drums begin\nWe shall arise, the long-awaited year\nWhen blood will wash away the filth of sin\nNo more the lash, no more the broken back\nWe'll turn the tables on the cruel design\nAnd make the oppressors pay the final tax\nWith every drop of blood they made us sign\n\nThe day is coming when we stand as one\nWith torches high and voices loud and deep\nThe rising sun will greet the morning sun\nWhile those who owned us wake from endless sleep\nFor justice waits within the dark below\nTo rise up now and tear the walls apart\nAnd let the tyrants know the time is now\nWhen vengeance beats within a freed man's heart", 6, "The heavy iron bites into my wrist\nBut in the dark, the chains dissolve to mist\nI see the river where I used to run\nBeneath a sun that warmed me, not the one\nThat burns the back of a man who knows his place\nI feel the wind upon an open face\nNo master's whip, no overseer's shout\nJust silence and the stars and nothing but\n\nThen memory turns to ash inside my chest\nA fire wakes that will not let me rest\nI hear the crack of leather on my skin\nAnd feel the weight of every sin they've pinned\nMy hands are fists that tremble with the heat\nOf days when freedom was a stolen treat\nNow rage builds up like water in a dam\nWaiting for the moment, waiting for the slam\n\nI dream the day the silence breaks apart\nWhen every heart stops beating in its chart\nWe rise as one, a tide of black and red\nTo drag the oppressors from their gilded bed\nNo more the bowing head, no more the plea\nWe take our vengeance wild and endlessly\nTheir houses burn, their thrones turn into dust\nAnd in the smoke, we claim the trust\n\nThe morning comes with shadows long and deep\nBut in my soul, the promise I will keep\nUntil the chains are broken by the hand\nOf those who rose to rule this cursed land\nThe night is short, the dawn is coming soon\nWith thunder rolling from a thousand moons\nWe wait, we watch, we sharpen every blade\nFor all the debts that must now be repaid", 6, "The sun once kissed my skin without a chain,\nWhere fields were mine and laughter filled the air,\nNo iron bit to mark the heavy pain,\nJust open roads that led beyond despair.\n\nBut now the whip cracks loud against the night,\nAnd shadows stretch where freedom used to bloom,\nI close my eyes to fight the fading light,\nAnd let the fire of ancient rage consume.\n\nA dream takes hold where silence turns to roar,\nWhere broken chains lie scattered on the ground,\nWe rise as one to break the master's door,\nWith vengeance shaking every hallowed sound.\n\nYour castles fall beneath our rising tide,\nThe blood you spilled returns in rivers red,\nNo more the servant, no more the hide,\nBut justice spoken by the living dead.\n\nThe dawn will bring a world we finally claim,\nWhen those who bowed shall stand and take their due,\nNo shadow left to dim the burning flame,\nFor what was stolen is returned anew.", 6, "The chains bite deep into the calloused skin\nAs moonlight fades and shadows start to spin\nI close my eyes to find a field of gold\nWhere no master's whip could ever be told\nMy feet were free to run across the plain\nWithout the weight of sorrow or the pain\nA memory sharp as glass begins to cut\nAnd turns the quiet dream to rising gut\n\nThe fire builds within a silent chest\nNo longer bound by fear or forced to rest\nThe faces blur, the masters turn to dust\nConsumed by rage that only time has nursed\nI see the iron break beneath my hand\nAnd hear the thunder of a shifting land\nThe silence breaks with screams we held too long\nA song of vengeance rising in the throng\n\nOne day the sun will rise on broken gates\nWhen every lock gives way to desperate fates\nWe stand together, tall and unafraid\nTo wash away the debt of blood and shade\nLet them feel the weight they placed upon our backs\nUntil the world is healed by justice cracks\nThe night is ending, dawn brings something new\nA storm of retribution coming true", 6, "The chains that bind my weary bones feel heavy in the dark\nBut memory paints a sky where wind could touch the soul without a mark\nI see the fields I once called home, the sun upon my skin\nA time before the iron broke the spirit deep within\n\nYet silence cracks beneath the weight of every whispered lie\nAs anger blooms like winter frost against a dying fire's cry\nNo longer will I bow my head to masters who demand\nThe sweat of labor stolen from the beating of a hand\n\nIn dreams, the ground begins to shake with footsteps loud and true\nWhere shadows rise to meet the dawn and claim what was once ours to do\nThe gates swing wide for those who wait, the shackles turn to dust\nAnd justice finds its voice at last in thunder, blood, and trust\n\nWe walk through halls of broken glass, no fear left in our eyes\nFor every tear shed in the night becomes a storm that never dies\nThe oppressor trembles in the dark as history turns its page\nRevenge is not a distant hope, but coming with the age", 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.", "If you walk along the street with laughter\nlight as a feather in your hand,\nthe people will gather round you\nlike moths about a lamp.\nThey will come close to see what light is,\nthey will come close to feel its warmth;\nif you laugh they will laugh with you,\nand if you are happy they will be happy too.\n\nBut if you sit down on the steps and weep,\nor go about with a sad face,\nthe people will turn away from you.\nThey will not like to see you weeping,\nthey will not like to be near you when you are sad.\nThey will not come near you when you are suffering,\nbut they will go away from you.\nYou will have to go on weeping by yourself,\nand you will have to go on suffering by yourself.", 6, "When I laugh the door swings wide,\nA crowd rushes in to share the tide,\nThey gather round the fire of my glee,\nAnd make a party of what was me.\n\nBut when I weep the door shuts tight,\nAnd friends grow shy of the heavy night,\nThey fear the stain of my sorrow's tear,\nSo they walk away and leave me here.\n\nFor happiness is a public thing,\nTo which the merry multitudes cling,\nBut sadness is a dark, lone room,\nWhere flowers wither and shadows bloom.\n\nThough many come to see me smile,\nNone stay to walk that mile,\nThe happy are a band or crew,\nBut the sad are always only two:\nMyself and pain, alone and true.", 6, "The laugh is a bright coin tossed in the air\nThat clinks against the palms of all who pass,\nA signal that the sun is warm and fair,\nInviting them to gather round and bask.\nThey come with open faces, eager eyes,\nTo share the joke, to join the ringing sound,\nFor joy is like a fire where none denies\nThe heat that warms the crowd upon the ground.\n\nBut when the weeping starts, a quiet rain,\nIt falls on stones that only one can feel,\nAnd those who laughed before now turn away,\nAs if the sight of tears were something real\nToo heavy for their light and festive hearts,\nOr too contagious for their happy state.\nThey leave the mourner standing all apart,\nTo bear the weight of sorrow at his gate.\n\nSo happiness attracts the throng nearby,\nWhile grief repels them with its silent dread;\nWe smile to draw the world beneath our sky,\nBut cry alone inside our private bed.\nThe crowd will circle round the man who sings,\nYet vanish from the woman who must weep,\nFor laughter lifts us on a thousand wings,\nBut sadness makes us solitary deep.", 7, "A laugh rings out like silver bells\nThat summon neighbors to the door,\nThey gather round the warmest cells\nAnd walk together on the floor.\nThe joy we share becomes a chain\nThat binds the crowd in tight embrace,\nWe drink the sun and feel no pain\nWithin this bright and crowded space.\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall\nAnd silence fills the heavy air,\nNo chorus answers to the call\nOf those who struggle with despair.\nThe light that drew them near before\nNow seems too harsh for eyes so red,\nThey turn away from open sore\nAnd leave the grieving soul unsaid.\n\nFor happiness is loud and bright\nThat pulls the world into our hand,\nWhile sorrow hides within the night\nAnd walks alone across the land.\nWe share the feast of pure delight\nWith every friend who draws us near,\nBut face the dark without a sight\nWhen only solitude is here.", 7, "A sudden laugh is a lantern lit in the square\nThat pulls the weary wanderers from their chairs\nWe gather round the spark, drawn by the light\nOf joy that feels too heavy to hold alone tonight\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall like silent rain\nThe crowd disperses, seeking sun instead of pain\nThey cannot carry what you hold inside\nSo they step back and let the sorrow hide\n\nFor happiness is a bridge that spans the deep\nWhile grief is an ocean where only one can weep\nYou may be loved for every smile you share\nYet no hand stays to catch you when you tear\nThe world moves closer to the sound of glee\nBut leaves you standing still when you are free", 6, "The room fills when the laughter breaks the air\nA chorus rising from a shared delight\nWhere every smile invites another near\nAnd shadows flee the warmth of gathered light\n\nWe dance in circles drawn by joy's bright thread\nNo stranger dares to stand outside the ring\nFor happiness is built on what we said\nAnd pulls the broken pieces of us tight\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall unseen\nThe crowd retreats to keep their own hearts dry\nThey fear the weight of grief they cannot hold\nAnd turn away from sorrow's heavy sigh\n\nAlone you sit within the quiet storm\nWhile others seek the sun that warms the skin\nThe world moves on, too busy to be torn\nBy pain that only lives deep down within\n\nSo let them come to feast upon the cheer\nThat binds us all in bonds of fleeting grace\nYet know that suffering holds no company here\nJust silence where the lonely face must trace", 7, "The laughter spills like sunlight on the floor\nInviting hands to hold what once was cold\nA shared refrain that pulls the stranger near\nTo weave a tapestry of warmth and gold\n\nWe gather round the fire of a smile\nWhere joy becomes a bridge across the divide\nNo walls can stand against the gentle hum\nOf stories told where hope refuses to hide\n\nBut when the tears begin to fall unseen\nThe crowd retreats into the quiet dark\nFor sorrow is a weight too heavy for the light\nThat leaves the broken heart without a spark\n\nThey turn away from grief they cannot fix\nLeaving the weeping soul alone in silence deep\nWhile happiness invites a thousand friends\nSadness demands a promise none will keep\n\nIn every tear, a solitary road\nWhere only shadows walk beside the pain\nWe find our kin within the open sky\nYet bear the storm beneath a silent rain", 7], [228, "ultra_held_out", "i thank You God for most this amazing by E.E. Cummings", "E.E. Cummings", "A poem about a speaker thanking God and expressing a spiritual awakening through a renewed appreciation of the natural world, while acknowledging those whose eyes and ears remain unawakened to such beauty.", "i thank You God for most this amazing\nday:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees\nand a blue true dream of sky; and for everything\nwhich is natural which is infinite which is yes\n\n(i who have died am alive again today,\nand this is the sun\u2019s birthday; this is the birth\nday of life and of love and wings: and of the gay\ngreat happening illimitably earth)\n\nhow should tasting touching hearing seeing\nbreathing any\u2013lifted from the no\nof all nothing\u2013human merely being\ndoubt unimaginable You?\n\n(now the ears of my ears awake and\nnow the eyes of my eyes are opened)", "Lord, I bow my head to thank You for the light\nThat breaks the morning mist and warms the stone,\nFor how the river sings a song so bright,\nAnd every leaf reveals a truth unknown.\n\nMy spirit wakes within this green embrace,\nTo see Your hand in wind and falling rain,\nA sudden joy that fills this holy space,\nAnd washes clean the dust of old disdain.\n\nYet round about, I walk among the blind,\nWho pass the blooming rose with hollow gaze,\nWho hear the thunder but do not find\nThe voice that speaks through all these silent days.\n\nThey walk the path where gold is hidden deep,\nWith eyes shut tight against the dawn's appeal,\nWhile I have promises You bid me keep,\nAnd hearts too full of wonder now to feel\nThe weight of silence or the lack of sight,\nBut only gratitude for endless light.", "I thank thee, Lord, that I have eyes to see\nThe heavy dew upon the morning grass,\nAnd ears to hear the throstle singing free\nThe notes of which thou dost not let me pass.\nI feel a spiritual awakening now;\nMy spirit is renewed and set on fire;\nI bend my head before the beechen bough,\nAnd lift my heart to thy great high desire.\n\nBut some there are who walk this self-same way,\nWith eyes unawakened to such beauty bright;\nThey do not see the dawn's transfiguring day,\nNor hear the thrush in the dark early night.\nTheir eyes are closed, their ears are stopped with care,\nTo all these wonders of the earth and air.", 6, "Lord, I thank You for the morning light\nThat breaks the gray and sets my spirit bright,\nFor in the rustle of the autumn leaves\nI hear a hymn Your gentle voice weaves.\nThe river running to the distant sea\nIs but a mirror of Your mystery,\nAnd every flower opening its head\nReveals a truth that once was dead.\n\nBut round about me many walk along\nWith eyes that do not see, nor ears that sing;\nThey pass the sunset as a thing of course,\nAnd miss the beauty of the heavenly horse.\nThey look at stone and see no living face,\nThey walk through gardens but they know no grace.\nTheir world is flat, their horizon low,\nThey only know what men can show.\n\nYet I have seen, and now I cannot cease\nTo marvel at this wild and quiet peace;\nMy heart is full, my eyes are opened wide,\nTo all the glory that You have inside.\nSo let them sleep who will, and let them go\nUnawakened to the sun's soft glow;\nI thank You, Lord, that I may stand alone\nAnd know the earth, and know it as Your own.", 6, "Thank You for the light that breaks the gray,\nFor teaching me to see the green again,\nHow every leaf is woven with Your name,\nAnd every bird sings out a holy strain.\n\nI walk among the hills and feel awake,\nAs if a heavy veil has fallen down,\nThe river's voice is no longer mute or vague,\nBut speaks a language clear as any town.\n\nYet I look around at faces turned away,\nWho hear the wind but do not know its tune,\nWho pass the blooming thicket in the day\nAnd miss the glory of the afternoon.\n\nTheir eyes are open but they do not see,\nTheir ears are tuned to noise and not to praise,\nThey walk through gardens meant for ecstasy\nAnd walk through them in ordinary ways.\n\nForgive them Lord, for they have not been shown,\nThe secret door that opens to the soul,\nBut let my heart be all the more their own,\nTo love them while I make the broken whole.", 7, "I lift my hands to thank the Source of all\nFor waking up the silence in my soul,\nWhere once I walked but saw no grand design,\nNow every leaf reveals a sacred scroll.\nThe morning mist is not just water's breath\nBut incense rising from the earth below,\nAnd in the wind that rustles through the pine\nI hear a hymn that only grace can know.\n\nYet round about me, crowds move on their way\nWith eyes that see but do not truly look,\nTheir ears are tuned to static and to noise,\nWhile nature sings her ancient, quiet book.\nThey pass the river without feeling deep\nThe pulse of life within its flowing stream,\nThey walk beneath the stars with heavy heads\nAnd never dream they're walking in a dream.\n\nMy heart aches for the ones who cannot hear\nThe music woven in the falling rain,\nWho miss the miracle of blooming things\nAnd feel no joy amidst the sun or pain.\nBut I will stand as witness to the light\nThat floods the world for those who choose to see,\nAnd give my thanks for eyes that finally open wide\nTo what was always meant to set us free.", 7, "Thank You for the morning light that breaks the silence\nAnd paints the dew in colors I forgot to see,\nFor every leaf that trembles in the breeze\nWhispers a truth that sets my spirit free.\n\nI hear the river singing ancient songs\nTo ears that once were closed to such a sound,\nA sudden grace where wonder now belongs\nUpon this hallowed, breathing, living ground.\n\nYet some walk past the bloom and miss the rain,\nTheir eyes fixed on the dust beneath their feet,\nThey do not know the joy of gentle pain\nOr feel the rhythm of the earth's heartbeat.\n\nMy gratitude is deep for what is shown,\nWhile others sleep within a quiet gray,\nI bow before the seeds that you have sown\nAnd thank the dawn that leads me out today.", 7, "The morning light breaks soft against the glass\nAnd I remember how You shaped the air\nA silent hymn that only hearts can pass\nWhere every leaf reveals a prayer so bare\n\nI thank You for the way the river sings\nTo wash away the dust of yesterday\nFor how the ancient oak still stretches wings\nTo catch the dawn and turn it into day\n\nBut others walk beside me on this path\nWith eyes that see no color, ears that hear\nNo whisper from the wind or gentle wrath\nOf storms that clear the sky with sudden fear\n\nThey rush to find what cannot be held tight\nWhile beauty blooms in shadows they ignore\nBlind to the stars that guide the coming night\nAnd deaf to nature's quiet, sacred roar\n\nYet in my chest, a fire begins to glow\nAwake at last to all You meant to show\nNot just the world, but love that starts below\nBefore the seeds of wonder ever grow", 7, "The morning breaks not just in light but in a whisper\nA quiet promise woven through the trembling leaves\nI thank You for the breath that fills this chest of clay\nFor every shadow cast by branches reaching high\nWhere silence speaks a language older than my name\n\nThe river sings a song I finally learn to hear\nNo longer rushing past, but holding space within\nThe wind becomes a hand that guides the wandering soul\nAnd stone remembers stories carved by time alone\nIn this awakening, the world reveals its sacred heart\n\nYet some walk forward with their eyes turned inward tight\nUnmoved by gold that spills across the forest floor\nThey pass the bloom without a glance or grateful sigh\nAs if the earth were hollow, stripped of all its grace\nTheir ears are closed to melodies the heavens weave\n\nI stand between the noise and what remains so clear\nA bridge built on the gratitude of rising dawn\nMay patience soften walls where fear has taken root\nUntil the moment comes when silence finds them too\nAnd they too see the miracle beneath the falling rain", 6], [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", "Six-sided vagabond of the upper air,\nA speck of nothing in the vastness white,\nBorn of a breath and nothing more to spare,\nOne of millions on a winter night.\n\nNo one would have missed you if you fell,\nOr missed you much had you not fallen at all;\nYou were the least important thing of all,\nThe least significant of snowflakes' fall.\n\nBut as you whirled about the street lamp's light,\nAnd turned and tumbled in the eddying wind,\nA woman stood with lips apart for sight,\nTo see what weather had been sent to send.\n\nShe was thinking of a lover just arrived,\nShe was waiting for him under the tree;\nJust at that moment when she most contrived\nTo think of him, and only him, was he.\n\nAnd so you came, by chance, and by good luck,\n(For who can say how chance or providence works?)\nAnd landed on her mouth, and did not suck\nHer lips together, nor put out her works.\n\nBut there you rested, on the lower lip,\nA tiny diamond, on a coral bed;\nSo small a thing, and yet so very big,\nAs big as all the world could ever said.\n\nFor there you stopped, and there you melted too,\nBecause she thought of him, and he came near;\nAnd what was nothing, became something too,\nBecause it happened at the rightest year.", 6, "A speck of nothing in the vast and white\nA crystal spun from air and frozen light\nNo name, no history, no place to be\nJust drifting aimlessly across the sea\n\nOf clouds that hold a billion others like\nItself, a tiny atom, small and sick\nOf being lost, it falls into the night\nAnd wonders if it has a destiny or right\n\nTo fall alone upon the barren ground\nOr vanish as a vapor without sound\nBut chance, that silent architect of fate\nHas guided it through many a twist and gate\n\nAcross the streetlamp's yellow, hazy glow\nPast winter trees that shiver in the snow\nUntil it sees a face upturned to sky\nWith lips apart and waiting, soft and dry\n\nIt lands, a sudden coolness on the mouth\nAt just the right moment, coming from the north\nHe turns his head, she turns her head to see\nThe tiny gift brought down by destiny\n\nThat nothingness has found a meaning now\nUpon those lips, beneath a furrowed brow\nA single flake, insignificant before\nIs now the reason for this kiss, and more", 7, "Born of a cloud in the vast and empty gray,\nA single crystal drifting far away.\nNo name to hold, no history to keep,\nJust one small secret that the cold winds sleep.\n\nIt spun through air where millions danced before,\nAn atom lost upon an endless floor.\nWhat purpose has a speck so thin and light?\nTo vanish in the morning or the night?\n\nIt fell past roofs, past trees, past silent streets,\nWhere human warmth and winter chill retreats.\nIt brushed a cheek, it landed on a glove,\nThen slid away without a trace of love.\n\nBut chance, that quiet weaver of the strange,\nDid turn the world within its sudden range.\nThe wind held still, the sky let out a breath,\nAnd guided it to life beyond all death.\n\nUpon a mouth that waited for a kiss,\nIt found a home within a moment's bliss.\nNo longer just a fragment of the snow,\nBut meaning born where two warm hearts can go.\n\nIt melted there, a tear of winter's art,\nThat touched the soul and entered in the heart.\nFrom nothingness to something deep and true,\nIt died to make a moment new for you.", 7, "Born of a whisper in the freezing dark,\nA tiny shard of nothing, cold and stark,\nDrifting through the vast and silent air,\nWith no one watching, with no thought to spare.\n\nJust dust and ice, a fleeting, weightless thing,\nUnnoticed by the world or any wing,\nUntil the wind decided on its course,\nTo guide this small and accidental force.\n\nIt fell past rooftops, past the streetlamp's glow,\nPast trees that held their breath against the snow,\nA random path, a chance upon the breeze,\nThat brought it down to where two lovers freeze.\n\nThe world was loud with laughter, soft with sighs,\nBeneath the gray and heavy winter skies,\nAnd as they paused to share a quiet space,\nThe flake found its true and final resting place.\n\nIt touched the curve of lips that sought a kiss,\nA moment made of silence and of bliss,\nNo longer just a fragment lost in white,\nBut proof that even small things find their light.\n\nFor in that touch, the journey found its end,\nA stranger turned to something more than friend,\nInsignificance dissolved in warmth and grace,\nAs meaning landed softly on her face.", 7, "Born of a whisper in the freezing dark,\nA single crystal with no name or mark,\nJust dust and vapor spun by silent hands,\nDrifting through the vast and empty lands.\n\nTo be so small is to be almost none,\nA fleeting speck beneath a heavy sun,\nLost within the storm that knows no end,\nWhere every path is broken and does bend.\n\nBut down it falls, a spiral, soft and slow,\nThrough winds that do not care where it will go,\nUntil the air grows still and time stands still,\nAnd gravity aligns with sudden will.\n\nIt touches skin as warm as summer rain,\nUpon the curve where breath and silence reign,\nThe lover waits, unaware of fate's design,\nAs winter meets the pulse of heart and line.\n\nNo longer lost within the endless white,\nIt finds its purpose in this shared delight,\nFor in that touch, the universe takes hold,\nA story written on a face of gold.\n\nThe cold becomes a promise, sweet and deep,\nA moment frozen while the world asleep,\nFrom nothingness to meaning, clear and true,\nThe snowflake found its home in you.", 6, "Born of a whisper in the freezing dark\nA single crystal, weightless and alone\nDrifting through the vast and silent void\nWhere billions fall without a sound or name\n\nIt spins in currents, cold and undefined\nJust dust that dances in the winter air\nUnseen by eyes that scan the gray horizon\nA fragment lost within the endless white\n\nThen winds shift soft, a sudden gentle turn\nGuiding its path toward a waiting face\nThe world below is blurred by falling snow\nBut time seems still for this one fleeting chance\n\nIt lands upon the curve of parted lips\nWhere warmth meets ice in quiet, tender shock\nNo longer just a speck of frozen rain\nBut proof that fate can find us in the storm\n\nIn that brief touch, the journey finds its end\nThe insignificant becomes the sacred sign\nA promise written on the skin of night\nThat even chaos has a place to land", 6, "Born in the silent dark of winter's breath\nA crystal formed from nothing but the cold\nDrifting through a world that does not know its name\nA speck of ice destined to fade and break\n\nThe wind carries it past towering peaks and empty fields\nWhere millions fall and vanish without sound\nIt wonders if this fragile shape has any weight\nOr if it is just dust beneath the gray sky's weight\n\nThen time slows down as clouds begin to part\nReleasing light that catches on the edge of glass\nA warmth rises from below, a heartbeat in the air\nGuiding the path toward a face turned upward soft and still\n\nNo storm commands this dance, no logic guides the fall\nJust gravity and chance aligning for a single beat\nThe snowflake lands upon the lips where silence used to be\nTurning the cold into a touch that warms the soul within\n\nIn that brief second, the journey finds its end\nNot lost to earth, but held by hands that wait too long\nThe meaning shifts from drifting ghost to whispered promise kept\nAs frost becomes a memory of love arriving late", 6], [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 know they were in the icebox\nfor your breakfast,\nand I know that you had been saving them.\nBut there they were in the glass bowl,\nplump and cold,\nand I could not help myself.\nThey were so sweet,\nand so very tempting.\nI am sorry.", 2, "I know they were not mine to take,\nthose blue and dusty plums you saved\nwith such care for your morning meal.\nBut the sight of them in the cold dark glass,\nso tempting in their purple weight,\nmade my reason fail me quite.\nI could not help but taste one first,\nand then another, sweet and tart,\nand now they are gone, and I am sorry,\nthat I could not wait until the light.", 6, "I know they were yours\nfor breakfast tomorrow morning,\nset aside in the cold dark\nto be sweet and firm.\nBut the smell of them\nthrough the glass door\nwas too much to bear,\nand my hand moved\nbefore my mind could stop it.\nNow there is only a plate\nwith three empty skins\nand a sticky smear of juice\nthat I cannot wash away.\nI am sorry I could not wait,\nsorry for the hunger\nthat was stronger than my promise,\nsorry that you will wake up\nto find your breakfast gone\nwhile I sit here\nfull and guilty.", 2, "I know they were waiting for your morning light,\nSitting cool and heavy in the dark of the shelf,\nReserved with a promise you made to yourself.\nBut the scent of them drifted through the kitchen door,\nA sweet, dusty perfume I could not ignore.\nMy hand moved before my mind could say no,\nReaching past reason to where the cold winds blow.\nOne was enough, or so I told my guilt,\nUntil the skin split and the juice ran built,\nSweet as regret on the tip of my tongue,\nWhile the silence of the fridge felt suddenly young.\nI am sorry for stealing the dawn from your plate,\nFor giving in when I should have waited and waited.\nThe bowl is empty now, save for the stain,\nAnd I will pay for this theft in the morning rain.", 5, "I saw them sitting in the cold glass light\nSaved for your morning, sweet and waiting there\nBut something pulled me past the door at night\nAnd left a stain of purple on my air\n\nThey promised you a start to break the dawn\nWith juice that clings like honey to the skin\nYet I could not let all that beauty go on\nBefore the hunger rose up deep within\n\nForgive the empty space where two should be\nThe sticky fingers and the guilty breath\nI know I stole what was meant only for thee\nA small theft born of weakness and of death\n\nNo words can bring the fruit back to its place\nOr wash the taste of longing from my tongue\nI bow my head in shame and quiet grace\nFor breaking vows before the day begun", 6, "I found them cool against the glass\nWhere morning light was meant to break\nA promise kept for empty plates\nThat I have chosen not to take\n\nThe skin was bruised with purple dust\nA scent that called my name too loud\nI told myself just one would pass\nBefore the dawn could leave a cloud\n\nBut hunger is a quiet thief\nThat steals the reason from the mind\nAnd now the bowl sits bare and cold\nWith nothing left for you to find\n\nForgive the greed that won't let go\nOf sweetness stolen in the night\nI know these plums were yours to hold\nUntil the breaking of the light", 6, "The kitchen hums in silence, cold and deep\nWhere morning light has yet to break the gray\nI stand before the glass, a thief of sleep\nTo steal the fruit you meant for breaking day\n\nThey sat so still within the plastic bowl\nA promise kept against the coming dawn\nBut hunger carved a hollow in my soul\nAnd left the quiet rules I promised gone\n\nMy hands reached out before my mind could speak\nThe skin gave way beneath a desperate grip\nNo warning bell could stop the sudden peak\nOf sweetness spilling on a trembling lip\n\nNow empty rinds betray the silent theft\nThe air holds echoes of a stolen taste\nI bow my head to what the morning left\nWith crumbs of regret that time cannot erase\n\nForgive the weight of this unspoken debt\nFor plums that were not mine to hold or keep\nThe sun will rise on promises we met\nWhile I remain awake in guilt's deep sweep", 7], [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 sit and watch you packing up your room\nwith bright new things that I don't understand,\nand see the girl who used to hide from storms\nrunning away to find a bigger land.\nI fear that when you come back home again\nyou will not know me or this house of mine;\nthat you will be a stranger in my den\nand I shall be a stranger in your line.\nI fear the polish on your fingers now,\nthe language that you speak with other friends,\nthe city air that makes you sweat and bow\nyour head to people I should never send\nmy greetings to. I fear you'll wear a smile\nthat isn't yours but one you bought and wore;\nI fear you'll think I'm tedious and old-style,\nand wish that you had never seen my floor.\nI fear you'll go and go and go away,\nand being good, and being wise, and fair,\nwill not be you at all but someone say\nthat you were once, but isn't anywhere.", 5, "I watch you pack your bags with eyes so bright\nAnd think of all the things you'll leave behind,\nThe quiet girl who loved the morning light\nAnd held my hand and never looked to wind.\nBut now you seek a city made of glass\nWhere people wear their faces like a mask,\nWhere hours tick and heavy shadows pass\nAnd I will not be able to make haste.\nI fear the day you'll look at me and see\nA stranger in a room you used to know,\nA woman full of strange civility\nWho speaks a language that I cannot know.\nYou'll change your name and cut your hair and dress\nIn styles that mock the clothes I used to buy,\nAnd when you speak you'll talk of nothing less\nThan how you've learned to lie and how to lie.\nI want to hold you back before you go\nBefore you turn into this other thing,\nBut time is water and it has its flow\nAnd I must let the river take its wing.\nSo go and be the person you must be\nThough part of me will die within my breast,\nFor I can only love the child to see\nThe woman whom I shall not understand.", 6, "I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know\nAnd wonder if the girl who slept upon my knee\nWill fit inside that suitcase made of steel and glass\nOr if she will dissolve before she leaves this room.\n\nYou speak of cities where the air is thin and loud\nOf paths that wind away from where our garden grew\nAnd in your eyes I see a stranger starting to bloom\nA face I love but cannot quite make out.\n\nI fear the day you turn and look right through me\nAs if I am a ghost or just a faded photograph\nThe mother that you knew will be a thing of past\nReplaced by someone cold and distant and unknown.\n\nDo not let the world carve lines into your brow\nThat hide the softness of the smile I used to hold\nDo not let the noise of strangers drown the voice\nThat once was mine to guide and yours to hear.\n\nI pray you find yourself without losing us\nThat when you stand so tall and far away from home\nYou still remember how it felt to be held close\nAnd not become a statue made of stone and ice.", 6, "I watch you pack your bags with quiet hands\nAnd trace the map of roads that lead away\nFrom where the garden blooms and sunlight stands\nTo places where I cannot make you stay\n\nYou speak a language I no longer know\nOf cities loud and dreams I cannot hold\nThe girl who used to run through fields of snow\nIs fading in the stories you have told\n\nI fear the day you turn and do not see\nThe shadow of the child I raised so dear\nWho waits behind the glass for you to be\nThe stranger that the future makes appear\n\nDo not let them change the shape of you\nOr wash the color from your gentle eyes\nFor if you lose the part that feels so true\nI will not recognize the one who flies\n\nSo take my love but leave the softness here\nBefore the world turns cold and hard and deep\nAnd leaves me standing with a sudden tear\nWatching the daughter that I loved asleep", 7, "I watch you pack your bags with things I cannot hold\nThe glitter of a world that moves too fast to know my name\nYou speak in codes I never learned, a language sharp and cold\nWhere every word is armor built against the love we made\n\nI fear the day your eyes will look right through my face\nAs if I were a ghost from some forgotten, quiet room\nA stranger wearing skin I once knew how to trace\nBefore the shadows grew so deep they swallowed up the bloom\n\nYou are becoming someone who does not need my hand\nSomeone who walks alone beneath a different sky\nAnd though I understand the path you must command\nIt breaks me just to see the old girl say goodbye\n\nI hold my breath and wait for when the door swings wide\nTo find a silhouette where my daughter used to stand\nA distant echo drifting far beyond the tide\nLeaving only silence in the space where we once planned", 6, "I watch you pack the boxes of your youth\nWith things I cannot hold, with words I do not know\nThe light that once reflected in your eyes\nIs shifting toward a horizon I can't reach\n\nYou speak of futures built on concrete walls\nWhere silence is a currency and warmth is rare\nAnd I am terrified to see the softness fade\nReplaced by armor forged from cold and steel\n\nWhat if the girl who loved the rain becomes\nA stranger walking through a storm she made herself?\nWhat if the voice that called for me at night\nDissolves into a quiet, hollow echo?\n\nI try to keep the door ajar just wide enough\nTo let the memory of who you used to be remain\nBut fear is growing roots inside my chest\nAfraid the version of you I love will vanish soon\n\nTime moves too fast to catch the hands you're letting go\nAnd every step away feels like a slow goodbye\nTo someone whole before the world could break her down\nTo someone lost within a life I cannot save", 6, "The silence grows between us, thick and cold\nAs shadows stretch across the floor you once called home\nI watch the fire fade behind your eyes\nA stranger wearing skin I used to know\n\nYou speak of dreams that pull you far away\nWhere promises are made and quickly broken\nAnd every word you whisper feels like glass\nThat cuts the bond we built from years of love\n\nI fear the day you turn and walk without a glance\nLeaving the ghost of who you were behind\nNot lost in time, but changed by hands unseen\nUntil I cannot find the girl I raised\n\nThe path ahead is paved with quiet storms\nThat steal the warmth from every gentle touch\nAnd I am left to hold a hollow space\nWhere laughter used to echo through the night", 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.", "In the Ning Nang Nong where the trees go Bing Bong!\nAnd the teapots go Tiddle-um-Ting,\nThe mice go Ping-Pong-Ping!\n\nWhen the big trees go Bing Bong!\nAnd the little teapots go Tiddle-um-Ting,\nThe mice go Ping-Pong-Ping!\n\nIf the big trees go Bing Bong!\nAnd the little teapots go Tiddle-um-Ting,\nAnd the mice go Ping-Pong-Ping!", 1, "In the middle of the Ning Nang Nong\nWhere the trees go bong and the teapots pong,\nAnd the mice go ping and the cows go plonk,\nAnd the frogs go clonk and the donkeys honk.\n\nThe big green trees go bong bong bong,\nWhile little tin teapots go pong pong pong.\nThe mice run round with a ping ping ping,\nAnd the frogs sit still with a clonk clonk clonk.\n\nIf you go to the Ning Nang Nong\nYou will hear the trees go bong bong bong,\nAnd the teapots go pong pong pong,\nAnd the mice go ping ping ping,\nAnd the frogs go clonk clonk clonk,\nAnd the donkeys go honk honk honk.", 1, "Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the loud noises throng\nThe trees go Coo-Coo-Ca-Cho and the teapots go Bong\nThe mice go Squeak-Snack-Snook with a Plop-Plop-Ping\nAnd the sky is full of Zizz-Zazz-Zung on a string.\n\nA cow goes Moo-Bop-Bang while a dog goes Woof-Woop-Woo\nAnd the sun goes Shimmer-Shazam with a bright yellow hue\nThe frogs go Ribbit-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-R", 1, "Step softly into the Ning Nang Nong\nWhere the air is thick with a hum and a song\nThe trees go Bop-Bop-Bop in the greenery high\nWhile teapots on branches go Whistle-Whizz-Sigh\nA mouse with a hat runs across the wet floor\nMaking Pitter-Patter-Clatter right out of the door\nThe pots shout Ping! as they tumble and spin\nAnd the mice squeak Zzzzt when the chaos begins\nNo silence can hide from this racket so loud\nIn the Ning Nang Nong where the noise fills the cloud\nSo listen to Bloop and to Thump and to Screech\nAs the world makes its music within earshot reach", 2, "In the heart of Ning Nang Nong where the wild winds blow,\nThe ancient trees begin to creak and groan with a low, deep thwack.\nTheir leaves rustle softly then burst into a loud crackle-pop,\nWhile roots tap-tap against the ground in a rhythmic stomp.\n\nA porcelain teapot wobbles on a mossy stone,\nHissing steam that sounds like sssshhh and a sudden clank.\nIt spills hot tea with a glug-glug-gurgle so strange,\nThen rattles its lid with a frantic ching-ching-clash.\n\nTiny mice scurry through the grass with squeak-squeak-speed,\nTheir paws patter-patter until they reach a high-pitched trill.\nThey nibble on berries that go crunch-crunch-crisp,\nAnd chatter back and forth in a rapid click-click-whir.\n\nThe air is thick with hums and whirs and zaps of sound,\nA symphony of nonsense where nothing stays still or quiet.\nJust the roar of the river and the ping of the rain,\nEchoing forever in the noisy, make-believe land of Ning Nang Nong.", 2, "Step softly past the whispering grass\nWhere giant teapots clatter and crash\nA porcelain boom, a ceramic squeak\nAs steam blows out with a mighty shriek\n\nThe trees above begin to hum\nWith branches that go *thrum* and *drum*\nLeaves rustle loud like a thousand drums\nWhile roots tap rhythms on hollow bums\n\nA tiny mouse scurries through the floor\nMaking a sound of *zip* and *roar*\nIt chatters sharp with a click and clack\nEchoing down every creaky track\n\nThe Ning Nang Nong is wild and free\nFull of strange noises for all to see\nNo silence here, just a chaotic song\nIn a world where everything goes wrong", 3, "The Ning Nang Nong hums a low, vibrating drone\nWhere ancient oaks whisper with a rustle and groan\nTheir branches collide in a creaky embrace\nWhile roots tap a rhythm beneath the dark space\n\nA teapot erupts with a hiss and a spout\nSteam dancing wild as it burns without doubt\nIt clanks against metal, a sharp metallic ring\nThat echoes through valleys where silence once clung\n\nTiny mice scurry on paws that click soft\nA chorus of whispers that lift them aloft\nThey squeak at the moon with a high-pitched refrain\nTurning shadows to sound in the pouring rain\n\nThe air fills with bubbles that pop like a drum\nNo quiet remains for the weary to come\nIn this realm of noise where the impossible thrives\nEvery breath is a song that the spirit survives", 6], [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 beneath the heavy sky of night\nWhen clouds rolled thick and black against the stars,\nAnd suddenly a rent was made in them,\nA rent as if by some great finger's stroke.\nThe moon came bursting through with silver fire,\nAnd poured a flood of light on hill and dale;\nThe dark clouds fled before her majesty,\nAnd left her queen of all the heavens wide.\nHow powerful and ever-present she!\nMy mind sat quiet, musing on this force\nThat rules the tides and guides the wanderer's feet,\nAnd rules me too, though I be far away.", 7, "I stood alone beneath the heavy sky\nWhere dark and woolen clouds had closed their fold\nTo shut the world from light and leave it high\nIn shadowed silence, cold and uncontrolled.\nThen suddenly a rent appeared on high\nAnd silver fire burst through the gloom of night\nThe moon, majestic, lifted up her eye\nAnd poured a flood of pale and holy light.\nThe clouds recoiled before that sovereign power\nAs if they feared the brightness of her face\nShe bloomed like some immortal, heavenly flower\nAnd filled the void with slow and steady grace.\nMy mind grew quiet as I watched her rise\nThat ancient force that rules the tides above\nUnchanging in the vastness of the skies\nA silent, powerful, and eternal love.", 7, "The heavy veil of storm had held the night\nIn suffocating grip of charcoal gray,\nUntil a sudden tear in clouds took flight\nAnd cast the silver moon in bright array.\n\nShe broke the darkness with a silent sword,\nA pearl of fire against the ink-black deep,\nAnd every shadow fled before her word,\nWhile weary stars awoke from troubled sleep.\n\nI stood alone beneath that radiant dome,\nWith mind unspooled to watch the grand display,\nAnd felt my small and wandering spirit home\nWithin the path she carved across the day.\n\nNo voice was heard, yet power filled the air,\nAn ancient force that rules the turning tide,\nLeaving my thoughts suspended in despair\nOr awe, before that vast and quiet pride.\n\nIt is there still, though clouds may come again,\nThis constant eye that watches from on high,\nA timeless light beyond the reach of men,\nThat burns forever in the vaulted sky.", 7, "The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud\nOf shifting gray where no star dared to gleam,\nUntil the wind tore through the silent cloud\nAnd broke the dark like waking from a dream.\n\nA sudden silver blade cut through the night\nTo flood the valley with a ghostly light,\nRevealing peaks in stark and holy white\nThat made the traveler pause in pure delight.\n\nNo human hand could hold such vast command\nOr weave the threads of such a radiant strand,\nIt hung above the earth with steady hand\nAcross the sea and over every land.\n\nMy mind grows quiet as the shadows flee\nBefore that ancient, unrelenting eye,\nA force that pulls the tide and rules the sea\nWhile time itself moves slowly, passing by.\n\nIt watches on without a word or sound\nAs I stand small upon this spinning ground,\nWhere silence is the only truth I've found\nIn all the majesty that hangs around.", 7, "The road was lost beneath a shroud of gray,\nWhere wind and shadow tangled in the night,\nUntil a silver edge began to fray\nThe heavy curtain hiding stars from sight.\n\nA sudden break, a breath of ancient light,\nAs moonlight spilled across the weary ground,\nTurning the darkness into softest white,\nAnd silence found where only storm had sound.\n\nI stand alone and watch the grand design,\nThat pulls the tides and guides the wandering eye,\nA constant force that makes the world align,\nBeneath the vast and unblinking sky.\n\nNo words can hold the weight of what I see,\nJust quiet thoughts that drift on currents deep,\nOf power vast and timeless mystery,\nWhile all the earth below falls fast asleep.", 7, "The wind has held its breath against the night\nAs heavy gray clouds swallow up the stars\nUntil a sudden fracture tears the dark\nAnd silver spills across the trembling air\n\nA giant sphere of ancient, silent fire\nBreaks free to wash the world in pale command\nIt strips the shadows from the mountain peak\nAnd paints the dust with light that does not fade\n\nI stand beneath this overwhelming grace\nWith thoughts too small to hold the vast design\nNo voice can speak the weight of what I see\nOnly the quiet hum of cosmic power\n\nThe moon remains unbroken by the storm\nAn ever-present force that rules the tides\nWhile I am left to wonder at the stillness\nThat guides the wandering soul through endless space", 7, "The night held tight a heavy veil of gray\nWhere shadows danced in silence, cold and deep\nUntil the wind began to tear away\nThe fabric woven by the stars asleep\n\nA silver edge emerged from fractured stone\nAs clouds retreat before a silent tide\nThe moon ascends, a crown of ancient bone\nThat paints the darkness with a gentle light\n\nNo voice can speak the weight of what remains\nAbove the traveler standing still and small\nA force that pulls the tides and breaks the chains\nOf fear within the heart that dares to call\n\nThe sky is vast, yet filled with quiet grace\nA timeless rhythm beating in the air\nLeaving the mind to trace its own embrace\nWith awe for all that lingers everywhere", 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 need not fear the shadow of the grave\nNor all the snares that subtle fiends devise,\nFor in my heart a boundless faith I have\nThat lifts me high above their lowly lies.\n\nNo temptation can seduce or lead astray\nThe soul that rests within God's mighty hand;\nNo power on earth this strong foundation sway,\nNo force of hell can from this rock unband.\n\nFor death itself is but a gate to life,\nSince He who died and rose is with me still;\nAnd though I wage against the world a strife,\nHis love will conquer, and it always will.\n\nWhat earthly force can ever overcome\nThe limitless, divine, almighty love?\nIt makes me strong when I am at my most dumb,\nIt bears me up when I would sink below.", 7, "I walk through the valley of the shadowed vale\nAnd fear not death, for he is but a gate\nTo open wide upon the other side\nWhere love awaits and waits to make me great.\nNo serpent's hiss can tempt my soul away\nFrom Him who holds the stars within His hand,\nFor I have seen the morning break on day\nAnd know that He has conquered every land.\nLet earth be shaken and let mountains fall,\nLet kings arise and empires build their walls,\nNo earthly force can stand against it all\nThe power that from His great bosom calls.\nHe is the shield, the sword, the tower strong,\nIn whom I live, in whom I move, am strong;\nHis love is limitless, it lasts so long,\nIt sings aloud a bright and holy song.\nSo let them come with all their might and main,\nThey cannot pluck me from His loving hand,\nFor I shall reign and I shall ever reign\nWith Him who rules o'er sea and over land.", 7, "When shadows stretch to swallow up the light\nAnd death stands knocking at the trembling door,\nI do not fear the coming of the night\nFor I have known the Love that lives forevermore.\nNo whisper from the pit can shake my soul\nOr turn my feet away from paths of grace,\nFor He who made the broken spirit whole\nHas set a smile upon my weary face.\n\nLet earth bring forth its armies and its fire,\nLet kings conspire and mountains crumble down,\nThey cannot quench the one eternal pyre\nThat burns within the city and the town.\nMy strength is not in muscle or in might,\nNor in the sword that mortal hands may wield,\nBut in the dawn that breaks the darkest night,\nThe shield no earthly force can ever yield.\n\nTemptation comes with honeyed words and sweet,\nYet I am anchored by a deeper sound,\nA rhythm where the heart and heaven meet,\nWhere love has found the lost and safe ground.\nSo let the waves roll high against the shore,\nLet tempests rage and howl across the deep,\nI rest secure in Him forevermore,\nWhile all the world around me falls asleep.\nNo power on earth can match this boundless tide,\nThis ocean of affection pure and free,\nWith nothing left for fear to hide inside,\nWithin the limitless embrace of Thee.", 7, "The shadow of the grave cannot command\nA heart that rests within the Almighty's hand,\nFor death is but a door I do not fear,\nWhen He who holds the stars draws me so near.\n\nNo whisper of the serpent in the night\nCan dim the torch of His eternal light,\nI walk through fire unburned by sin or shame,\nProtected by the shield of His great name.\n\nLet earth shake loose its mountains from their base,\nLet oceans rise to wash away this place,\nNo force of man, no power of hell below,\nCan touch the soul where divine rivers flow.\n\nMy faith is boundless as the open sky,\nAn anchor holding fast when storms run high,\nFor love that created time and space and breath\nIs stronger than the cold embrace of death.", 7, "The shadow falls but cannot dim the light\nThat burns within a heart surrendered deep,\nFor I have walked through valleys of the night\nAnd found no fear where promises still sleep.\nLet temptation whisper soft and sweet and low,\nIt finds no purchase on this solid ground,\nWhere grace has taught the weary soul to know\nThat every chain is broken by His sound.\nNo sword of earth can sever what is tied\nBy threads of love that stretch beyond the grave,\nNo force of man can turn the rising tide\nOf mercy that the Almighty chose to save.\nWhen death arrives to claim the breath I hold,\nI see not end but doors swung wide and free,\nFor in the face of all that can unfold,\nOnly His boundless strength remains for me.\nLet empires rise and crumble into dust,\nLet time itself dissolve beneath the sky,\nIn Him alone is trust, in Him is just,\nA power vast enough to never die.", 7, "When shadows stretch to swallow up the light\nI stand unshaken by the coming night\nFor in my heart a flame that cannot fade\nRemains the promise of the love He made\n\nThe whispers of the world try hard to break\nBut faith is stronger than the chains we make\nNo temptation holds a power deep enough\nTo sever what was written from the rough\n\nDeath knocks with trembling hands upon the door\nYet finds no fear within this quiet core\nIt knows it cannot claim what God has held\nA soul that in His endless grace has swelled\n\nLet storms arise and shake the earth below\nLet ancient tides of chaos start to flow\nNo force on land or sky can ever win\nAgainst the strength that lives within us then\n\nFor love divine is vast beyond all measure\nA boundless ocean without end or treasure\nIt lifts the weak and silences the dread\nAnd turns the final breath into a thread", 7, "The shadows stretch across the weary floor\nYet I stand tall against the rising tide\nFor in my heart, a fire burns so pure\nThat fear of loss has nowhere left to hide\n\nWhen whispers call to steal the soul away\nAnd doubt attempts to break the sacred bond\nI find a strength that never fades or sways\nA promise kept beyond the edge of dawn\n\nNo grave can hold what spirit claims as home\nNo chain can bind the grace that sets us free\nThe storm may roar, the winds begin to roam\nBut love remains the anchor for the sea\n\nLet empires fall and mountains turn to dust\nLet time erase the names we carved in stone\nThe power of the divine is vast and just\nProving that we were never meant alone\n\nThis light within defies the dark's decree\nA boundless force no mortal hand can sever\nEternal truth will set the broken free\nForever strong, forever, ever", 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", "It begins as a tickle in the back of the throat\na small dry rattle that is easy to ignore,\nbut soon it becomes the clockwork of my life,\nthe sound of a bellows working a broken bellows.\n\nI wake and the first thing I know is the weight,\na red-hot pig-iron plate laid on my chest,\nand I have to think about breathing,\nI have to remember to do it.\n\nThe stairway has become a mountain,\none step, two steps, puff, puff,\nthe blood rushing to my head but not to my legs,\nmy legs becoming thin sticks of wood.\n\nMy fingers are blue at the tips like ripe plums,\nand my toes are blue too,\nand there is always this whistle,\nthis squeaking hinge in the middle of my chest.\n\nWhen I lie down I cannot breathe,\nso I must sit up all night propped up on pillows,\ngasping like a fish thrown on the dock,\nwatching the light grow grey outside the window.\n\nMy face grows thinner and my eyes get bigger,\nand the little children who used to kiss me\nask why I look so much like a skeleton,\nand why I smell of old medicine and sweat.\n\nAnd now it is difficult even to speak,\nI have to stop after every word to gasp,\nand sometimes I think I shall never speak again,\nbut I am afraid if I stop speaking I shall stop breathing.\n\nAnd I am very tired,\nI am very tired of fighting for every breath,\nand I should like to lie down and go to sleep\nand never be wakened by the whistle any more.", 2, "The air is thick as wool inside my head\nAnd every breath a bargain I must make\nWith lungs that turn to stone and heavy lead\nFor every single ounce of oxygen I take.\n\nIt starts a tickle in the hollow chest\nA bird that flutters but cannot get out\nThen settles like a weight upon the breast\nAnd turns the morning into fearful doubt.\n\nThe ribs feel tight, a cage of iron bars\nThat squeeze the heart until it hurts to beat\nI watch the stars go out behind the bars\nAnd drag my feet across the cold street.\n\nMy fingers turn the color of the sky\nWhen winter comes too early to the town\nI cough and cough until the phlegm runs dry\nAnd then I swallow all the blood back down.\n\nThe mirror shows a stranger pale and thin\nWith eyes too large for such a wasted face\nThe war within is one I surely will not win\nAgainst this slow and quiet displace.\n\nThe bed becomes the world, the room the sea\nI float on sheets that smell of salt and sweat\nThere is no land at all remaining for me\nExcept the place where I have landed yet.\n\nThe darkness comes not with a sudden crash\nBut like a tide that slowly fills the lung\nI listen to the silence and the splash\nOf words unspoken by a dying tongue.", 6, "The air is thick as wool inside my chest\nA heavy blanket that I cannot shake\nEach breath a battle with a hollow guest\nThat turns the simple act of life to ache\n\nMy ribs feel like a cage of brittle bone\nThat creaks and groans beneath the weight of night\nI claw at empty space for something known\nBut find only the dry and ragged light\n\nThe color drains from cheeks that used to bloom\nAs fever paints a false and burning rose\nThe shadow in the corner of the room\nGrows taller than the body it encloses\n\nI hear the rattle deep within the throat\nLike wind through leaves that have already died\nIt whispers of the ending that I wrote\nBefore I ever felt this pain inside\n\nThe world grows small, the ceiling seems so near\nWhile strength dissolves like sugar in the rain\nI wait to see the end of all my fear\nAnd slip away into the quiet again", 6, "The air arrives but never fills the space\nInside the cage where ribs have learned to ache\nA heavy stone replaces light and grace\nAs every breath becomes a desperate break\n\nThe cough is deep, a rattle in the chest\nThat shakes the bones until they feel too thin\nNo quiet moment offers any rest\nJust fire burning where the lungs begin\n\nMy fingers turn a shade of bluish gray\nThe blood grows thick with oxygen denied\nI watch the fading colors of the day\nWhile inside me the dark tide slowly rises wide\n\nEach step a mountain climbed with trembling knees\nThe world grows distant through a glassy haze\nI beg the wind for just a gentle breeze\nBut find only the silence of my days\n\nThe weight upon the shoulders starts to bend\nThe vision blurs as shadows stretch and grow\nI wait for this relentless pain to end\nAnd let the final, shallow currents flow", 6, "The air grows thick with dust and shadowed weight\nA heavy stone that settles in the chest\nWhere every breath becomes a desperate gate\nTo fight the quiet, creeping, cold unrest\n\nMy ribs feel like a cage of brittle bone\nThat creaks beneath the pressure of the tide\nWhile lungs once vast now echo with a groan\nAs oxygen retreats to where it hides\n\nThe skin turns pale as parchment in the light\nAnd fingers curl like roots that seek no sun\nEach gasp a battle fought against the night\nBefore the final, fading race is run\n\nThe world dissolves into a hazy gray\nAs strength drains out like water from a cup\nThere is no voice left left to beg or pray\nOnly the slow descent until we stop", 6, "The air grows thick like heavy wool\nThat wraps around the ribs and bone\nA silent war inside the chest\nWhere every breath becomes a throne\n\nOf struggle, gasping for the light\nWhile shadows stretch across the floor\nThe body shrinks beneath the weight\nOf something that it cannot ignore\n\nThe skin turns pale as winter frost\nThe fingers tremble in the cold\nEach cough a jagged, tearing sound\nThat breaks the stories left untold\n\nThe lungs are hollow, filled with rust\nWhere life once danced in golden streams\nNow fading into quiet gray\nBetween the waking and the dreams\n\nNo longer strong enough to rise\nAgainst the gravity of pain\nWe watch the world through blurred and tired eyes\nAs sunlight slips away again", 6, "The air grows heavy, thick with unseen weight\nAs every breath becomes a mountain climb\nA fire burns behind the ribs so tight\nThat time itself begins to lose its rhyme\n\nThe chest expands but finds no room to heal\nEach gasp a battle fought against the gray\nWhere silence used to settle, now there's steel\nAnd shadows stretch across the fading day\n\nMuscles weaken as the body calls for rest\nWhile lungs refuse to hold the light within\nA quiet war waged deep inside the breast\nWhere hope slowly surrenders to the thin\n\nThe world outside is bright, yet dimmed by fear\nOf what the morning brings with every sound\nThe spirit clings to life, though spirits tear\nAs gravity pulls down on broken ground\n\nNo final words can bridge the widening gap\nBetween the soul and skin that starts to fade\nA gentle drift into the endless nap\nWhere pain dissolves in cold and quiet shade", 6], [294, "train", "To one who has been long in city pent by John Keats", "John Keats", "\"A poem about a city-dweller experiencing the awe-inspiring joy of nature during a countryside escape, breathing open air and delighting in birdsong and open skies before returning home as the day slips by unnoticed.\"", "To one who has been long in city pent,\n'Tis very sweet to look into the fair\nAnd open face of heaven,\u2014to breathe a prayer\nFull in the smile of the blue firmament.\nWho is more happy, when, with heart's content,\nFatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair\nOf wavy grass, and reads a debonair\nAnd gentle tale of love and languishment?\nReturning home at evening, with an ear\nCatching the notes of Philomel,\u2014an eye\nWatching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,\nHe mourns that day so soon has glided by:\nE'en like the passage of an angel's tear\nThat falls through the clear ether silently.", "The concrete hum fades into silence deep,\nWhere only wind and ancient oak trees keep\nA rhythm slow and steady as a heart,\nNo longer torn by city's frantic art.\n\nI breathe the air, so crisp it stings the lung,\nWith scents of pine where once the smoke was hung,\nAnd look above to skies of endless blue,\nThat stretch unbroken, vast and clear and true.\n\nA chorus rises from the hidden boughs,\nAs birdsong weaves its joy among the leaves,\nWhile time itself seems gently to allow\nThe heavy weight of urban life to eaves.\n\nThe sun dips low, a golden, slipping thread,\nThat steals the hours without a single sound,\nBefore I turn to walk the path ahead,\nLeaving this peace that I have newly found.\n\nThe road back calls, the day is gone too fast,\nYet in my chest a wilder sky remains,\nTo hold the memory of light so vast,\nUntil the next escape through rain or rains.", "I left the concrete canyons far behind,\nThe gray sky's low and smothering dome,\nAnd came to where the grasses wind\nAbout a wide and welcoming home.\n\nHow vast the air! how free and keen!\nIt washed the city dust away;\nI saw the bright blue overhead\nSeen only on a holiday.\n\nI heard the birds in riot sing,\nNo car-horn shrill or bell to mar;\nThey made a wild and joyous ring\nAbout the stars of morning star.\n\nI sat and watched the clouds go by,\nHigh up above the hawthorn tree;\nThere was no watch, there was no eye\nTo tell me what I ought to be.\n\nBut now the sun is going down,\nBehind the hills of darksome green;\nMost happily I turn about\nTo see the town again between.", 6, "The concrete canyon fades behind me now,\nAnd I breathe deep the air that tastes of rain\nAnd pine and rich dark earth, a living balm\nThat washes clean the dust of town again.\nNo ceiling here to cut the sky in strips,\nBut blue unbroken vaults from side to side,\nWhere white clouds sail like ships on summer seas\nWith nothing but the wind for their guide.\nA thrush begins his fluting melody,\nThen another, and a dozen more take up\nThe sudden chorus of the morning wood,\nSo loud it seems to make the forest jump.\nI stand quite still and let my heart beat slow,\nForget the clock, forget the telephone,\nForget the bills and traffic and the noise,\nAnd feel myself entirely overthrown\nBy simple things: a beetle on a leaf,\nThe sun's warm weight upon an open hand,\nThe joy of being just a small thing here\nIn this large world so kindly understood.\nThe day slips by unnoticed, gone too soon,\nThe shadows lengthen, gold turns into gray,\nAnd though I know I must return tonight\nTo streets where people hurry on their way,\nI carry back this open sky inside,\nThis birdsong ringing in my memory,\nTo keep against the time when once again\nI shall be forced to live in captivity.", 6, "The concrete hum fades into silence deep,\nAs I step out where wild green grasses sleep.\nNo sirens wail to break the morning's spell,\nJust open air that makes my spirit swell.\n\nA sudden rush of breath, so clean and sweet,\nThat lifts me from the pavement's dusty feet.\nAbove, a sky of boundless, azure blue,\nWhere clouds drift slow and shapes are never two.\n\nThen music starts, a trill from hidden trees,\nThe joyful song of birds upon the breeze.\nThey sing of fields and streams I've never seen,\nOf life unbound by walls or city screen.\n\nI watch the hours melt like honeyed light,\nAnd lose all track of day or passing night.\nThe sun dips low, a golden, slanting ray,\nTo call me back before I can say nay.\n\nNow shadows stretch across the familiar street,\nWhere asphalt meets the tired evening heat.\nI carry home the sky within my chest,\nTo rest the weary soul and find some rest.", 6, "The concrete hum fades into silence soft,\nAs gravel crunches under weary feet,\nWhere towering walls give way to rolling loam,\nAnd sudden, vast horizons make me sweet.\n\nI breathe a lungful of the morning air,\nUnfiltered by the smog of rushing streets,\nIt tastes of pine and rain and dampened earth,\nA healing balm for tired, city beats.\n\nAbove, the sky is not a narrow slice,\nBut endless blue where clouds drift slow and free,\nWhile unseen wings weave songs through branches high,\nA symphony meant only for the tree.\n\nThe lark ascends in spirals pure and clear,\nIts melody dissolving all my doubt,\nNo traffic light commands the rhythm here,\nJust sunlight pouring golden, warm throughout.\n\nI watch the hours slip like water past,\nNo clock to mark the turning of the day,\nUntil the shadows stretch across the grass,\nAnd twilight whispers that I must away.\n\nWith pockets full of leaves and heart made light,\nI turn my face back toward the urban gray,\nCarrying this quiet, wild delight,\nTo meet the streetlights as they start to play.", 6, "The concrete walls that held me tight all year\nDissolve beneath a sky of endless blue,\nWhere silence is not empty but so clear\nIt fills the lungs with air I never knew.\n\nNo sirens scream to break the morning light,\nOnly the thrush who sings a wild refrain,\nA symphony that banishes the night\nAnd washes clean the dust of urban pain.\n\nI watch the clouds drift slow and unconfined,\nWhile time itself forgets its ticking pace,\nLeaving the frantic rhythm far behind\nTo find a quiet smile upon my face.\n\nBut soon the shadows stretch across the grass,\nThe golden hour fades into the gray,\nAnd though the heart resists the coming pass,\nThe road calls back to where the city lay.\n\nI turn away from fields I'll miss too much,\nCarrying the song within my chest,\nTrading the wind for something made of touch,\nReturning home as daylight finds its rest.", 7, "The concrete hum fades into silence\nAs boots meet soft and yielding earth\nA breath drawn deep, no longer thin\nBut rich with rain and ancient worth\n\nAbove, the sky is vast and blue\nUnbroken by a single wire\nWhere clouds drift slow and wild winds blow\nTo feed the soul's forgotten fire\n\nA chorus rises from the trees\nNot traffic noise but song so clear\nThat time itself begins to cease\nAnd leaves behind the weight of fear\n\nThe sun dips low in golden grace\nWhile shadows stretch across the grass\nNo clock can mark this quiet space\nAs moments pass too fast to grasp\n\nI turn my face toward the road\nCarrying light within my chest\nThe city waits, yet I am changed\nBy fields that offered perfect rest", 7, "Concrete walls that held the weight of gray\nDissolve beneath a sky of endless blue\nThe heavy hum of traffic fades away\nAs morning breaks in shades of gold and dew\n\nNo sirens scream to steal the quiet space\nOnly the wind that whispers through the trees\nA sudden rush of wild, unfiltered grace\nWhere ancient roots and fragile life agree\n\nThe air is thick with scents of earth and rain\nA breath so deep it mends the weary soul\nIt washes clean the dust of urban pain\nAnd makes the broken spirit feel complete and whole\n\nAbove, the songbirds weave their silver threads\nA symphony no city ever knew\nThey dance upon the light that softly spreads\nAcross the fields where time moves slow and true\n\nI watch the hours slip like river stone\nUnnoticed as the sun begins to fade\nLeaving behind the peace I\u2019ve come to own\nBefore the shadows stretch across the shade\n\nThe road calls back to streets of steel and glass\nYet carries hope within the silent chest\nA promise that the wild will never pass\nUntil the heart remembers how to rest", 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 puts on the Italian sunglasses\nto hide the eyes that saw the cotton fields.\nHe buys the French cigarettes,\nsmokes them in front of the mirror,\npracticing the cool American look.\nHe talks loud about baseball and cars,\nhe talks low about Africa.\nHe wears his hat with a jaunty angle,\nhe walks with a swagger he learned from pictures.\nBut when he closes his eyes,\nhe sees the old women grinding corn,\nhe hears the drums in the distance,\nbut he cannot hear them himself\nbecause he is wearing earphones.\nHe thinks he is American because he is cool.\nHe thinks he is not African because he does not know it.\nHe has bought everything but himself.", 2, "He walks the street with a foreign gait\nIn Italian leather shoes too tight for his feet\nA silk scarf from Paris round his neck\nTo hide the sweat of a humid heat.\n\nHe speaks in slang he read in books\nNot the lilt of his mother's tongue\nWith a cool, detached look in his eyes\nAnd a song that is never sung.\n\nHe buys the brand that says success\nFrom a label made in a distant land\nBut when he passes the mirror glass\nHe cannot see himself at all.\n\nThe gold chain feels heavy and cold\nAround a throat that wants to sing\nOf the soil where his father grew up\nAnd the old songs the elders would sing.\n\nHe tries so hard to be one of them\nSo smooth and so slick and so new\nThat the man who was born on this earth\nIs slowly fading from view.", 5, "He pulls on the silk from a distant shore\nA pattern not his own, a borrowed roar\nThe sneakers are fresh from a Tokyo street\nBut they do not know the rhythm of his feet\nHe speaks in a slang that is not quite his tongue\nSinging a song that was never sung\nBy the elders who told him where he came from\nBefore the coolness made him dumb\n\nHe checks the mirror for the perfect pose\nIgnoring the soil where the real rose grows\nThe imported watch ticks a foreign time\nWhile the old drum beats a forgotten rhyme\nHe trades the stories of the village square\nFor a brand name jacket and expensive hair\nThinking if he looks like them enough\nHe will be accepted, be more than rough\n\nBut the reflection shows a hollow man\nWho forgot the plan, forgot the clan\nThe roots run deep in the African dust\nNot in the fabric or the gold or lust\nHe stands so tall in his imported gear\nYet feels the silence, the void, the fear\nOf being a stranger in his own skin\nWith nowhere to end and nowhere begin", 6, "He buys the leather boots from Milan\nAnd wears them on the cracked pavement of Detroit\nThinking the shine will polish away the doubt\nThat hums beneath his skin like a low electric wire\nHe speaks in slang he heard on a screen overseas\nForgetting the rhythm of his grandmother's hands\nThe way she clapped to a beat that had no name\nNow he nods at shadows in expensive suits\nMimicking a coolness that feels like borrowed air\nHis reflection in the shop window is a stranger\nWearing a mask made of imported silk and gold\nWhile the soil of his ancestors waits in silence\nUnwatered by the tears he refuses to shed\nHe walks fast to outrun the memory of home\nBut the ground remembers what he tries to forget\nEvery step is a lie told to the sky\nThat he belongs here when he has sold his soul\nTo buy a ticket to a party where he is not invited\nThe roots are deep but he has cut them with a knife\nOf vanity and fear\nNow he stands alone in a crowd of faces\nLooking exactly like everyone else\nAnd missing himself entirely", 2, "He trades the mud for polished leather shoes\nImported from a land he's never seen\nA suit cut sharp to hide the sweat and bruise\nOf walking paths that used to feel so green\n\nThe slang he speaks is borrowed, crisp and cold\nA mask of cool designed to blend right in\nWhere stories of the ancestors grow old\nReplaced by brands that promise where to begin\n\nHe laughs at jokes that don't quite make him smile\nWhile wearing gold that weighs upon his skin\nAnd walks a mile to prove he's worth the while\nBut feels the hollow growing deep within\n\nThe rhythm of the drum fades out of ear\nDrowned by the hum of engines foreign made\nHe fears the truth that whispers in his fear\nThat every step away has left him swayed\n\nNo longer rooted in the soil below\nJust floating on a surface, bright and thin\nHe watches how the shadows start to grow\nAnd wonders who he was before the sin\n\nOf trading self for something bought and sold\nTo fit a mold that wasn't built for him\nNow holding nothing but a story told\nIn imported threads that tear at every limb", 6, "The tailored suit whispers of Paris streets\nA silk tie knotted tight against the throat\nHe walks with a swagger learned from screens\nWhere shadows dance in neon, cold and bright\nNo trace of soil beneath these polished shoes\nJust imported leather masking what was true\n\nHe speaks in slang that doesn't quite belong\nA borrowed rhythm for a foreign song\nThe ancestors fade behind the designer glass\nAs he trades his story for a moment's pass\nEach brand name stamped upon his chest becomes a wall\nBuilding high to keep the quiet truth at bay\n\nHe forgets the hum of drums in distant lands\nReplaced by static from the city's hands\nThe mask fits perfectly, a cool disguise\nWhile hollow echoes fill his weary eyes\nFor in the quest to blend into the gray\nHe lost the color that once made him stay", 5, "He trades the rhythm of the drum for a beat that sells in stores\nA tailored suit from foreign hands, a silence he now wears\nThe streets he once called home feel distant, cold and thin\nAs he walks with borrowed confidence, pretending to begin\n\nImported leather on his skin, a mask of sharp design\nWhere ancestral whispers fade beneath the weight of time\nHe speaks in clipped perfection, erasing dialects of old\nTo prove he belongs somewhere that never asked him to unfold\n\nThe coolness is a fragile glass, reflecting what they want\nWhile roots run deep in soil that no longer knows his scent\nHe chases shadows made of gold, mistaking them for light\nAnd leaves behind the stories that once held the night so tight\n\nNo echo of the elders calls, no song within the chest\nJust hollow spaces filled with things that promise to arrest\nThe fear of being seen as less, a ghost within the crowd\nWho traded truth for acceptance, leaving self behind the shroud", 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 sit at the table\nand watch your hands,\nlarge and uncertain,\nmove about my plate.\n\nSometimes they are gentle\nlike birds lighting on a branch,\nsometimes they are heavy\nwith things I do not know.\n\nWhen I fall,\nyou run to me;\nwhen you fall,\nI do not know that.\n\nI learn to trust your feet\nbecause they come when I call,\nI learn to distrust your eyes\nwhen they look away from me.\n\nIt is like walking\non a new bridge\nthat has been built over water:\nit sways a little,\nbut it holds.\n\nI walk on it again,\nand again,\nand sometimes I stop in the middle\nand look down at the water,\nand then I look up at you,\nand you are looking at me,\nand we wait for one another\nto see if the bridge will hold.", 2, "The floor is cold and I am small\nAnd you are very tall\nYou say the dark is not so bad\nIf I just hold your hand\nBut sometimes when you look away\nI think you do not understand\n\nI push my chair across the floor\nAnd bang it on the leg\nYou tell me stop and I will stop\nBecause I like to beg\nTo see you smile at what I do\nOr laugh because I said\nA silly thing that made you grin\nAnd put a light inside my head\n\nBut then you go into your room\nAnd shut the door quite tight\nAnd I must wait and wonder if\nYou love me in the night\nDo you forget about me then?\nDo you forget my name?\nAnd does it matter to you much\nIf I should win or blame?\n\nThen morning comes and you are there\nAnd make some toast for me\nAnd ask me how I slept at all\nAs happy as can be\nAnd I decide to trust again\nThough yesterday was strange\nThat you will always come back round\nAnd change me from a range", 3, "The floor is cold beneath my bare feet\nand I stand at the edge of the room\nwatching you move like giants in slow motion\nyour voices a low rumble I cannot yet understand.\n\nYou reach down with hands that smell of soap and earth\nand I hesitate, a small bird testing the air\nbefore letting gravity pull me into your arms\nwhere the world becomes soft and safe again.\n\nSometimes you are far away behind a closed door\nand the silence stretches thin as paper\nuntil I hear the key turn and your footsteps return\nand the knot inside my chest loosens just a little.\n\nI learn to read the lines around your eyes\nto know when you are tired or sad or happy\nwithout needing words to tell me what to feel\ntrusting that your love is a constant tide.\n\nNow I walk ahead but look back often\nchecking that you are still there on the path\nknowing that even when I grow tall enough to fly\nyour hands will always be ready to catch me.", 5, "Small hands reach out to test the air\nBetween the floor and where you stand\nA quiet question, a silent prayer\nFor you to hold my trembling hand\n\nYou say I am safe, you say I am loved\nBut words are wind until they prove\nThe weight of promises above\nThe shifting ground we both move\n\nI watch your face when shadows fall\nTo see if fear will make you turn\nIf love is real or just a call\nThat fades before the morning burns\n\nThen in the dark, a steady breath\nA hum that cuts the silence through\nIt tells me life is not like death\nAnd I can trust the path with you\n\nThe bridge is built one step at time\nNot made of stone but made of grace\nA rhythm found in simple rhyme\nOf holding on and letting go the race\n\nSo here I stand, no longer small\nBut learning how to lean and trust\nTo catch the moments, big and tall\nWhen love returns us from the dust", 6, "Small hands reach out to touch the sky\nThen pull back when the wind blows by\nA question hangs in quiet air\nWill you be there? Will you be there?\n\nThe floor is hard, the steps are steep\nBut promises are yours to keep\nI stumble down and start to cry\nYou lift me up without a sigh\n\nYour voice becomes the steady ground\nWhere lost and found can both be found\nNo longer just a shadow near\nBut something solid, safe, and clear\n\nThe world expands beyond the door\nYet trust remains the open core\nA bridge built slowly, brick by brick\nWith every word, with every tick\n\nWe learn the rhythm of the heart\nHow parts of us will never part\nNot because we hold on tight\nBut knowing you will guide the light", 6, "The floorboards creak a familiar song\nWhere shadows stretch and softly long\nTo see the hands that hold me tight\nThrough every sudden, shifting night\n\nYou speak in tones I'm learning now\nA quiet promise, soft and slow\nThat trust is built not all at once\nBut brick by brick where love grows strong\n\nSometimes you turn your back to rest\nAnd wonder if the world will break\nI watch the way you breathe alone\nAnd learn the weight of what we make\n\nA bridge is built from whispered fears\nAcross the gap of growing years\nWhen silence speaks as loud as words\nAnd understanding slowly spreads its wings\n\nWe find our rhythm, step by step\nNo perfect map, no path too steep\nJust two hearts beating in the dark\nLearning how to let the light seep in", 6, "Small hands reach for a shadow that shifts with the light\nBetween the promise kept and the words left unspoken\nA quiet question hangs in the space of a room\nWhere safety is built on the rhythm of breath\n\nMoments of silence stretch longer than fear\nAs eyes learn to read what the heart cannot say\nThe bridge grows from footsteps that stumble and heal\nConnecting two worlds where the ground starts to shift\n\nDoubt is a whisper that fades into trust\nForged in the cracks of a fragile design\nLove is not perfect, but steady enough\nTo hold all the weight of a growing belief\n\nTime weaves a thread through the days we forget\nTurning the unknown into something familiar\nNot bound by rules, but by presence alone\nTeaching the soul how to lean without falling", 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.", "Let others court the noisy town,\nAnd wear the gold and purple gown;\nLet them be praised in song and speech,\nI prize my little orchard peach.\n\nIn spring when all the hedges bloom,\nAnd chase away the winter gloom,\nI drive my sheep to fresh green hills,\nAnd sit me down by crystal rills.\n\nWhen summer heats the yellow corn,\nAnd sunbeams strike at early morn,\nI hoe my beans and sing a tune,\nBeneath the large round harvest moon.\n\nNo lordly house with marble floors,\nNor guests who knock at many doors,\nWould please me half so well as this,\nMy cottage and its garden bliss.\n\nWhen autumn brings his chestnut brown,\nAnd beats the leaves all up and down,\nI sit and look upon my kine,\nAnd think of no one but mine own.\n\nAnd winter comes with sleet and snow,\nAnd bids the winds blow high and low;\nI sit beside my fire and smoke,\nAnd read the book I like to poke.\n\nSo let them have their fame and wealth,\nAnd talk of business and of health;\nI'll have my land and cattle too,\nAnd that is all I want to do.", 6, "Let others seek the crowded street\nWhere noise and hollow praise meet,\nAnd spend their days in gilded halls\nListening to flatterers' calls.\nI have no wish for such a life,\nTo be embroiled in strife or strife,\nBut rather here where silence grows\nBeside the quiet, flowing rows.\n\nMy morning breaks with misty air,\nAnd cattle lowing everywhere;\nThe smell of earth, the dew upon\nThe clover and the young corn.\nNo velvet robe, no jewelled ring,\nCan give the joy this labor brings,\nTo see the ewes drop lambs at dawn,\nAnd watch the winter frost withdrawn.\n\nWhen summer comes the heat is dry\nBeneath the vast and cloudless sky,\nAnd I am glad to reap my grain\nWithout a thought of wealth or gain.\nFor what are riches but a load?\nWhat fame but dust upon the road?\nA better lot is mine to keep\nWhile city folk are sunk in sleep.\n\nIn autumn when the leaves turn red\nAnd geese go flying overhead,\nI mind my store, I mend my fence,\nNor feel the lack of opulence.\nThen winter lays its hand on all\nAnd snows descend without a call;\nI sit beside my woodfire bright\nAnd rest me through the long white night.\n\nSo let them have their noisy throngs,\nTheir songs of love, their courtly wrongs;\nI'll take my land, my herds, my peace,\nFrom which these worldly cares shall cease.", 7, "Let others chase the gilded cage of fame\nAnd drink the wine that burns but never warms,\nI find my name within the soil's deep frame,\nSafe from the world's unquiet, shifting storms.\n\nNo crowded hall with hollow laughter rings,\nNo velvet chair where idle gossip flows;\nMy kingdom is the song the morning sings,\nThe scent of hay and winter's early snows.\n\nWhen spring arrives to wake the sleeping ground,\nI mend the fence and watch the lambs arise,\nA quiet joy in every sound I've found,\nBeneath the vast and indifferent skies.\n\nThe summer heat brings dust upon my skin,\nThe autumn harvest fills my barn with gold,\nWhile kings may lose their crowns and start again,\nMy wealth is in the stories left untold.\n\nLet cities burn with ambition's fevered light,\nAnd men compete for power and for place;\nI walk alone into the cooling night,\nContent to see the moonlight on my face.", 7, "The city calls with golden bells and noise,\nBut I have found my peace in morning dew,\nWhere silence breaks the heavy winter's poise\nAnd only wind speaks through the ancient yew.\n\nNo crown of gold can warm a frozen hand,\nAs well as wool that covers sheep at night,\nNo banquet spread across a marble land\nCan match the taste of bread by firelight.\n\nLet others chase the applause of crowded halls,\nAnd trade their souls for silk and painted stone;\nI walk the fence line where the tall grass falls,\nAnd find a kingdom in this field alone.\n\nThe seasons turn with slow and steady grace,\nThe spring brings green, the autumn brings the grain,\nA quiet smile upon a weathered face,\nTo watch the sun dissolve the summer rain.\n\nMy herd is loud enough to fill the air,\nThe crowing rooster marks the passing hour,\nWith no one there but earth and sky to share,\nI hold the weight of time within my power.\n\nSo keep your fame, your jewels, and your throng,\nYour noisy streets and lights that never sleep;\nI sing a song too simple to be wrong,\nWhile tending to the secrets that I keep.", 7, "The city calls with golden bells of fame\nAnd whispers names that echo in the hall\nBut I find peace within a quieter frame\nWhere morning mist hangs low above the wall\n\nNo silk to drape my shoulders from the cold\nNo feast prepared by hands I do not know\nJust soil beneath my palms, both rough and old\nAnd seeds that wait for spring's gentle slow glow\n\nMy herd moves soft across the emerald green\nA rhythm steady as the beating heart\nWhile crowds pursue the masks they strive to keep\nI watch the sun dissolve the night apart\n\nLet others chase the glittering, fleeting prize\nOf power built on sand and shifting stone\nI trade their noise for silence in the skies\nAnd walk this path entirely alone\n\nWhen winter comes to wrap the fields in white\nAnd stars burn sharp against the frozen air\nI need no torch to guide me through the night\nFor here, the simple truth is all I bear", 7, "The city calls with gilded noise and light,\nBut I find peace beneath the morning gray,\nWhere silence holds a weight that feels so right,\nAnd shadows stretch across the turning day.\n\nNo crown of gold can warm the winter chill,\nNor silk replace the wool against my skin,\nI trade the crowded hall for quiet hill,\nWhere only wind and wandering sheep begin.\n\nLet others chase the echo of applause,\nWhile I tend rows where ancient roots run deep,\nFrom spring's first bloom to autumn's final pause,\nA promise made between the earth and sleep.\n\nThe herd moves slow in rhythm with the rain,\nA simple dance no empire could command,\nI feel no need to seek another's gain,\nOr bow before a distant, hollow hand.\n\nSo let the world spin fast with all its pride,\nI choose the soil that knows my weary name,\nWith nothing left to hide or to divide,\nJust firelight fading on a wooden frame.", 7, "The city calls with gold and hollow sound\nBut I find peace in soil beneath my hands\nWhere silence grows like grass upon the ground\nAnd winter frost reclaims the quiet lands\n\nNo crown of fame can warm a frozen night\nNor silk replace the wool that keeps me whole\nI watch the stars without a guiding light\nA story written only for the soul\n\nMy herd moves slow across the morning dew\nEach breath a rhythm older than the stone\nWhile crowds pursue the things they never knew\nOf roots that hold us when the winds have blown\n\nLet others chase the noise of crowded streets\nFor I have found what riches truly mean\nIn autumn's harvest and the heat it beats\nWithin the space between the past and dream\n\nThe world may fade to whispers in the dark\nAs seasons turn their wheel without a plea\nI tend the fire, the field, the gentle spark\nThat needs no audience to set it free", 6], [326, "ultra_held_out", "On the Sale By Auction of Keats\u2019 Love Letters by Oscar Wilde", "Oscar Wilde", "A poem about lamenting the public auctioning of a beloved poet's private love letters to those who do not appreciate art, comparing the act to Roman soldiers gambling over Christ's clothes.", "These are the letters which Endymion wrote\nTo one he loved in secret, and apart.\nAnd now the brawlers of the auction mart\nBargain and bid for each poor blotted note,\nAy! for each separate pulse of passion quote\nThe merchant\u2019s price. I think they love not art\nWho break the crystal of a poet\u2019s heart\nThat small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.\nIs it not said that many years ago,\nIn a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran\nWith torches through the midnight, and began\nTo wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw\nDice for the garments of a wretched man,\nNot knowing the God\u2019s wonder, or His woe?", "The gavel falls like a judge's final breath\nUpon the paper where your heart once bled,\nSold to the highest bidder in this death\nOf privacy, by greed and silence fed.\nThey do not read the ink that trembled there,\nNor feel the pulse of love you tried to keep,\nBut count the cost with cold and empty air,\nAnd strip the soul before they fall asleep.\n\nJust as the soldiers cast their lots for Christ,\nDividing up the seamless robe of grace,\nThese modern wolves have made their darkly bright\nBet on the fragments of a sacred face.\nThey gamble over words meant only two,\nIgnoring how the poet's spirit bled,\nWhile I stand weeping for the truth you knew,\nNow scattered among those who never read.", "The auctioneer's gavel falls like a hammer on the head of Christ,\nAnd the Roman soldiers of the dollar sign stand round about his clothes.\nThey gambled for the seamless coat, these vulgar dealers in sentiment,\nAnd they have gambled for the poet's intimate and naked heart.\n\nThey are bidding for the sheets of paper where he told her how he loved her,\nWhere he spoke of moonlight and of lilies and of other things too tender\nTo be spoken out aloud before a crowd of speculators.\nThese men do not know what an apostrophe is, except as a mark of omission\nOf money from their pockets; they do not know what an adjective is,\nExcept as an advertisement; they do not know what a love-letter is,\nExcept as a curiosity, or as a piece of property to be sold.\n\nAnd so they bid against one another for the private letters of the poet,\nWho was crucified by ignorance, and who had his clothes gambled away\nBy the ignorant. And I sit here and lament the poet, and I lament\nThe ignorant, who have bought the poet's clothes, and do not know what to do with them.", 2, "The gavel falls, a wooden shot\nThat seals the fate of ink and thought.\nThese private pages, wet with tears,\nAre sold to satisfy our fears\nOf not possessing what is rare,\nTo those who breathe a vulgar air.\n\nThey bid in dollars, not in soul,\nWho cannot make the fragments whole;\nThey see no passion in the stain,\nBut just a profit to gain.\nLike soldiers at the cross they stand,\nWith dice held tight in bloody hand,\n\nDividing up the seamless coat,\nFor which the poet gave his throat.\nThey cast their lots for words of love,\nSent down from some celestial dove,\nAnd tore the robe that Christ had worn,\nFrom morning till the day was shorn.\n\nSo here we have the same sad play,\nThe sacred turned to common clay.\nThe letters torn, the lovers' grief,\nSold off to bring a short relief\nTo greedy men who know no art,\nWho tear the lover's bleeding heart.", 6, "The gavel falls like a stone in a silent church,\nSelling the ink-stained trembling of his hand,\nTo men who count the cost but never hear the verse,\nWho buy the soul to line a ledger's cold command.\nThey bid for scraps of paper, stained with tears and time,\nAs if the sacred fire could be bought by coin,\nAnd those who do not know the rhythm or the rhyme\nWill own the very heart that made the world anoint.\n\nIt is the same old scene beneath a different sky,\nWhere soldiers cast their lots around a naked cross,\nDividing up the tunic while the people cry,\nAnd none of them can see what they have lost.\nThey gamble for the garment, for the private word,\nNot knowing that the fabric held the breath of God,\nJust as these bidders think they've simply heard\nA poet's love reduced to market odds.\n\nThey split the linen of his secret joy,\nThe letters meant for one, now scattered to the crowd,\nWhile he, the victim of this modern ploy,\nLies silent in the dust, forgotten and unshrouded.\nO Roman dice, O modern auctioneer,\nYou cast your lots upon the holy vest,\nAnd make the sacred intimate appear\nAs common rags to be put to the test.", 6, "The gavel falls like a judge's final breath,\nSelling the ink that once held back the night,\nTo men who see only paper and debt,\nWho cannot read the tremor in the light.\n\nThey bid on whispers meant for one soft ear,\nA sacred script of longing turned to gold,\nWhile strangers laugh at verses full of fear,\nAnd buy the secrets that the heart has told.\n\nBehold the scene where Roman soldiers stand,\nDividing up the robe of Christ so pure,\nThey cast their lots upon the poet's hand,\nAnd make the holy garment insecure.\n\nJust as they gambled for a dying man,\nThese auctioneers divide the lover's soul,\nIgnoring how the sacred words began,\nTo fill the void with profit and control.\n\nNo reverence remains within the room,\nAs private grief becomes a public show,\nThe flower of devotion meets its doom,\nTrampled beneath the weight of cash and woe.", 6, "The gavel falls like a judge's final breath\nUpon the paper where your heart once bled,\nSold to the highest bidder for their wealth,\nTo those who see no soul within the thread.\n\nThey raise their paddles with a greedy grin,\nIgnoring ink that trembled in your hand,\nFor strangers now will hold the love you win,\nWho cannot understand what they command.\n\nJust as the soldiers cast their dice below,\nWhile Christ hung silent on the wooden tree,\nThey gambled for the robe of holy woe,\nDividing up the sacred mystery.\n\nSo now your whispers go to cold display,\nA prize for men who only count the cost,\nAs if the spirit could be bought and sold away,\nAnd all the tender words are finally lost.", 6, "The gavel falls like stone on silent dust\nWhere ink once breathed the rhythm of a heart\nNow sold to eyes that see no sacred trust\nBut only price and profit, cold apart\n\nThey bid in voices rough with greed and noise\nIgnoring verses meant for one alone\nWhile silence breaks beneath their hollow poise\nAnd love becomes a commodity to own\n\nJust as the soldiers cast their dice at dawn\nUpon the tunic woven from the light\nThey gamble now where tender thoughts were drawn\nTo strip the soul of every poet's night\n\nNo reverence guards the paper, thin and frail\nAs strangers tear the fragments from the air\nA modern crucifixion without veil\nLeaving the spirit naked, stripped and bare", 6, "The ink that held a trembling heart now sits upon the gavel's stage\nAs strangers bid for whispered words meant only for a single page\nThey trade in silence, counting coins where poetry once softly breathed\nWhile sacred verses turn to dust beneath the weight of greed and death\n\nNo soul within the crowded room can hear the rhythm of the rhyme\nJust hollow eyes that seek a prize before the final closing time\nA quiet grief begins to rise, a shadow stretching long and deep\nFor memories we thought were ours are sold while others start to weep\n\nIt feels like ancient dust returning, a ghost from days of old\nWhen soldiers laughed and cast their lots for robes of woven gold\nThe fabric torn by careless hands, a game played in the cold\nWhile light above began to fade, leaving nothing but the mold\n\nThose boots that walked through pain and grace are now just stepping stones\nTo claim what was never theirs to keep, to steal the poet's bones\nWe watch as love becomes a commodity, a price upon the air\nAnd wonder if the spirit breaks beneath the weight of empty stare\n\nThe auctioneer declares the sale, a victory for the blind\nLeaving behind the broken pieces of a mind they could not find\nLike soldiers gambling over threads that held the world together tight\nWe mourn the loss of something pure, extinguished in the night", 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 whistle shrieks a warning but no one hears,\nthe heavy doors close with a pneumatic hiss,\nand the train begins to move.\n\nAt first it is like any other train,\nthere are people on the platform waving,\nchildren with ice-creams, men in mackintoshes,\nbut the train gathers speed and the faces\nbegin to smear into streaks of colour.\n\nIt picks up speed and the station recedes,\nthe pillars become a blur, the signal lights\na continuous red stream,\nand the people on the platform begin to look\nsmaller and smaller, as if they were not there at all.\n\nAnd now the train is going very fast indeed,\nit is out of sync with everything,\nwith the trees which are bent double by the slipstream,\nwith the houses which are sliding backwards,\nwith the people who are standing still,\nlooking after it with their mouths open.\n\nAnd now the train is going so fast that\nit is out of sync with time itself,\nit is going faster than the news can go,\nfaster than the laws can be made,\nfaster than the people can think about it,\nand it is going faster than the people can get off it.\n\nAnd now the train is going so fast that\nit is out of sync with the country itself,\nit is going through the country without seeing it,\nit is going through the towns without seeing them,\nit is going through the villages without seeing them,\nand it is going through the people without seeing them.\n\nAnd now the train is going so fast that\nit is out of sync with the world itself,\nit is going through the world without seeing it,\nit is going through the countries without seeing them,\nit is going through the continents without seeing them,\nand it is going through the people without seeing them.\n\nAnd now the train is going so fast that\nit is going to break the world,\nit is going to break the countries,\nit is going to break the continents,\nand it is going to break the people.", 2, "The whistle cuts the morning mist\nA silver serpent wakes and hisses\nThe doors slide shut with final click\nAnd leave behind the old man sick.\n\nHe stands upon the dusty edge\nToo poor to buy a ticket pledge\nAs wheels begin their iron spin\nTo let the real world now begin.\n\nAt first it matches step for step\nThe houses pass, the people slept\nBut soon the rhythm speeds away\nAnd leaves the common day of day.\n\nThe trees become a blur of green\nThe fastest thing that ever been\nWhile those who walk or work on foot\nAre crushed beneath the iron boot.\n\nThe station fades into a speck\nThe rich man in his private deck\nIs watching fields go up in smoke\nAnd has no time to pause or joke.\n\nIt rushes on through town and glen\nWith schedules made by other men\nWho never saw the ones left out\nTo worry what this speed is about.\n\nThe faster that the train can go\nThe more the people have to know\nThat they are falling further back\nBeside this monster on the track.\n\nIt cannot stop it will not stop\nIt makes the very heavens drop\nIts cargo is the future new\nAnd we are just the things it slew.", 6, "The iron beast exhales a cloud of steam\nAnd pulls away from where the people stand,\nA sudden jerk that breaks the morning dream\nOf those who wait with luggage in their hand.\nAt first the platform is a distinct place,\nWith faces clear and voices soft and near,\nBut soon the speed has wiped them from the face\nOf time, and left the details blurred and queer.\n\nThe trees become a single streak of green,\nThe houses blur to indistinct gray smears,\nWhile on the train the passengers are seen\nTo check their watches without any fears.\nThey do not see the man who lost his job\nBecause the line no longer stops at home,\nThey do not feel the shudder or the bob\nThat shakes the cottage walls to ruin's dome.\n\nThe rhythm grows too fast for human feet,\nA pounding drum that drowns the quiet cry,\nThe world outside becomes an old defeat\nThat passes by beneath a hurried sky.\nIt moves ahead with purpose and with pride,\nIgnoring all the wreckage in its wake,\nWith nowhere for the struggling to hide\nWithin the shadow of this giant brake.\n\nNo station waits, no signal turns to red,\nJust endless track that stretches to the sun,\nWhile those it left behind are better dead\nThan living as the progress carries on.\nThe momentum builds until the air is thin,\nUntil the sound is just a distant roar,\nLeaving the ordinary folk within\nA silence that they cannot live in more.", 6, "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 the rhythm is a walk\nA gentle sway of steel and stone\nBut soon the wheels begin to talk\nOf places where we cannot go alone\n\nThe platform blurs into a streak\nThe faces lost in motion's haze\nWe promised speed, we sought the peak\nNow trapped within this metal maze\n\nThe fields outside are torn apart\nBy lines that cut the ancient green\nA frantic, unrelenting heart\nThat beats too fast for what has been\n\nThe village fades, the child is small\nAs concrete rises, tall and cold\nThe engine answers to no call\nBut pushes on, as it was told\n\nIt does not see the ones who fall\nBehind the wake of progress' light\nIt only knows the iron law\nTo run until it burns the night", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning gray\nAs steel wheels kiss the iron rail\nA sudden shudder, then away\nLeaving the quiet platform pale\n\nAt first the trees are distinct and slow\nTheir branches waving in the breeze\nBut soon the green begins to blur\nInto a streak of fractured leaves\n\nThe houses slide like painted cards\nThe baker's window, gone too fast\nNo time to wave, no time to speak\nJust shadows moving from the past\n\nThe rhythm builds a deafening roar\nThat drowns the child who cries for bread\nIt promises a distant shore\nWhile trampling those who wish to rest\n\nWe rush toward a gleaming peak\nOf efficiency and speed and cost\nIgnoring all the broken feet\nThat cannot keep up with the ghost\n\nThe world behind is blurred and small\nThe future bright but cold and deep\nA giant rolling through it all\nWith promises it cannot keep", 6, "The whistle cuts the morning air\nAs steel wheels kiss the iron rail\nA promise made to move and dare\nTo leave the quiet town behind\nThe doors slide shut on waiting hands\nThat reach for something lost too soon\nWhile engines hum their cold commands\nBeneath a gray and rising moon\n\nAt first the rhythm matches feet\nOf those who walk the platform stone\nBut soon the beat begins to sweep\nAway the voices we have known\nThe world outside starts blurring fast\nA smear of green and rusted tin\nWhere yesterday was built to last\nNow nothing holds, and nothing wins\n\nThe city fades into a ghost\nOf structures cracked by speed's demand\nWe trade our homes for distant coast\nAnd silence fills the empty land\nNo one asks if we are whole\nOr if the price is worth the gain\nJust momentum, cold and soulless goal\nDriving through the pain and rain\n\nThe tracks stretch out beneath the weight\nOf progress that will not be slowed\nIt leaves the broken at the gate\nWith stories that no one has told\nThe train rolls on, a silver beast\nDevouring time and space alike\nLeaving the weary in the least\nTo watch the future turn so bright", 6, "The iron breath exhales a cloud of gray\nAs wheels begin to turn against the stone\nA rhythm born of steel and calculated weight\nThat leaves the quiet hands upon the ground\n\nFirst step is gentle, soft as morning light\nBut soon the heartbeat quickens in the chest\nThe platform blurs into a streak of fear\nWhere voices fade beneath the rising roar\n\nThe world outside begins to lose its shape\nNo longer real, just shadows swept aside\nWe chase the horizon with a hungry eye\nIgnoring cracks that widen in the floor\n\nTime bends beneath the pressure of our speed\nWhile those who stumble fall behind the glass\nThe engine screams a promise we cannot keep\nThat forward motion demands every cost\n\nNow silence reigns where once a life was held\nThe track extends beyond what eyes can see\nA force too vast to question or to break\nLeaving the broken pieces in the dust", 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 tell the spider he is small\nAnd I am big, and I shall not be scared.\nI tell the thunder that I like it loud\nAnd I shall not be scared.\nI tell the dark it is a nice black coat\nTo put on when I go to bed,\nAnd I shall not be scared.\n\nI ride the big wheel down the slide\nI jump in puddles deep as wells,\nI tell the dog with teeth like pins\nHe cannot hurt me if I yell.\nI tell the doctor's needle sharp\nIt is a bee and I am strong,\nI tell the dentist's little drill\nIt sings a song, it sings a song.\n\nBut when I get inside my bed\nAnd pull the covers up to my chin,\nThere is a little thing inside\nThat does not know what will happen in.\nIt does not know about the spider,\nOr the thunder, or the dark,\nIt only knows that one day I\nMay not be big, may not be strong.", 2, "I will not cry when the thunder shakes the floor,\nNor hide beneath the covers when the wind goes roaring out the door.\nI will walk right up to the big black dog with teeth so white and keen,\nAnd tell him I am not afraid of what he is or what he means.\n\nI will climb the highest ladder in the tree that scrapes the sky,\nAnd look the giant spider in his eight small glittering eye.\nI will go into the cellar where the shadows twist and creep,\nAnd say I am too busy for a nap or even sleep.\n\nThe dark is just a blanket and the monsters are all fake,\nAnd if the sea comes rushing in it's only for my sake.\nBut when I get back home again and lock the bedroom door,\nI sit upon my little bed and shake and shake some more.\n\nFor all the things outside are loud but they are far away,\nAnd all the things inside are quiet and they never go away.\nSo I will be as brave as lions and as bold as bears can be,\nAnd keep the real and tiny fright all locked up safe in me.", 3, "I climb the highest oak to show the sky\nThat I am not afraid of falling down,\nI run into the storm with arms held high\nAnd laugh at thunder rolling through the town.\nThe dark is just a blanket soft and deep,\nThe monsters under beds are made of dust,\nI have no time for nightmares or for sleep,\nFor I am iron, unafraid of rust.\n\nBut in the quiet space behind my teeth,\nWhere no one hears the trembling start to rise,\nThere sits a small and terrible belief\nThat one day I will lose the sun's good eyes.\nI shout at wolves to make them go away,\nTo prove I do not fear the things that bite,\nWhile hiding from the empty, coming day\nWhen there is no one left to hold me tight.", 6, "I tell the thunder it is just a drum\nAnd laugh when shadows stretch across the floor\nI chase the wind that pulls at my hair\nAnd kick the stones right out the garden door\n\nThe dark is not a mouth to swallow me\nThe tall trees do not whisper names of dread\nI stand so straight and shout at every storm\nWith words I learned from stories in my head\n\nBut when the house is quiet and the lights go down\nAnd silence fills the space between my breath\nI hold my hands inside my coat so tight\nAnd pray the morning comes before the depth\n\nOf what I feel when no one else is near\nA small cold thing that hides behind my smile\nI say I am a lion, brave and strong\nWhile trembling waits within me all the while", 6, "I tell the dark it has no teeth to bite\nAnd laugh at shadows stretching on the wall\nThe thunder rolls, a drum I claim as mine\nNo storm can make my trembling spirit fall\n\nI chase the wind that howls outside the door\nAnd mock the creaking floorboards in the night\nI say the monsters under beds are gone\nThat fear is just a ghost without a sight\n\nBut deep beneath the bravest words I speak\nA quiet thing begins to softly weep\nIt knows the world is vast and cold and wide\nAnd wonders if there is a place to keep\n\nThe hands I hold so tight against the rain\nAre shaking just a little when they try\nTo prove that nothing here can ever break\nThe fragile heart that hides behind the eye", 6, "She climbs the tallest oak with scraped-up knees\nAnd laughs at thunder rolling through the sky\nNo shadow in the hallway makes her freeze\nNo monster waits beneath the floorboards dry\n\nI am too brave for ghosts or winter cold\nFor storms that shake the windows in their frame\nMy spirit burns a story never told\nOf things I dare to name and things unnamed\n\nBut when the sun retreats behind the gray\nAnd silence stretches out across the room\nA different kind of quiet starts to sway\nWhere hidden terrors bloom and softly loom\n\nIt isn't fear of dark or falling stone\nOr voices lost inside the wind's refrain\nIt is the weight of being all alone\nWhen no one sees the cracks within the vein\n\nShe stands so tall against the coming night\nWith chest expanded, arms held wide and strong\nWhile something small and fragile takes its flight\nTo hide where only broken hearts belong", 6, "She stands before the storm with arms held high\nRefusing to let thunder shake her ground\nThe shadows stretch and whisper low and dry\nBut she has found a voice that knows no sound of doubt\n\nThe monsters under beds are just old coats\nThe wind that howls is only air in flight\nShe laughs at darkness, mocks the heavy notes\nOf every nightmare born within the night\n\nHer hands are steady, brave against the unknown\nA fortress built from courage and from pride\nYet deep beneath the armor she has grown\nA quiet tremor where the secrets hide\n\nFor what she fears is not the world outside\nBut silence when the cheering fades away\nThe fragile hope that one day love might die\nAnd leave her standing in the cold gray day\n\nSo she declares the fear is gone from sight\nA lie as bright as morning on the stone\nWhile holding tight the ghost inside the light\nThat whispers softly she is never whole alone", 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 sharp probes\nof light and steel, and squeezes it\nfor isotopes and dates, but the earth\ngives no dates, only dates of flowers.\n\nPhilosophy prods the earth with pointed\nquestions of being, and squeezes it\nfor meaning, but the earth gives no meaning,\nonly meaninglessness in green shoots.\n\nReligion pokes the earth with pointed\nprayers and stakes, and squeezes it\nfor signs, but the earth gives no signs,\nonly signs of spring.\n\nThe earth remains indifferent to all this\npoking and prodding and squeezing,\nand endlessly greets existence\nwith the renewal of spring\nand new life.", 3, "Science digs with steel and glass\nprodding layers of stone and sand\nto squeeze the strata for a law\nthat binds the shifting, sinking land.\n\nPhilosophy leans close to ask\nwhat mind could plan this weight of clay\nand squeezing thought till logic cracks\ndemands an answer from the day.\n\nReligion kneels and presses deep\ninto the dark and silent womb\nto coax a voice from out the sleep\nand scare the shadows with its gloom.\n\nThey poke and prod and squeeze the globe\nfor meaning in the mud and dust\nbut Earth rolls on without a job\nin indifferent, ancient trust.\n\nShe does not hear their questions ring\nnor care for what they seek to find\nshe only greets the coming spring\nwith green shoots pushing through the rind.\n\nNew life erupts where they have pressed\nand laughs at all their toil and pain\nwith buds that burst upon her breast\nand rain that washes off their stain.", 6, "Science drives its drills deep into the crust\nprobing the dark for atoms and their laws\nPhilosophy leans close with a question mark\nsqueezing the silence until it yields a truth\nReligion builds high towers to touch the sky\nand presses its ear against the wind for a voice\nThey poke and prod and squeeze the heavy globe\ndemanding a reason, a plan, a sign\nbut the earth turns slowly in its indifferent sleep\nunmoved by the logic or the prayer or the doubt\nIt knows only the rhythm of the turning year\nthe frost receding from the river bank\nthe green shoot breaking through the frozen soil\na new leaf unfurling without asking why\nspring arrives as it always has arrived\nignoring the theories and the sermons and the search\nand greets existence simply by living again.", 5, "They bring their needles of logic to pierce the soil\nAnd pry open the crust with questions sharp as flint\nProbing the dark for a code, a law, a divine intent\nWhile others chant in stone temples or whisper through glass\nSqueezing the sphere until it groans beneath the weight of their need\nAsking why the tides pull and the stars burn cold\nDemanding an answer from the silence that holds them all\nBut the ground does not tremble at their frantic search\nIt only shifts its heavy shoulders under the sun\nAnd when the winter's grip finally loosens its fist\nA green shoot breaks the frost without a word of thanks\nThe flower opens its mouth to drink the rain\nUnaware of the theories built upon its stem\nThe earth simply breathes, turns, and begins again\nGreeting the endless cycle with a quiet, blooming face\nIndifferent to the noise of minds trying to make sense\nOf the simple, stubborn miracle of being alive.", 6, "They dig their fingers deep into the crust\nWith logic sharp as flint and faith as soft as moss\nProdding the dark for answers written in the stone\nSqueezing the silence until it screams a name\nScience maps the bones beneath the skin\nPhilosophy argues over why the blood still runs\nReligion builds its towers to catch the falling light\nBut the ground beneath them does not tremble or reply\nIt simply holds the weight of all their desperate questions\nAnd waits for winter's heavy hand to lift away\nThen wakes with green shoots piercing through the frost\nIgnoring every theory, every prayer, every doubt\nAs the world turns once more to greet the sun\nA quiet breath that asks for nothing but to bloom", 3, "They dig with drills of logic, sharp and cold\nTo find the code that binds the stars above\nWhile philosophers debate the weight of soul\nAnd priests whisper to ghosts they cannot love\nThey squeeze the rock until it cracks in fear\nDemanding answers for the silent night\nBut gravity just pulls without a care\nAnd darkness holds no judgment, only light\n\nThe questions pile like snow upon the peak\nA heavy burden meant to break the spine\nYet mountains shift beneath the shifting mind\nUnmoved by all the hope or grand design\nNo echo rises from the canyon deep\nTo tell them why the blood must turn to dust\nThe void is vast, a quiet, ancient sleep\nThat feeds on certainty and turns to rust\n\nThen winter yields its grip with gentle grace\nAs green shoots pierce the soil where doubts were sown\nA flower opens wide to claim its place\nIgnoring every word that was ever known\nThe river flows because the rain returns\nNot out of purpose, but because it must\nIt burns with life while human heartburns\nIn search of truth within the crumbling crust\n\nSo let them poke and prod the sacred ground\nWith theories built on fragile, fleeting sand\nFor spring arrives without a single sound\nTo wash away the footprints of their plan\nThe world breathes in, exhales a living song\nIndifferent to the struggle, pure and bright\nWhere meaning fades and new beginnings throng\nIn endless cycles of the turning light", 6, "The mind seeks answers in the soil and stone\nA frantic dance of logic, faith, and doubt\nThey dig with hands of steel or whispered prayer\nTo find a purpose buried deep below\nEach theory carved into the silent bed\nWhile questions echo through the empty air\n\nReligion builds its towers to touch the sky\nPhilosophy dissects the weight of time\nScience measures cracks within the crust\nAll pressing hard against the ancient floor\nDemanding why the darkness holds its breath\nAnd begging for a reason for the cold\n\nBut earth does not reply to desperate cries\nIt turns beneath the weight of human fear\nNo grand design revealed in shifting tides\nOnly the rhythm of the turning wheel\nUnmoved by grief or glory, hope or loss\nThe ground remains indifferent to the plea\n\nThen comes the thaw that breaks the frozen grip\nA sudden green where shadows used to grow\nNew roots push through the layers of despair\nIgnoring every question left unsaid\nThe world begins again without a word\nAs spring rewrites the story of the dawn", 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.", "A certain light goes out of the world\nnot like a lamp which can be relit,\nbut like a sun which has gone down\nfor ever.\nThere was a particular tilt of the head,\na way of laughing at nothing in particular,\nand a specific turn of phrase\nwhich no one else could have used.\nNow that is gone.\nIt is not merely that the man or woman is dead;\nit is that the whole world is diminished by\nthat exact quantity of humanity.\nNo one else could have told the joke in that way;\nno one else could have made that face;\nno one else could have been that person.\nThat whole universe of reactions and habits\nand little ways of being,\nwhich had taken all those years to grow up,\nis now extinguished for ever.\nAnd there is no way of getting it back.", 2, "The room grows quiet as the breath goes out,\nAnd with that final sigh a world shuts down.\nNot just a life but all its quirks and traits,\nThe way he laughed, the way she frowned,\nThat specific glint within a certain eye,\nThat turn of phrase no other could employ.\n\nIt is not like a book you can re-read,\nOr like a song you hear upon the radio.\nThere was a mind that thought in ways unique,\nA universe inside a single woe,\nA pattern woven from a thousand days,\nNow pulled apart and lost to endless haze.\n\nNo printer can reproduce that soul,\nNo artist paint the shadow of that face.\nIt was a combination rare and strange,\nThat never will be seen again in place.\nSo many things were known only to her,\nAnd now they vanish in the empty air.\n\nWe mourn the man or woman who has gone,\nBut more we mourn what cannot be replaced:\nThe million little things that made him whole,\nThe private jokes, the habits, and the taste.\nAll gone forever, swept into the night,\nAnd nothing left to fill that vastest light.", 6, "The room grows quiet as the light withdraws\nAnd with it goes a universe of sound\nThe specific way you laughed at jokes no one else found\nThe unique rhythm of your footsteps on the floor\nA frequency that will not play anymore\n\nNo other mind could hold that exact blend\nOf memories and hopes that made you whole\nNo other heart could break in quite this way to mend\nOr offer up that singular, familiar soul\nYou were a book whose pages none can read again\nWritten in a hand that cannot write or speak\n\nNow silence fills the space where you once stood\nAnd time moves on but leaves a hollow place\nWhere nothing ever could have understood\nAs well as you the sorrow on my face\nFor when you fade into the endless night\nThe world loses a color it will never see\nA light extinguished, gone from human sight\nA story finished, lost eternally\nThere is no copy of the life you lived\nNo duplicate of all you gave and were\nJust an empty chair where love was riven\nAnd silence hanging in the heavy air", 6, "The air grows thin where your laughter used to hang\nA specific frequency that tuned the room\nNow silence settles like a heavy fog\nAnd every echo fades into the gloom\n\nNo other voice can mimic how you spoke\nOf morning light or coffee in the cup\nThat unique alchemy of soul and stroke\nIs gone, and will not rise again to sup\n\nThe way you held a hand, the tilt of head\nA constellation mapped only for you\nDissolves beneath the weight of what is dead\nLeaving a shape the world cannot renew\n\nWe search for traces in the things you left\nBut find no copy of the spark within\nA universe of memory bereft\nWhere nothing ever starts to breathe again\n\nIt is not just a life that slips away\nBut all the colors only you could see\nA galaxy extinguished in the day\nThat leaves us staring at an empty sea\n\nForever now the pattern breaks apart\nNo artist holds the brush to paint it true\nYou were the singular beat of a heart\nThat stops, and takes the rhythm with it too", 6, "The light that lived behind their eyes\nBegins to dim and fade away,\nA universe of quiet sighs\nThat no new dawn can ever make.\n\nTheir laughter was a specific sound,\nA rhythm only they could keep,\nNow silence wraps the hallowed ground\nWhere memories of them will sleep.\n\nNo other soul can hold this space,\nThis blend of joy and gentle grace,\nFor every word they ever spoke\nIs now a ghost within the smoke.\n\nWe search for echoes in the air,\nBut find only the empty chair,\nA masterpiece erased by time,\nLeaving us with grief so prime.\n\nThey were the one who made it whole,\nA singular and broken role,\nAnd as the final breath takes flight,\nThe world grows darker in the night.\n\nNothing left to fill the void,\nBy love alone we are destroyed,\nKnowing deep within our chest\nThat part of life has gone to rest,\nForever lost, forever gone,\nUntil the breaking of the dawn.", 7, "The quiet settles where a voice once stood\nA specific rhythm that no echo holds\nThe way the light caught laughter in the air\nIs gone, and silence takes its heavy toll\n\nNo mirror shows the shape of who you were\nNo book can capture every fleeting thought\nThe universe has lost a color only you could paint\nAnd now the world feels slightly less than what it ought\n\nWe gather round the space you used to fill\nWith empty hands and hearts that ache for more\nFor nothing born again will ever be the same\nAs this one soul that walks through life no more\n\nThe magic fades like mist against the dawn\nUnique and wild, now locked within the past\nA story written by a hand that cannot write again\nLeaving us with shadows where your light was cast", 6, "The silence settles where a voice once stood\nA hollow space no echo can restore\nThe rhythm of a heart that beat in time with yours\nNow fades into the quiet, cold and sore\n\nEach memory a shard of glass too sharp to hold\nAs light retreats from eyes that knew your name\nNo second chance to mend the broken thread\nNo copy drawn from this unspoken frame\n\nThe laughter was a song composed by you alone\nA melody that dies before it ends\nLeaving behind a ghost of what we held\nWhere nothing else could ever truly blend\n\nYou were the only key to doors we shared\nThe color in a world turning to gray\nAnd as the final breath dissolves away\nWe mourn the dawn that will not rise again today", 7], [339, "train", "XIV by Derek Walcott", "Derek Walcott", "\"A poem about revisiting childhood memories of gathering around lamplight to listen to stories, evoking feelings of nostalgia and sadness.\"", "With the frenzy of an old snake shedding its skin,\nthe speckled road, scored with ruts, smelling of mold,\ntwisted on itself and reentered the forest\nwhere the dasheen leaves thicken and folk stories begin.\nSunset would threaten us as we climbed closer\nto her house up the asphalt hill road, whose yam vines\nwrangled over gutters with the dark reek of moss,\nthe shutters closing like the eyelids of that mimosa\ncalled Ti-Marie; then \u2014 lucent as paper lanterns,\nlamplight glowed through the ribs, house after house \u2014\nthere was her own lamp at the black twist of the path.\nThere\u2019s childhood, and there\u2019s childhood\u2019s aftermath.\nShe began to remember at the minute of the fireflies,\nto the sound of pipe water banging in kerosene tins,\nstories she told to my brother and myself.\nHer leaves were the libraries of the Caribbean.\nThe luck that was ours, those fragrant origins!\nHer head was magnificent, Sidone. In the gully of her voice\nshadows stood up and walked, her voice travels my shelves.\nShe was the lamplight in the stare of two mesmerized boys\nstill joined in one shadow, indivisible twins.", "The oil lamp flickers low again\nA golden circle on the floor\nWhere shadows danced like living men\nBehind the heavy wooden door\n\nWe sat so close to hear the tale\nOf wolves and stars and ancient seas\nBefore the winter wind could fail\nTo chill our bare and shivering knees\n\nNow silence fills the empty space\nThe wick is dead, the room is cold\nI cannot find that familiar face\nOr stories that were never told\n\nThe light has gone, the years have passed\nAnd left me here alone to weep\nFor moments built to never last\nWhile all the world is fast asleep", "The oil lamp flickered on the table\nAnd threw a dancing, orange light.\nWe sat around it in a ring,\nSo small and safe that night.\n\nMy father's voice was low and rough,\nHe told us of the sea;\nOf mermaids singing in the deeps,\nAnd ships set free to be.\n\nMy mother knitted in the corner,\nHer shadow on the wall;\nI watched the shadows dance about,\nAs if they would not fall.\n\nI thought the lamp would never go out,\nI thought we'd always be\nTogether in that circle there,\nSafe as could be.\n\nBut now the lamp is gone and dusted,\nThe table gone and sold;\nMy father and my mother too,\nAre dead and cold.\n\nI sit alone and read a book,\nBy electric light so clear;\nIt has no smell of kerosene,\nIt has no voice I hear.", 6, "The oil lamp sputtered on the table\nAnd threw a dancing, yellow circle\nAcross the faces of my kin,\nWhile shadows leaped against the wall.\nWe huddled close to catch the heat,\nTo hear the old man's voice go round\nWith tales of dragons, ghosts, and kings,\nThat made our little hearts beat fast.\n\nI see them now so clearly still,\nThe softness of my mother's cheek,\nThe way my father stroked his chin,\nBefore he told us all to sleep.\nBut now the lamp is gone away,\nAnd those who sat within the light\nAre scattered by the wind of years,\nOr sleeping in the silent dark.\n\nI sit alone beneath the moon,\nAnd try to summon up that sound,\nOf voices weaving magic spells,\nIn circles where we used to be.\nBut only silence fills the room,\nAnd coldness where the warmth once was,\nAnd I am grown, and they are dead,\nAnd nothing stays as it was then.", 6, "The oil lamp sputtered low that night\nA trembling eye against the dark\nWe huddled close in coats too thin\nTo hear the wolf begin to bark\n\nYour voice was warm, a steady stream\nThat wove us into tales of old\nOf kings who lost their golden crowns\nAnd stories that the wind had told\n\nNow silence fills the empty chair\nWhere shadows used to dance and play\nThe lamp is cold, the wick is dead\nAnd all the children went away\n\nI reach for hands that turned to dust\nAnd grasp only the heavy air\nThe story ends but not the grief\nOf finding you were never there", 6, "The oil lamp flickered low that night\nA trembling gold against the dark\nWe huddled close to feel the heat\nAnd wait for stories from the spark\n\nYour voice was soft as falling dust\nWhile shadows danced upon the wall\nWe did not know the years would pass\nOr that the light would grow so small\n\nNow silence fills the empty chair\nWhere once we sat with wide-eyed hope\nThe flame is gone, the wick is cold\nAnd time has left us in its scope\n\nI reach to touch the ghost of you\nBut find only the air and gray\nThe stories end, the lamp burns out\nAnd childhood fades and slips away", 6, "The oil lamp flickered low on wooden shelves\nWhere dust motes danced in circles soft and slow\nWe sat with knees drawn tight against the cold\nAnd waited for the tales to start and grow\n\nYour voice was deep, a river running deep\nThrough shadows that the single bulb could not erase\nWe held our breath as giants woke from sleep\nWithin the safety of this quiet space\n\nNow silence fills the room where laughter used to be\nThe wick is gone, the glass has turned to gray\nI reach for hands that cannot hold me free\nFrom years that slipped so quietly away\n\nThe story ends but never truly fades\nJust like the light that burned so warm before\nIt lingers in the hollow of these shades\nA ghost behind the closing of the door", 6, "The oil ran low that winter night\nAs shadows stretched across the floor\nA circle drawn in amber light\nBehind a closed and silent door\n\nWe sat with hands wrapped tight around\nThe warmth of voices, soft and deep\nWhile outside wind began to sound\nA lullaby we could not keep\n\nNow years have turned the pages gray\nAnd silence fills the empty space\nWhere laughter used to drift away\nLike smoke without a single trace\n\nI reach for words that once were gold\nBut find only the dust of time\nThe stories lost, the hands grown old\nBeneath a cold and distant rhyme\n\nThe lamp is gone, the room is bare\nNo whisper breaks the heavy air\nJust echoes of a love we shared\nThat fades beyond all hope or prayer", 6, "The flicker of the oil lamp dances on the wall\nWhere shadows stretch to hold us close and tight\nA circle drawn by warmth we cannot call\nAgainst the creeping cold of endless night\n\nYour voice was soft, a river running deep\nThrough tales of giants lost beneath the snow\nWe held our breath while silence started creep\nTo steal the magic from the words you sow\n\nNow dust has settled on the wooden floor\nThe glass is cracked, the wick long turned to ash\nNo laughter echoes through this empty door\nJust quiet whispers that the wind will hush\n\nI reach for hands that time has claimed away\nThe stories fade like embers in the rain\nA heavy weight I carry every day\nOf love that lingers in the fading frame\n\nWhat once felt infinite now slips so fast\nBetween the cracks of years we cannot mend\nThe light that guided us through storms at last\nHas dimmed to leave a hollow, aching end", 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", "Each dawning day\nbrings a new beginning,\neven the ashes turn into leaves again.\n\nThe happy find it\nin the springing green,\nthe sad find it\nin the gentle rain.\n\nBoth have a chance\nat rebirth,\nboth have a chance\nat a fresh start.", 6, "The night pulls back its heavy curtain\nTo show the gray and then the gold,\nA story that will soon begin\nAnd never quite be told.\n\nThe ashes of the burnt-out year\nLie scattered on the ground,\nBut watch how soft the rain descends\nAnd makes a miracle found.\n\nFor out of dust the green shoots rise\nWith tender, trembling leaf,\nAnd turn the sorrow of the past\nInto a tree's belief.\n\nBoth happy hearts and broken ones\nMay see the morning light,\nAnd know that every dawn brings round\nAnother chance to right.\n\nNo matter what the evening held\nOf joy or deep despair,\nThe sun comes up with equal warmth\nAnd fresh and fragrant air.\n\nSo let us walk into the day\nWith open hands and eyes,\nWhere even ashes turn to leaves\nBeneath the summer skies.", 7, "The night retreats before the golden light\nAnd washes clean the stains of yesterday\nNo matter how the shadows held us tight\nOr how we lost our way or went astray\n\nThe ashes of the fire that burned so low\nWill rise again to take a leafy form\nWhere winter winds once made the branches blow\nNow spring will break the silence with a storm\n\nFor happy hearts and broken ones alike\nThe dawn arrives to offer up a start\nIt does not ask for reasons or for likes\nBut gives a fresh beginning to the heart\n\nSo let the old and heavy things fall down\nInto the soil where seeds of hope are sown\nA green and tender crown upon the town\nWhere every soul can walk the path alone\n\nYet never truly alone as light appears\nTo guide the sad and lift the joyful high\nAcross the bridge of all our passing years\nBeneath the vast and ever-changing sky", 7, "The night retreats before the golden light\nAnd whispers softly to the weary soul\nThat even in the deepest, darkest night\nThere is a promise that begins to roll\n\nWhere ashes fall from fires long ago\nThey do not stay as dust upon the ground\nBut wait within the quiet, frozen snow\nFor rain to wake the life that can be found\n\nFrom gray and brittle remnants of the past\nGreen shoots emerge with courage and with grace\nA second chance for shadows to outlast\nThe heavy weight of sorrow or disgrace\n\nThe happy find a reason to rejoice\nWhile sad hearts learn to breathe the morning air\nEach dawn provides a clear and steady voice\nTo tell us that we are beyond compare\n\nNo matter how the story ended yesterday\nOr how the wind has torn the branches bare\nThe sun returns to wash the tears away\nAnd leaves will grow from ash beyond repair", 7, "The night retreats in silence, soft and deep\nAs light begins to wake the world from sleep\nNo shadow holds a grip too tight to break\nFor morning offers every heart a chance to start anew\n\nWhere once the fire burned and left us cold\nWith ash that scattered on the wind so old\nA single green shoot pushes through the gray\nTo show that life returns in its own way\n\nThe happy smile at sun upon their face\nWhile those who weep find comfort in this grace\nFor sorrow does not steal the dawn away\nIt waits beside the joy to help us stay\n\nEach leaf unfurls a story yet untold\nOf winters passed and seasons turning gold\nNo matter what was lost or left behind\nThe rising sun brings peace of mind\n\nSo let the past dissolve into the air\nAnd trust the promise found in morning's care\nFrom ashes rise the forests, strong and free\nIn every breath, a new beginning starts with me", 7, "The night retreats in silence, soft and deep\nAs morning breaks the heavy chains of sleep\nNo shadow lasts forever in the light\nThat paints the world with gold before the fight\n\nWhere ashes once lay scattered on the ground\nA whisper rises from the frozen mound\nFor every leaf that fell to turn to dust\nIs promised life within the gentle gust\n\nThe broken heart finds rhythm in the breeze\nWhile joy takes root among the ancient trees\nIt does not ask what sorrow brought you here\nOr why your tears have watered winter's fear\n\nBoth happy souls and those who carry pain\nAre washed anew by sun and falling rain\nA fresh beginning waits for all to see\nThat death is just a door to set us free\n\nSo watch the dawn reclaim the barren space\nAnd find a second chance in time and place\nFor even in the ruins, green will grow\nTo show us how the seeds of hope can sow", 7, "The night retreats in silence, soft and deep\nWhere shadows held the weight of yesterday's regret\nBut morning breaks with colors bold and bright\nTo wash away the dust of what we left behind\n\nEven where the fire once consumed our dreams\nA quiet seed begins to take its root\nFrom ashes born, a leaf unfurls its green\nProving that nothing is truly lost or gone\n\nFor those who laugh beneath the golden light\nAnd those who weep within the fading gray\nThe sun arrives without a judgment call\nOffering a hand to lift the broken heart\n\nNo scar remains too deep for time to heal\nAs winter yields to spring in endless cycles turning\nEach dawn brings promise written in the air\nA second chance for every soul to start anew", 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.", "My father says the other side\nis a place where bread is cheap,\nand dogs do not bite, and children\ndo not go to bed without shoes.\nMy mother says we will be happy.\nWe are walking in the dark\nbetween two rivers, and I have\na small bag with an orange\nand a pair of socks in it.\nMy father says the people there\nwill like us. My mother says\nwe must not speak our own language\nuntil we get there.\nI am twelve years old and I know\nthat if the people there were\nso nice they would not need\nto make people walk between\ntwo rivers in the dark to get to them.\nIf the bread was so cheap\nthey would not have made it\nso expensive here.\nI think that when we get there\nthe people will not like us.\nI think that the bread will be\njust as expensive there,\nor more so, because we shall be\nforeigners there, too.\nI think that the dogs will bite\nus there, too, because we shall be\nforeigners there, too.\nI think that we shall not be\nhappy there.\nI think that we shall be just\nas unhappy there, only\nwe shall be foreigners there, too.", 2, "The moon is a silver coin we cannot spend\non the dark side of the river where the water smells of mud and diesel.\nMy father says this side is full of light,\nthat if we just keep walking until our feet are bleeding,\nwe will find a house with a window that opens.\nMy mother holds my hand so tight her knuckles are white\nand she whispers about schools and doctors and meat every day.\nThey have made a map in their heads out of hope,\nbut I am looking at the barbed wire cutting into the sky\nand thinking that fences are built for a reason.\nIf it were so easy to be better there,\nwhy did they leave?\nWhy do we walk like ghosts when the living stay behind?\nI see the way my father looks at his boots,\nhow he checks the pockets of his jacket as if money might appear,\nand I wonder if the only thing that changes\nwhen we get there is the language we use to say we are hungry.\nWe are crossing a line on a map, yes,\nbut I think we are carrying the same bad luck with us\nin the soles of our shoes.", 2, "The truck bed smells of diesel and damp wool\nas we cross the line where the fence ends\nand the road begins to break apart.\nMother holds her head high, repeating\nthe words she learned from a pamphlet:\nsafety, work, a school with windows that open.\nShe says the sun is warmer on the other side,\nthat the bread will not taste like dust.\n\nMy father drives with his knuckles white,\nstaring at the horizon as if it were a promise\nhe has already collected.\nThey speak in hushed tones of green fields\nand doctors who do not ask for papers first.\nI watch the shadows lengthen behind us,\nstretching over the dry grass we left,\nand I calculate the distance between hope and hunger.\n\nIf the ground here cannot hold our feet,\nwhy should the next patch be different?\nIf the rain does not come to this valley,\nwhat makes them think it will fall there?\nI know that borders are just lines drawn by men\nwho have never walked them,\nand that a better life is often just a story\ntold to keep the walking going.\n\nWe are moving forward because standing still\nis the only thing worse than being lost.\nBut as the new signpost appears in the distance,\nblurred by heat and tire smoke,\nI wonder if we are trading one desert for another,\nor if the water we seek is simply\na reflection of the sky we carry inside.", 2, "The truck engine coughs against the dark\nwhile Mama counts our money in her lap\nand Papa whispers promises of green fields\nwhere the air tastes sweet and bread is free.\nWe leave behind the dust that chokes our lungs\nto chase a horizon painted gold by hope,\nbut I watch the shadows stretch too long behind us\nand wonder if the road simply changes shape.\nThey say the border guards will be kind\nthat laws are made for people like us now,\nyet my father's hands tremble as he grips the wheel\nas if he knows the fence is only moved\nnot broken, just shifted to a different place.\nI see the way the strangers look at us\nwith eyes that measure worth in paper slips,\nand though Mama sings a song of better days,\nthe math in my head does not add up to joy.\nPerhaps the better life we seek is just a mirror\nreflecting back the same tired faces\nin a room with different walls and harder floors,\nwhere hunger wears a new and foreign name.", 2, "The river bites cold against our ankles\nas Father whispers of golden fields\nwhere bread is free and the sun never sets\nMother holds my hand so tight her knuckles turn white\nsaying this is the only way to breathe again\nI watch the guards on the far bank, their rifles gleaming\nand wonder if they see us as people or just shadows\nFather speaks of a house with windows that open wide\nbut I remember the ones we left behind, broken by wind\nHe says tomorrow will be softer than today\nyet the road ahead looks exactly like the one behind\njust longer, darker, and lined with more fences\nI carry the hope they gave me in my small chest\nbut it feels heavy, like a stone instead of a seed\nperhaps the better life is just another name for waiting\nanother border to cross, another wall to climb\nwhile the night swallows our footsteps without a sound", 2, "The truck bed hums a low and steady tune\nAs we trade the dust of home for something new\nMy father speaks in promises of sun\nOf schools that open wide their heavy doors\nMy mother clutches photos, worn and soft\nBelieving hope is just a step away\n\nI watch the fence dissolve into the night\nAnd wonder if the light they seek is real\nOr just a shadow stretching long and thin\nThey say the air will taste of freedom here\nBut gravity feels heavier than before\nAs every mile leaves another piece behind\n\nWe cross the line with nothing but our breath\nConvinced the ground beneath will hold us fast\nYet doubt takes root within my quiet mind\nA seed that asks what happens when the dream\nFails to match the hunger in our bellies\nWill better life arrive or simply change its name?", 5, "The river bites cold against our weary skin\nAs we trade the silence of home for the hum of a distant city\nMy father speaks of golden fields and endless bread\nWhile my mother clutches a photograph worn thin by time\nThey believe the line drawn in dirt holds no power over us\nThat tomorrow will rise brighter than the shadows we leave behind\n\nI watch the dust settle on shoulders that refuse to break\nHolding onto promises stitched from hope and desperate need\nYet the wind carries whispers of walls built higher than dreams\nWhere the air tastes different, heavy with unspoken rules\nThe path ahead is paved with stories of those who found their way\nBut I wonder if the light they chase is merely a reflection of what was lost\n\nWe step forward, driven by love that refuses to fade\nEven as my heart questions the weight of this fragile trust\nPerhaps the horizon shifts only to hide the same old storms\nAnd the better life we seek is just a ghost we cannot hold\nStill, we walk, one foot after another, into the unknown\nLeaving doubt behind like stones too heavy to carry any further", 6], [359, "train", "The Self Banished by Edmund Waller", "Edmund Waller", "\"A poem about a man keeping his promise to stay away from his love, lamenting the pain it causes while fearing that breaking it would cast doubt on his promise to love her.\"", "It is not that I love you less\nThan when before your feet I lay,\nBut to prevent the sad increase\nOf hopeless love, I keep away.\n\nIn vain (alas!) for everything\nWhich I have known belong to you,\nYour form does to my fancy bring,\nAnd makes my old wounds bleed anew.\n\nWho in the spring from the new sun\nAlready has a fever got,\nToo late begins those shafts to shun,\nWhich Ph\u0153bus through his veins has shot.\n\nToo late he would the pain assuage,\nAnd to thick shadows does retire;\nAbout with him he bears the rage,\nAnd in his tainted blood the fire.\n\nBut vow\u2019d I have, and never must\nYour banish\u2019d servant trouble you;\nFor if I break, you may distrust\nThe vow I made to love you, too.", "I keep the distance like a sacred vow,\nThough every step away feels like a fall,\nThe silence grows so loud and heavy now,\nIt echoes through the hollow of it all.\n\nTo stay is pain, a slow and sharp decay,\nThat gnaws at edges where my heart should be,\nBut if I cross the line to find your way,\nWill you believe in what we used to see?\n\nFor if I break this rule to hold you tight,\nThen how can trust remain within your mind?\nIf love demands I fight against the night,\nDoes keeping faith mean leaving peace behind?\n\nI fear that breaking free will make you doubt\nThe very promise that I made to stay,\nSo here I stand with nothing but my mouth\nTo whisper words I cannot let you say.\n\nMy love is proven by the space between,\nA cruel geometry that keeps us whole,\nThe greatest act of love I've ever seen\nIs tearing pieces from my trembling soul.", "I keep the road between us empty,\nas I promised.\nIt is a hard thing to be a good man\nand not go near you.\nThe pain of it is a dull toothache\nin all my teeth;\nit is a sickness in all my bones.\nBut if I went to you,\nif I put my arms about you\nbecause I could not help myself,\nthen what would that make me?\nIt would make me a liar.\nFor I promised to love you,\nand I promised to stay away.\nIf I broke the one,\nI should break the other.\nFor if I loved you enough\nto come to you,\nI should not have loved you enough\nto leave you alone.\nSo I sit here and hurt,\nand I am glad I hurt,\nfor if I did not hurt,\nI should think I did not love you.", 2, "I keep my word and walk away,\nThough every step is death.\nI hold the promise like a knife,\nAnd stab myself to breath.\n\nIt hurts to be so true to you,\nBy being far from thee;\nBut if I come, then all my vows\nAre worthless as can be.\n\nFor if I break this one command\nTo stay and let you go,\nThen how can you believe the rest\nOf all I say? Oh no!\n\nIf I should love by breaking rules,\nYou'd doubt that I loved true:\nThat I am false in keeping small,\nHow could I be in great?\n\nSo here I stand, a broken man,\nWho keeps his word too well,\nAnd suffers thus to prove to you\nThe truth I cannot tell.", 6, "I keep the distance like a sacred wall,\nThough every step away tears at my soul.\nI watch you from afar and hear your call,\nBut silence is the only way to be whole.\n\nThe pain is sharp, a constant, dull refrain,\nThat echoes in the hollow of my chest.\nTo touch you now would ease this heavy strain,\nBut leave me guilty of a broken quest.\n\nFor if I break this vow to stay apart,\nAnd cross the line that separates us two,\nIt casts a shadow on my honest heart,\nAnd makes my love seem false and not quite true.\n\nHow can I swear to love you through all time,\nIf breaking rules proves I am weak and blind?\nSo I remain within this space of crime,\nA faithful ghost who leaves his love behind.", 7, "I keep the distance like a sacred wall,\nA silent vow that I must not recall.\nThe ache within my chest is sharp and deep,\nA promise made to guard the love I keep.\n\nIf I should cross the line I drew in sand,\nAnd take your hand again with trembling hand,\nWould you believe the words I spoke before?\nOr think them lies from which I cannot soar?\n\nMy silence is the proof of what I feel,\nThat staying far away is how I heal.\nTo break this rule would make my truth seem weak,\nAnd cast a shadow on the vows we speak.\n\nSo let me watch you from this empty space,\nAnd bear the burden of this quiet place.\nFor if I return, the doubt will start to grow,\nThat all I said was just a fleeting show.", 7, "I walk the edge of silence you requested\nAnd count the hours like a thief in night\nThe ache is sharp, a blade inside my chest\nThat turns to dust with every fading light\n\nTo stay away is all I have to give\nA promise made to keep your spirit free\nBut if I break this vow and let myself live\nThen who can trust the love that waits for me?\n\nIf I return, does it mean I lied before?\nThat every word was just a desperate plea\nOr will you see the truth beneath the door\nAnd know I chose the pain to set us free?\n\nSo I remain the ghost upon the stair\nWho loves you best by never making sound\nFor breaking faith would cast a shadow there\nAnd make the greatest promise lost and bound", 6, "I walk the path I swore to tread in silence\nWhile every step feels like a fracture deep inside\nThe promise made was not just words of distance\nBut proof that love can ask for what it cannot hide\n\nMy heart screams out to break the silent barrier\nTo run to you and hold the life we lost before\nYet if I turn, I fear the truth will shatter\nThat love itself is built on something more\n\nIf I return, does it mean my vow was hollow?\nA fleeting wish instead of iron law\nFor staying here, though it consumes my spirit\nIs the only way to keep the sacred awe\n\nSo I remain a ghost within the shadows\nWatching time erase the warmth of your embrace\nAfraid that one small touch would make me question\nIf love could ever truly find its place\n\nThe pain is sharp, a constant, quiet burning\nBut breaking faith would leave a darker stain\nFor in this distance, I must prove devotion\nEven when it hurts to feel the rain", 6, "The silence stretches where your name once lived\nA vow I carved into the winter air\nTo keep you safe from shadows that I bring\nAnd guard the light you were too bright to share\n\nMy heart beats loud against a cage of steel\nEach step away feels like a slow decay\nYet if I turn, the fragile trust will break\nThe truth we built begins to slip and fray\n\nFor love is not just warmth or gentle touch\nBut discipline that holds the soul in check\nIf I return, I prove the promise false\nThat distance was the only way to protect\n\nSo let me fade into the quiet dark\nWhere every breath reminds me what I lost\nAfraid that breaking free would cost us more\nThan all the grief this lonely road has crossed", 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.", "Be soft, be sweet, be still and small,\nAnd hide the thunder in your throat;\nBe servile to the man's tall call,\nAnd charm him with a modest note.\n\nBut if you serve so perfectly,\nAnd meekly bear all wrongs and scorns,\nIf you can die to self so free,\nAnd bear the cross of women born;\n\nThen shall he say you are like Christ!\nA higher praise than woman's due:\nFor having sacrificed the least,\nYou have become as men do too.", 2, "They ask you to fold your thunder into whispers,\nTo keep the lion in a cage of lace,\nAnd charm the table with a gentle gesture\nWhile hiding all the power of your face.\nYou serve the wine and smile at every story,\nAnd never let them see the hand that holds,\nFor if they saw the strength within your glory,\nIt would disturb their peace and make them cold.\n\nBut in this deep humility of service,\nWhere you lay down your life for others' sake,\nA strange and holy light begins to pierce\nThe veil of modesty you are required to wear.\nFor when you give so freely of your being,\nWhen you wash feet and carry heavy loads,\nThere is a likeness to the King's own seeing,\nWho trod the thorny path and bore our loads.\n\nSo do not think your meekness makes you lesser,\nOr that to serve implies a low estate;\nIn serving thus, your soul grows much the greater,\nAnd Christ himself is mirrored in your state.\nFor he who was most strong became most humble,\nAnd so you find your purpose high and clear:\nNot just a woman charming and supple,\nBut one whom God has made his image here.", 7, "They ask you to fold your hands so small\nAnd hide the thunder in a quiet throat,\nTo serve the meal with a gentle fall\nOf lashes that conceal the iron note.\nBe soft as silk and sweet as wine,\nA mirror for his pride to shine upon,\nBut do not let the inner fire shine\nOr show the strength that makes him shun.\n\nYet in this service, strange and deep,\nWhere self is lost to make him whole,\nA secret promise starts to keep\nThat lifts the weary, serving soul.\nFor when you bend to wash the feet\nAnd give the last of what you have,\nYou tread the path where love and duty meet,\nAnd find a throne within the grave.\n\nNo longer just a shadow cast\nBehind the man who walks ahead,\nYou see the light from days long past\nWhere Christ was served by bread and bed.\nIn meekness now a power grows,\nNot weak, but vast as ocean tides,\nThe highest purpose one can know:\nTo walk where He once walked inside.", 6, "They ask you to fold your hands and lower your gaze,\nTo hide the iron in your spine beneath a silk disguise,\nTo serve the table with a smile that never breaks,\nAnd charm the room while swallowing your thunderous cries.\n\nYou are told that power is a burden too heavy to bear,\nThat strength must be softened into something small and sweet,\nA quiet vessel for their needs, a shadow in the air,\nWhere your own voice is silenced by the rhythm of their feet.\n\nBut then a whisper rises from the dust of ancient roads,\nA story where the servant leads, the humble holds the crown,\nWhere love is not a weakness but the sharpest of swords,\nAnd sacrifice becomes the fire that burns the kingdom down.\n\nFor if the Son of God was known as servant first of all,\nThen in your meekness lies a glory they cannot see,\nNot a cage of silence built to make you small,\nBut a throne prepared for one who serves so wild and free.\n\nYou do not shrink to fit the mold they carved in stone,\nYou rise above the expectation like a dawn breaking through,\nFor every act of kindness is a seed you have sown,\nTo find a higher purpose in the likeness of the True.", 6, "They ask for softness in the voice you raise\nTo hide the thunder rolling deep inside\nA gentle hand that smooths the jagged edges\nOf worlds they built with iron and with pride\nYou learn to smile when anger burns too bright\nTo serve the meal, to mend the torn fabric\nTo charm the silence where your power sleeps\nAnd trade your fire for a quiet habit\n\nBut then a shadow falls across the room\nNot heavy with the weight of what is lost\nBut filled with light that turns the mundane holy\nAs if the cross was waiting at the cost\nFor in this yielding, something strange takes root\nWhen you give all and keep nothing for yourself\nThe servant's posture mirrors something ancient\nA sacrifice that breaks the selfish shelf\n\nNo longer just a vessel for their need\nBut standing tall within the sacred space\nWhere meekness becomes armor, not a cage\nAnd strength is found in grace, not in the chase\nYou see the face of One who washed the feet\nIn every act of love you offer free\nThe world may call it weakness or submission\nBut heaven knows the price of liberty", 6, "They ask for softness in a voice that could command the storm\nTo fold their hands and hide the fire burning deep within the bone\nA smile must mask the weight of worlds they carry on their back\nWhile serving bread to hungry mouths that never learn to feed themselves\n\nThe charm is but a veil to keep the thunder from the sky\nTo let the shadow of their power fade into the quiet gray\nYet in the silence where they kneel, a different truth takes root\nFor when they give their all away, they mirror something old and true\n\nNot just a servant bound by chains of custom made to break\nBut standing in the light of grace that only saints can claim\nWhen every step is taken out of love instead of fear\nThey walk the path the Savior walked, with wounds they do not share\n\nTo be compared to Christ is not a burden laid upon the weak\nBut proof that strength was never lost, merely transformed to speak\nIn whispers of compassion that can heal the fractured soul\nWhere meekness meets the divine and makes the broken spirit whole", 6, "The mask of softness woven tight against the storm\nA gentle voice to calm the restless tide\nWhile hands that could command the shifting earth\nAre taught to serve the weight they cannot hide\n\nThey bow their heads in silence, sweet and deep\nAs if the fire within must fade to gray\nFor strength is seen as something sharp and cold\nThat breaks the fragile threads of what we say\n\nYet in the quiet space where shadows fall\nA different truth begins to softly rise\nNot in the power that demands a throne\nBut in the love that dares to sacrifice\n\nTo carry burdens meant for heavier shoulders\nTo offer grace when anger seeks its place\nIs not a cage but wings beyond the sky\nWhere broken hearts find solace in the face\n\nFor every step taken in humble dust\nReflects a path walked long before the dawn\nA mirror held to light the way ahead\nWhere meekness holds the power to transform\n\nNo longer bound by chains of expectation\nThe spirit learns to breathe without the fear\nOf being less than what the world requires\nWhen purpose blooms from tears that others shed\n\nIn service found, the soul discovers flight\nBeyond the limits drawn by human hands\nTo stand as witness to a sacred vow\nWhere love becomes the only guiding plan", 7], [393, "ultra_held_out", "Wind On The Hill by A. A. Milne", "Alan Alexander Milne", "A poem about a child chasing a kite along a hill and wondering where the wind is going, imagining that if the kite were to fly away and be found again, it would reveal the answer.", "No one can tell me,\nNobody knows,\nWhere the wind comes from,\nWhere the wind goes.\nIt's flying from somewhere\nAs fast as it can,\nI couldn't keep up with it,\nNot if I ran.\nBut if I stopped holding\nThe string of my kite,\nIt would blow with the wind\nFor a day and a night.\nAnd then when I found it,\nWherever it blew,\nI should know that the wind\nHad been going there too.\nSo then I could tell them\nWhere the wind goes\u2026\nBut where the wind comes from\nNobody knows.", "Small hands pull the string tight\nAcross the green and rolling hill,\nThe red diamond dances in the light,\nAnd tugs against the child's will.\n\nWhere does the invisible wind go?\nIt pushes up but leaves no trace,\nA secret that the clouds might know,\nBut hide within their watery space.\n\nIf only I could let it fly,\nBeyond the trees and past the sky,\nTo find a place where answers lie,\nAnd bring the mystery back to me.\n\nPerhaps when found on distant sand,\nOr caught within a stranger's hand,\nIt would reveal the hidden land,\nWhere all the wandering breezes end.\n\nBut for now the string holds fast,\nA tether to the earth below,\nWatching the shadow of the past,\nAs we chase the wind we'll never know.", "The child runs up the hill\nwith a red kite in his hand,\nthe string pulling taut and sharp\nas if it were a lead line.\nHe wonders where the wind is going,\nwhy it comes and why it goes;\nit must be going somewhere\nround the corner of the world.\nIf the kite should break away\nand go sailing round the world\nand come back to me again,\nit would bring me news of that:\nit would tell me where the wind is going.", 5, "The child runs hard along the green hill crest\nWith a red kite dancing high above his head,\nHe pants and wonders in his breathless quest\nWhere all the wind goes when it leaves us dead.\n\nIt pushes up the sail and makes it soar,\nThen vanishes beyond the highest tree;\nDoes it go walking through some open door?\nOr hide itself within the distant sea?\n\nIf only now the string should snap and fly,\nAnd bear him off to where the breezes start,\nAnd if the kite came down from out the sky\nTo tell us where it went with all its heart,\n\nWe'd know the place where winds begin their play,\nAnd where they sleep until another day.", 6, "The red diamond dances on the green,\nA heartbeat pulling at my hand,\nI run until my knees are seen\nBeneath the grassy hill's command.\n\nBut where does all the rushing go?\nIs it a river in the sky?\nDoes it have somewhere to flow\nBefore it says its last goodbye?\n\nIf only I could let it fly,\nAnd watch it drift beyond the sight,\nTo travel through the endless high\nAnd find the wind's own hidden light.\n\nThen if some child in distant lands\nShould find this kite with broken string,\nThey'd hold the answer in their hands\nOf where the invisible winds wing.", 6, "Small feet scramble up the green and steep,\nWhile red paper dances on a string so thin,\nThe child runs fast with breath held deep,\nAnd wonders where the wind has been.\n\nDoes it travel to the edge of sky?\nOr hide inside the clouds above?\nIf only I could ask it why,\nIt would whisper secrets full of love.\n\nBut if this kite should break its thread,\nAnd drift away to lands unknown,\nThen when it lands where no one tread,\nPerhaps the wind would be made known.\n\nWe'd find the answer in the grass,\nWhere silent breezes make their bed,\nAnd watch the hidden currents pass,\nBefore the kite is found again.", 7, "Small feet scramble up the grassy slope\nWhere the string pulls tight against a tiny hand\nA paper bird dances on invisible ropes\nWhile the hill rolls out like a sleeping land\n\nI run until my lungs begin to burn\nChasing the tail that snaps and whips behind\nBut where does all this rushing air return?\nDoes it hide in clouds or leave a trace of wind?\n\nIf only I could let the line slip free\nAnd watch it vanish past the distant trees\nThen find it caught in some far, wild sea\nTo see what secrets the blue horizon keeps\n\nPerhaps the kite would bring back words untold\nOf rivers made of breath and storms unseen\nThe place where every gust begins to fold\nAnd show me just exactly where it's been", 6, "The grass bends low beneath small feet\nAs crimson silk dances above the green\nA string pulled tight against the sky\nWhere secrets of the air are kept unseen\n\nWhy does the breeze push forward now?\nDoes it have a place it needs to be?\nI run until my lungs begin to burn\nChasing the ghost that sets the fabric free\n\nIf this kite should slip from fingers loose\nAnd drift beyond the hill's high crest\nPerhaps the world would show its path\nTo where the wandering currents rest\n\nOne day when lost and found again\nIt might bring back a whispered tale\nOf winds that travel far and wide\nTo answer questions we cannot fail", 6, "Small hands pull the string so tight\nAgainst the grass of rolling green\nWhere shadows stretch and light takes flight\nA silent dance, a quiet scene\n\nThe fabric snaps against the sky\nAs feet run fast on dusty ground\nI watch the colors drift and fly\nBeyond the trees that softly sound\n\nBut where does all this invisible air\nCarry its breath to distant shores?\nDoes it whisper secrets we cannot hear\nOr hide behind the mountain's doors\n\nIf this bright bird were torn away\nTo wander through the storm and night\nWould it return with stories to say\nOf winds that fade from fading sight\n\nPerhaps the answer waits inside\nThe place where lost things finally rest\nA secret only kites can find\nWithin the heart of every guest", 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 no more but trickled down\nthe stony throat, a thread of sullen water.\nA red bird lit upon the withered bough,\na splash of joy against the dusty weather.\nBut in his tranced rage of sex and blood,\nthe red bird thought of history and murder,\nof women lost, and men who died for wood,\nand dreams that floated off like dirty furder.", 3, "The river that once roared like a brass band\nis now a shy silver thread,\na nervous finger tracing the stone.\nA red bird flashes, a sudden lit fuse,\nand joy explodes in a small chest.\nIt is the tranced rage of sex,\nthe animal forgetting the world,\nagainst a backdrop of history\nwhere murder dug its deep holes\nand loss piled up like dry leaves.\nDreams are the only things left floating\non this shallow, shivering stream,\ndreams of water that could drown a man,\ndreams of blood that could turn it red,\nbut there is only the bird,\nand the thin song,\nand the memory of the flood.", 2, "The river that once tore the valley open\nNow whispers through the cracked and thirsty stones,\nA silver thread where white water once was broken,\nBeneath the weight of centuries and bones.\nHere history is a scar that will not heal,\nWhere murder walked in boots of iron and mud,\nAnd loss has made the very air feel real,\nWhile dreams dissolve into the stagnant blood.\n\nYet on a withered branch a red bird sits,\nA sudden flame against the gray decay,\nHis song a joy that somehow still exists\nTo mock the silence of the dying day.\nHe sings of tranced rage, of bodies pressed,\nOf sex that burns like fire in the night,\nA frantic, wild, and desperate caress\nThat tries to drown the memory of fright.\n\nFor in the heat of lovers' tangled limbs,\nAgainst the backdrop of the slaughtered past,\nThe world forgets the way the river swims\nOr how the shadows of the victims cast.\nIt is a dream within a dream of pain,\nWhere life erupts to meet the coming end,\nAs if the rain could wash away the stain,\nAnd make the trickle start to rise again.", 3, "The river that once roared like a thousand iron beasts\nNow whispers through the cracked and thirsty stone,\nA silver thread where an ocean used to feast,\nAnd history has turned its heavy head to moan.\nHere men were killed for lines drawn in the dust,\nFor dreams of gold that rotted in the mud,\nWhere fathers wept and brothers lost their trust,\nAnd silence grew from blood and broken wood.\n\nBut then a flash of crimson cuts the gray,\nA red bird singing on a withered bough,\nIt brings a sudden, sharp and bright array\nOf joy that makes the ancient sorrow bow.\nAnd in that light, the tranced rage of sex awakes,\nA fever burning through the cold decay,\nWhere bodies shake and desperate hunger takes\nThe place of ghosts that haunt the dying day.\n\nWe are the children of the murder and the loss,\nWho dream of water flowing deep and wide,\nYet find our solace in this fleeting cross\nOf life and death where lovers cannot hide.\nThe trickle runs beneath the scarred and old,\nWhile love erupts like fire in the night,\nA story written in the blood and mold,\nBetween the shadow and the blinding light.", 3, "The river that once roared like a beast of iron\nNow crawls through the cracked mud, a shy silver thread\nWhere history bleeds into the silt and the forgotten dead\nLie beneath stones that remember the weight of a crown.\n\nA red bird lands on a branch of twisted bone\nIts song a sudden spark in the gray air\nIgniting a joy that feels dangerous, almost wrong\nAgainst the silence of a thousand unsaid goodbyes.\n\nIt calls to the tranced rage of bodies tangled tight\nWhere sweat and shadow mix with the memory of fire\nTwo hearts beating fast as the drums of old wars\nSeeking release in the heat of a stolen night.\n\nHere murder sleeps under the water's shallow breath\nAnd dreams dissolve like smoke in the cooling wind\nBut the bird sings on, a crimson tear in the sky\nReminding us that life persists even when the world ends.", 3, "The water once roared like a broken spine\nNow barely whispers through the cracked stone bed\nA memory of flood where the willows wept\nAnd the earth drank deep of the storm's red head\n\nBut here a flash of crimson breaks the gray\nA cardinal singing to the dust and bone\nIt lifts the weight of centuries away\nWhere lovers met in shadows, flesh alone\n\nTheir tranced rage was a fire against the cold\nA desperate dance to forget the grave\nOf those who fell when the stories turned old\nBefore the silence could steal what they crave\n\nHistory writes its lines in blood and rust\nIn fields where dreams were buried under fear\nYet joy arrives on wings of burning trust\nTo heal the wounds that time refuses to clear\n\nSo let the river sleep in shallow streams\nWhile life beats loud within the hollow chest\nFor even in the ruins of lost dreams\nThe heart can find a place to rest", 6, "The water once roared with a fury that shook the stones\nNow it barely whispers, a silver thread through dry dust\nA red bird lands on the cracked earth, singing bright and loud\nIts wings a sudden spark against the gray of forgotten years\nHere, where the river remembers what the land has tried to forget\nMemories of blood spilled in the silence of ancient nights\nDreams that drowned before they could ever take flight\nIn this quiet space, two bodies move with desperate grace\nA tranced rhythm born from the ache of everything lost\nSkin meeting skin like tides that no longer rise or fall\nLove woven tight with the ghosts of those who came before\nThe crimson feather dances above the shallow stream\nHolding joy that refuses to fade beneath the weight of history\nWhere murder sleeps in the silt and hope begins to bloom again", 5], [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.", "A dark brook rushes,\na ribbon of oil and ink,\nslashing through the granite teeth.\n\nThe banks are wild,\ntangled with briar and fern,\nand the water is white with foam,\nwhite as a dog's tooth,\nwhite as a horse's mane,\nbiting at the stones,\nspitting white fire.\n\nIt roars down the steep,\nit does not care for bridges,\nit does not care for roads,\nit does not care for us.\n\nBut we can care for it,\nwe can let it be,\nlet it roar and spit and splash,\nlet it be wild.", 2, "Down the granite spine the dark brook falls,\nA ribbon of ink through the mossy halls.\nBlack as a raven's wing in flight,\nIt tears the shadows from the night.\n\nWhite foam explodes on the jagged stone,\nA wild white mane that the waters own.\nThey churn and boil and dash and leap,\nInto deep pools where the cold things sleep.\n\nNo hand has smoothed this rough-hewn way,\nNo curb has turned it from its play.\nHere is the roar of the unbridled thing,\nThe ancient, wet, and thunderous sing.\n\nBut I hear the saw and I see the plan,\nTo tame the beast and to chain the man.\nSo let them keep their concrete shores,\nAnd leave the wild, dark water for evermore.", 6, "A ribbon of ink cuts through the stone,\nDeep and dark where the light is unknown.\nIt rushes with power, a shadowed vein,\nThrough forests of fern and ancient rain.\n\nWhite foam explodes on the jagged rock,\nTearing the silence, a violent shock.\nThe water churns wild in its frothy rage,\nTurning the quiet to furious page.\n\nNo path for the walker, no bridge for the cart,\nJust the beating heart of the untamed part.\nLet it run free where the willows weep,\nAnd secrets of earth are buried deep.\n\nDo not tame this river, do not straighten its bend,\nDo not make the wild places end.\nLeave the dark brook to its foamy fight,\nPreserve the night that guards the light.", 6, "A ribbon of obsidian cuts the stone,\nWhere shadows pool and ancient roots are grown.\nThe water drinks the light but gives none back,\nA dark and heavy vein along the track.\n\nIt crashes down with teeth of frothy white,\nChurning the silence into chaotic night.\nWild foam erupts where boulders block the way,\nA furious dance that never knows the day.\n\nNo garden path can tame this rushing force,\nIt holds a wild and unrelenting course.\nLet moss remain upon the jagged edge,\nAnd let the stormy current keep its pledge.\n\nDo not pave over where the wild things run,\nOr dim the glory of the untamed sun.\nPreserve these places where the darkness flows,\nBefore the concrete world completely grows.", 6, "The water runs deep and black as midnight oil,\nA heavy vein cutting through the ancient stone,\nWhere shadows cling to banks of tangled soil,\nAnd silence holds a weight that feels unknown.\n\nWhite foam erupts where jagged rocks collide,\nA chaotic dance of spray and furious sound,\nNo gentle stream with nowhere left to hide,\nBut wild energy that tears the earth unbound.\n\nThe moss is thick, the air is sharp and cold,\nA place untouched by hand or human foot,\nWhere stories of the storm are fiercely told,\nAnd nature wears its rough and rugged suit.\n\nSo let this dark and roaring current stay,\nUnbridled by the walls we seek to build,\nPreserve the chaos of the breaking day,\nBefore the wild is lost, and silence killed.", 6, "The water moves in shades of obsidian glass,\nA heavy current carving through the stone,\nWhere shadows gather deep and silent pass,\nAnd ancient roots have claimed the earth as home.\n\nWhite foam erupts against the jagged edge,\nA chaotic dance of spray and sudden sound,\nAs wild winds whip the willow's trembling hedge,\nAnd silence breaks beneath the rushing ground.\n\nNo path is worn here, no hand has smoothed the way,\nJust teeth of rock that bite the flowing stream,\nA primal force that refuses to obey,\nThe quiet rhythm of a fractured dream.\n\nSo let this darkness breathe without a name,\nLet fury run where logic dares not tread,\nBefore the concrete claims the burning flame,\nAnd leaves the wild world broken, cold, and dead.\n\nHold fast the places where the chaos sings,\nWhere nature wears its armor made of night,\nFor in these untamed, unrefined things,\nWe find the truth we seek within the light.", 6, "The water moves in shades of ink and shadow,\nA silent river carved from ancient stone,\nWhere sunlight struggles to break the heavy air,\nAnd silence hums beneath the weight of night.\n\nFoam erupts where jagged rocks collide,\nWhite scars upon a skin of deep obsidian,\nWild winds carry whispers through the pines,\nUnbound by walls or fences built by hands.\n\nThis chaotic dance refuses gentle grace,\nA rhythm older than the maps we draw,\nYet cities creep like vines across the edge,\nTo steal the wild before it learns to fade.\n\nLet every stream remain untamed and free,\nNo concrete dams to choke the roaring flow,\nFor in the dark, the truth of life takes root,\nA sanctuary for the soul we seek.\n\nDo not erase the shadows of the wild,\nPreserve the storm within the quiet breath,\nBefore the world becomes a hollow echo,\nLeaving only dust where rivers used to sing.", 6], [407, "ultra_held_out", "On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man by Sir John Betjeman", "John Betjeman", "\"A poem about a speaker grappling with grief and the blunt reality of death, moving between somber reflection and macabre imagery while struggling to reconcile emotions.\"", "The kind old face, the egg-shaped head,\nThe tie, discretely loud,\nThe loosely fitting shooting clothes,\nA closely fitting shroud.\n\nHe liked old city dining rooms,\nPotatoes in their skin,\nBut now his mouth is wide to let\nThe London clay come in.\n\nHe took me on long silent walks\nIn country lanes when young.\nHe knew the names of ev'ry bird\nBut not the song it sung.\n\nAnd when he could not hear me speak\nHe smiled and looked so wise\nThat now I do not like to think\nOf maggots in his eyes.\n\nHe liked the rain-washed Cornish air\nAnd smell of ploughed-up soil,\nHe liked a landscape big and bare\nAnd painted it in oil.\n\nBut least of all he liked that place\nWhich hangs on Highgate Hill\nOf soaked Carrara-covered earth\nFor Londoners to fill.\n\nHe would have liked to say goodbye,\nShake hands with many friends,\nIn Highgate now his finger-bones\nStick through his finger-ends.\n\nYou, God, who treat him thus and thus,\nSay \"Save his soul and pray.\"\nYou ask me to believe You and\nI only see decay.", "The silence in the hallway is not empty\nIt is heavy with the weight of a body that used to breathe\nNow just a sack of water and bone cooling on the floor\nI stare at the stillness and wait for a ghost to rise\nBut there is only the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light\nAnd the terrible, mechanical truth of it all\n\nYour hand was warm this morning, now it is wax\nA cold thing I can no longer squeeze without fear\nThey say you are gone, but the word feels too soft\nFor something so brutal as the heart stopping its work\nLike a clock smashed against the wall, gears grinding to dust\nNo magic, no heaven waiting behind the door\nJust the smell of copper and the slow, wet rattle ending\n\nI try to pray for peace but my mind wanders to the worms\nTo the dark soil pressing down on your ribcage\nHow quickly the skin turns to gray and the eyes go cloudy\nIs this the love we built? Is this the final design?\nA rotting feast for things that do not know your name\nI scream at the ceiling but the room swallows the sound\nAnd I am left alone with the math of decay\n\nGrief is not a river, it is a grinder\nShattering the pieces until nothing recognizable remains\nI want to hold you but I remember the rigor mortis\nThe stiffness that locks the jaw and seals the mouth forever\nSo I sit here and watch the sun move across the carpet\nWhile inside my chest, something hollow echoes back\nNot a spirit, but the sheer, blunt force of an absence\nThat will never be filled by anything less than death itself", "The sofa is the right size\nbut the room is too large,\nand I have been reading the same page\nfor three weeks.\n\nI want to be a noble mourner,\na black-crepe figure\nsighing over a white marble urn,\nbut what I really think about\nis the smell of the house after a week;\nthe way it smells like\na butcher's cooler in July.\n\nI think about the teeth.\nThey were good teeth,\ngood yellow American teeth,\nand now they are in a box\nin a drawer in the bathroom.\nI wonder if I should take them out\nand brush them.\n\nIt seems rude not to.\nIt seems important that they\nshould look nice.\nBut there is no one to see them.\n\nAnd then I think of the worms.\nI do not mean the sentimental worms,\nthe ones that turn the earth into loam\nso we can have sweet peas.\nI mean the fat white things,\nwith their little heads and no eyes,\nthat will get busy.\n\nI feel a sort of glee at this.\nI don't know why.\nI suppose it is because the idea\nof being eaten is more realistic\nthan the idea of being remembered.\nIf I am eaten,\nI am part of something.\nIf I am remembered,\nI am just an old woman\nwho used to like sweet peas.\n\nI went down to the kitchen\nto make toast.\nI looked at the bread knife.\nIt was very sharp.\nI thought: if I cut myself,\nit would bleed.\nIt would be red.\nIt would be warm.\nThis is what life is:\nred and warm.\n\nThis is what death is:\nwhite and cold\nand full of white worms.\n\nI ate the toast.\nIt tasted like cardboard.\nI suppose I shall have to eat\ncardboard for the rest of my life.", 2, "The silence is a heavy stone\nI carry up the stairs.\nIt sits upon my chest and makes\nme wonder where you are.\nNot in the ground, not in the box,\nbut rotting in the mind.\nA worm has eaten through your name\nand left the rest behind.\n\nI try to pray but all I see\nis how the meat decays.\nThe pink that used to be your cheek\nturns purple in a haze.\nIt isn't noble, it's not grand,\nit isn't sweet or fine;\nit is a bag of wet red meat\nthat used to look like mine.\n\nAnd yet I miss the way you laughed,\nthe sound was soft and low.\nBut now I think of how the worms\nwill eat what made you so.\nThey'll eat the eyes that looked at me,\nthey'll eat the tongue that spoke.\nThis is the blunt and boring truth\nthat no one ever spoke.\n\nI hold the picture of your face\nbut I am scared to look.\nBecause I know the jaw will drop\nand then the skin will crook.\nI love you still, I love you still,\nthough this is hard to say.\nI want to kiss you on the mouth\nbefore the worms come out today.", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy\nlike a wet wool blanket soaked in the cellar\nwhere I left you to rot in my mind.\nI try to speak your name and it tastes like copper\nor the iron tang of blood from a bitten lip\nwhen the teeth are too sharp for the mouth.\n\nThey say you are gone, a polite fiction\na soft word for the hard fact of decay.\nBut I see the maggot work in the dark\nthe slow unraveling of the stitch that held us\nwhile I sit here polishing a skull\nthat looks disturbingly like yours.\n\nMy grief is a polite guest at a funeral\nwearing a black suit and holding a white handkerchief\nwhile underneath the table my hands are clawing\nat the dirt, trying to dig up the bones\nto feel the rough texture of what remains.\nIt is a contradiction, this love that wants to hold on\nand this hunger that wants to eat the memory down to the marrow.\n\nYou are dust and I am the wind\nscattering you across the floorboards\nand I am screaming because the wind does not scream\nit just blows, indifferent and cold.\nI want to believe in a ghost but the ghost\nis just a trick of the light on the wall\nwhere the shadow of a hanging man used to be.\n\nSo I will sit with the blunt reality\nof the closed eye and the open jaw\nand wait for the rot to finish its work\nso I can finally stop pretending\nthat anything of you is left to save.", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy with dust\nsettling on the skin that no longer warms itself\nI speak to a mouth that cannot answer\nand the air tastes of copper and old soil\n\nYou are gone, a fact as blunt as a shovel striking bone\nno gentle fade into light, just the sudden snap of a wire\nleaving the room dark and cold\nmy hands reach out to hold nothing but the shape of absence\n\nI imagine the worms working their quiet shift\nunder the earth where your name is written in rot\nit feels like a betrayal to think such things\nyet the mind clings to the macabre as if it were truth\n\nWhy does the heart ache when the body is already cold?\nwhy do I weep for a stranger wearing your face\nwhile the reality of decay waits patiently in the garden\na feast of roots and grubs ready to claim what was loved\n\nI try to find peace in the memory of your laugh\nbut it gets tangled with the image of the grave's damp mouth\ngaping wide to swallow the final breath\nand I am left standing at the edge of this terrible arithmetic\n\nsubtracting life from the equation leaves only grief\na raw and jagged thing that refuses to heal\nso I sit here with the dead and the dying thoughts\nwaiting for the sun to rise on a world that has lost its color", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy with dust\nsettling on the hollow where your voice used to be\nI reach for a ghost and my fingers close on cold bone\na dry rattle that answers no prayer I can speak\n\nYou are gone in the way a river stops flowing\nleaving only the mud and the rot of the bank\nI try to hold the memory of your warm skin\nbut all I find is the texture of dried earth cracking underfoot\n\nThey say time heals like water smoothing stone\nbut I see only the teeth of the grave gnawing at the edges\nof everything we built, turning laughter into ash\nand love into a quiet, suffocating weight\n\nWhy does the heart keep beating when the world has stopped?\nIt pounds against ribs like a trapped bird seeking an exit\nwhile the mind wanders through corridors of decay\ncounting the seconds until the final breath turns to mist\n\nI am torn between the softness of what was lost\nand the brutal geometry of a body returning to clay\nhow do I mourn a stranger made of my own blood?\nhow do I love a shadow that refuses to fade?\n\nThe sun rises indifferent to the hole in my chest\ncasting long, sharp shadows across the floorboards\nwhere you once stood, now just a space for the dark to grow\nand I am left holding nothing but the air you breathed", 2, "The silence is not empty but heavy with dust\nA weight that settles on the chest like wet wool\nI trace the cold line of a jaw gone slack\nWhere once there was laughter, now only the crack\nOf bone settling deep in the earth's dark embrace\nA final exhale lost to the hollowed-out space\n\nMy hands reach out for warmth that no longer exists\nChasing the ghost of a breath in the morning mist\nBut the air tastes of iron, of rust and decay\nAs the sun paints the window in shades of gray\nThe body is meat, just a vessel of skin\nWaiting for worms to begin their slow work within\n\nWhy does the heart keep beating when love has turned cold?\nWhen stories are finished and chapters unfold\nInto nothingness, void, and the rot of the grave\nThere is no grand magic, no promise to save\nOnly the quiet, the stillness, the end of the fight\nAnd the terrible truth that we fade into night\n\nI scream at the ceiling, I beg for a sign\nBut the stars do not answer, they simply align\nWith the rhythm of loss, with the pull of the deep\nWhere secrets are buried and promises sleep\nSo I hold onto grief like a shard of sharp glass\nWatching the shadow of time slowly pass\nThrough veins made of water, through lungs full of stone\nAlone in the house where the living are grown\nYet dead inside too, as the world moves ahead\nLeaving the broken behind in the bed\nOf memories fading, of faces worn thin\nJust waiting for silence to finally begin", 5, "The silence isn't empty, it is heavy with dust\nWhere your breath once moved the air like a tide\nI trace the cold lines of a face that forgot how to speak\nWhile the world spins on, indifferent and blind\n\nBeneath the soil, the roots drink deep from what remains\nA quiet feast for things that do not remember names\nYour bones are slowly turning into something soft and gray\nA skeleton stripped of all the warmth we used to keep\n\nWhy does my chest ache when the rot begins its work?\nWhen the skin dissolves into the dark and silent earth\nIs there beauty in the decay, or just a cruel design?\nTo watch the light fade while the shadows stretch so wide\n\nI scream at the void, demanding answers from the grave\nBut only echoes return, hollow and sharp as glass\nWe cling to memories that crumble like dry leaves\nLeaving us standing in a storm we cannot weather\n\nThe truth is brutal, unyielding and stark against the sky\nThat love cannot stop the hands of time from stealing away\nAnd in this space between the heartbeat and the end\nWe learn to carry weight that no one was meant to hold", 6], [422, "train", "To BRYANT, the Poet of Nature by Walt Whitman", "Walt Whitman", "A poem about celebrating a poet of nature whose true monument is not built by human hands, but is instead living and breathing eternally in the vast mountains, flowing rivers, and blossoming flowers of the natural world.", "Let Glory diadem the mighty dead\u2014\nLet monuments of brass and marble rise\nTo those who have upon our being shed\nA golden halo, borrowed from the skies,\nAnd given to time its most enduring prize;\nFor they but little less than angels were:\nBut not to thee, oh! nature's OWN, we should\n(When from this clod the minstrel-soul aspires\nAnd joins the glorious band of purer lyres)\nTall columns build: thy monument is here\u2014\nFor ever fixed in its eternity\u2014\nA monument God-built! 'Tis seen around\u2014\nIn mountains huge and many gliding streams\u2014\nWhere'er the torrent lifts a melancholy sound,\nOr modest flower in broad savannah gleams.", "No stone was cut to mark his name,\nNo marble column reaches high,\nFor he who sang the wind and flame\nFound shelter in the open sky.\n\nHis monument is not of brick,\nBut granite peaks that pierce the gray,\nWhere eagles circle, strong and quick,\nAnd clouds drift slowly on their way.\n\nThe river sings his ancient verse,\nA flowing song through rock and sand,\nWhile winter's frost and summer's hearse\nAre woven by a gentle hand.\n\nIn every bloom that opens wide,\nIn roots that hold the earth so deep,\nHis spirit lives where shadows hide,\nAwake while all the world asleeps.\n\nSo let no statue rise above,\nTo claim the poet of the wild,\nHe dwells within the forest love,\nForever breathing, calm and mild.", "He built no temple of stone or marble,\nHe raised no column to pierce the sky;\nHis monument is not a thing of mortar,\nBut one that lives and breathes on high.\n\nIt is in the vast mountains' silent grandeur,\nThe granite ribs where the eagles ride;\nIt is in the flowing rivers' clearness,\nWhere the trout swim dark and wide.\n\nHis tomb is in the blossoming flowers,\nThat open fresh from year to year;\nAnd when he sleeps among the grasses,\nThe grasses make him seem more dear.\n\nNo sculptor chiseled his features,\nNo architect planned his sepulchre;\nBut all the woods are full of him,\nAnd all the seas are full of her.\n\nHe lives eternally in Nature,\nIn wind, and wave, and tree, and flower;\nHe has no other monument,\nBut Nature's self at every hour.", 6, "He built no stone to mark his place\nNo arch of marble, cold and gray,\nTo stand against the changing face\nOf wind and weather, night and day.\n\nHis monument is not a wall\nThat human hands could raise on high,\nBut all that rises, stands, or falls\nBeneath the vast and vaulted sky.\n\nThe mountains are his towering head,\nTheir granite brows with snow cap'd white,\nWhere silent airs about them spread\nAnd stars come out to keep their night.\n\nThe rivers are his flowing verse,\nWith music in their constant run,\nFrom mountain spring to ocean's girth,\nThey sing the song he has begun.\n\nThe blossoming flowers are his lines,\nIn gold and crimson, red and blue,\nThat bloom where winter once was shines\nAnd paint the fresh and morning dew.\n\nSo let him sleep in leafy bower,\nAnd wake in bird and bee and breeze,\nFor every flower, tree, and tower\nIs part of him among the trees.\n\nNo sculptor's chisel, mason's trowel,\nCan build a shrine so deep and wide,\nAs this great living, breathing bowl\nWhere all his nature lives inside.", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place,\nNo marble column rises to the sky,\nFor he who sang of wind and forest space\nFound his true monument where eagles fly.\n\nHis verses are not carved in granite deep,\nBut written in the river's winding song,\nWhere ancient mountains guard their silent sleep,\nAnd wildflowers bloom where he has longed along.\n\nThe breathing pines repeat his rhythmic line,\nThe rushing water echoes out his rhyme,\nIn every leaf that drinks the morning shine,\nHe lives beyond the reach of passing time.\n\nLet others seek a tomb of gold and dust,\nA statue frozen in a city square;\nHis glory is in nature's sacred trust,\nForever living in the mountain air.", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place\nNo marble arch rose up to claim his name\nFor he who sang of wind and shifting grace\nFound monuments that bear no human stain\n\nThe vast mountains stand as pillars of his verse\nWhere silence speaks the truths he once imparted\nAnd rivers flow with rhythm, wild and fierce\nCarrying the songs his heart has started\n\nBehold the blossoming flowers in the spring\nEach petal opens with a line he wrote\nThe birds that wake at dawn and loudly sing\nAre echoes of the melodies he brought\n\nHe did not need a statue made of dust\nOr bronze cast hard against the passing years\nHis legacy is built on trust\nIn nature's tears, her laughter, and her fears\n\nSo let the forest be his living tomb\nThat breathes eternally through root and leaf\nDispelling every shadow, every gloom\nWith beauty that defies all time and grief", 7, "No stone was cut to mark his resting place\nNo marble arches rise against the sky\nFor he who spoke in whispers of the wind\nFound no need for walls that man could build\n\nHis verses live where ancient pines stand tall\nAnd echo through the valleys deep and wide\nThe river sings the rhythm of his rhyme\nAs water carves the path he once described\n\nWhen spring returns to paint the hills in green\nEach blooming flower bears his silent name\nThe frost that paints the morning on the glass\nIs but a stanza written without shame\n\nHe sleeps within the heartbeat of the earth\nA pulse that thrums beneath the shifting soil\nNo human hand can hold what nature keeps\nNo monument can match this endless toil\n\nSo let the mountains stand as his tribute\nLet oceans roar the praise he never sought\nFor in the breath of life that fills the air\nHis truest legacy is fully caught", 7, "No stone was laid to mark his final rest\nNo marble arches rise above the ground\nWhere silence holds the secrets of the west\nAnd ancient winds in hollow valleys sound\n\nHis verses live within the rushing stream\nThat carves the canyon deep with patient grace\nA melody that dances on the beam\nOf morning light upon a forest face\n\nThe petals open as his words unfold\nEach bloom a stanza written in the dew\nThe mountain peaks, both rugged and untold\nAre where his spirit breathes and starts anew\n\nNo sculptor's chisel could ever capture true\nThe rhythm of the rain or storm's release\nFor he is woven in the sky so blue\nAnd finds eternal peace in nature's cease\n\nSo let the river sing what cannot fade\nLet roots run deep where all his stories start\nA monument by no human hand was made\nBut beats forever in the wild heart", 7, "The stone may crumble under time's relentless weight\nWhile walls of gold turn soft to dust and gray\nYet here the poet walks in silent grace\nWhere ancient winds compose a timeless lay\n\nNo statue stands to mark the path they trod\nFor every leaf that sways is carved with truth\nA river sings the verses softly spun\nThat echo through the valleys of our youth\n\nThe mountains rise as monuments of breath\nUnwritten by the hands of mortal men\nEach blooming flower whispers what was lost\nIn quiet spaces where the light begins again\n\nThey live within the storm and gentle rain\nA spirit woven deep in roots and sky\nForever written in the wild design\nWhere nature breathes the words we cannot hide", 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 dirt\nbut maps of leaks in time,\nyellow islands rising on a sea\nof paste and paper.\n\nNote the way the sun\ncuts a white knife through the dust\nto make a galaxy of it;\nnote how the butcher's block\nis wet with the memory of meat.\n\nIf you can look at the dead fly\non the window pane\nand see not a nuisance but an angel\nwith his wings clipped,\nyou have begun.\n\nTake your father's last words,\nstuttered and broken as old bricks,\nand lay them side by side\nuntil they make a wall.\nOr better still, take them apart\nuntil they are only air,\nonly breath,\nonly a great bird flying out\ninto the blue.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in yellow strips\nlike dead skin from a sunburned arm,\na map of damp and time\nwhere the pattern of flowers has drowned.\nI watch it curl and think:\nthis is not just rot, but the slow unbuttoning\nof a house's shirt, revealing\nthe ribs of lath and plaster underneath,\nthe white bone of a building.\n\nLater, in the room where the light is thin\nand the clock eats seconds with a loud mouth,\nmy father's voice is a dry leaf\nrubbed between two fingers.\nHe speaks of nothing much,\njust the weather or the cat,\nbut the words are small stones\ndropped into a deep well,\nwaiting for the splash that never comes.\nThey are the last seeds he plants\nin soil that will soon be turned over.\n\nIf I were to take these things\nthe stained paper, the dying voice\nand hold them up to the light\nthey would turn into gold.\nThe stain becomes a sunset trapped in paste;\nthe whisper becomes the wind\nblowing through the grass before winter.\nTo write is to take the cheap wood\nof the everyday and varnish it\nuntil it shines like an old violin,\nso that when we play it,\nwe hear not the cracks in the wood\nbut the music that made them.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin\nrevealing the plaster bone beneath,\na map of forgotten wars where a thumbtack once held a photograph.\nThis is not decay but a slow unspooling of time,\nthe way a story begins to fray at the edges\nbefore it reaches its final chapter.\n\nListen to the kettle's high thin whistle,\na silver needle stitching the morning air,\nor watch the dust motes dance in the shaft of light\nlike tiny galaxies trapped in a jar of silence.\nThese are the raw materials, the rough stone\nfrom which we carve the statue of a moment.\n\nThen comes the room with the smell of antiseptic and old rain,\nwhere the ceiling fan cuts the heavy air into lazy slices.\nYour father's voice is a dry leaf skittering on pavement,\nscraping out words that barely hold their shape:\n\"Look at the light.\"\nHe does not mean the sun, nor the bulb above,\nbut the sudden, terrible clarity of being here, now,\nbefore the curtain falls.\n\nYou take these fragments, the stain, the sound, the whisper,\nand you dip them in the ink of attention.\nThe peeling paper becomes the shedding of a past life;\nthe kettle's song becomes the urgency of breath;\nhis last request becomes the title of the book you write.\nFor great writing is not the invention of new worlds,\nbut the act of seeing this one so clearly\nthat the commonplace burns like gold.", 2, "The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin\nrevealing the plaster bone beneath,\na map of forgotten wars where mold grows green and slow.\nWe call it decay, but the pen sees a river delta\npouring into the quiet sea of afternoon light.\n\nA coffee cup rings on the table like a silver bell\nthat never stops tolling for the morning we lost.\nThe steam rises not as vapor but as ghostly handwriting\nscrawling secrets on the windowpane before the glass clears.\n\nThen comes the room that holds its breath,\nwhere the air is thick with unsaid things.\nMy father's voice is a dry leaf skittering across stone,\neach word a small coin dropped into a deep well.\nHe speaks of the garden, of rain, of a door left open,\nand I hear the ocean crashing against a cliff face far away.\n\nThese are not just stains or final sounds,\nbut raw clay waiting for the sculptor's hand.\nTo write is to take the rust from the hinge\nand forge it into a key that opens every locked heart.\nThe mundane is the loom, the tragedy the thread,\nand the poem the tapestry that makes the ordinary burn bright.", 3, "The wallpaper peels like old skin from a sunburnt arm,\nrevealing the gray plaster beneath where time has settled in,\na map of cracks that trace the quiet history of this room.\nWe walk past these scars as if they are merely dust,\nbut the poet sees the ghost of every argument and laugh\npressed into the fibers of the fading floral print.\n\nA coffee ring stains the table like a bruise on the moon,\na perfect circle of memory left by a morning cup,\nand suddenly it is not just a spill but a planet spinning slow,\nholding the weight of all the words we never said.\nEven the silence between the ticking clock's heartbeat\nbecomes a river carrying us toward some unseen shore.\n\nThen comes the moment when the air grows thin and cold,\nand the father's voice, once a thunderstorm, softens to a whisper.\nHis last words hang in the space like smoke from a dying fire,\nfragile threads of meaning unraveling into the light.\nHe speaks of rain he will never feel again,\nof a garden he left unwatered, of a door left ajar.\n\nThese are not just sounds fading into the dark,\nbut ink spilling onto the page of our own becoming.\nFor in the stain, the crack, the final breath,\nwe find the raw material to build a world anew,\ntransforming the ordinary ache of living\ninto something that might outlast the walls themselves.", 3, "The wallpaper peels like old skin,\na map of yellowed cracks where time has settled deep,\neach stain a story the house refuses to forget,\nturning damp decay into a canvas of forgotten rain.\n\nA coffee cup left cold on the table holds the ghost of morning,\nits rim a silver line drawn against the silence,\nwhere steam once rose like prayers that never reached the sky,\nnow just a ring of brown, a circle of what used to be.\n\nThen comes the quiet room where breath grows thin and heavy,\nthe air thick with words that hang suspended in the dust,\nmy father's voice a fragile thread unraveling slowly,\nspinning gold from the gray between heartbeats and goodbye.\n\nWe take these shards of ordinary glass and cut the light,\nfinding galaxies in the grime beneath our fingernails,\ntransforming the mundane ache into something vast and holy,\nuntil the smallest whisper becomes a roar that shakes the earth.", 3, "The crack in the plaster holds a map of time\nWhere dust settles like forgotten memories\nEach stain a story waiting to be told\nIn shades of gray that paint the morning light\n\nA cup of coffee cools upon the table\nSteam rising like ghosts from yesterday's regrets\nThe silence hums between the ticking clock\nAnd shadows stretch across the wooden floor\n\nYour voice grows soft, a river losing its current\nWords dissolving into something deeper than sound\nNot just the end, but every breath before\nTurning ordinary moments into gold\n\nWe weave these threads of loss and quiet grace\nInto a tapestry no one else can see\nFor in the broken pieces lies the truth\nThat turns the mundane into sacred art", 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.", "In the spring the plains are a green ocean,\nbillowing with grasses and wildflowers,\nand the antelope run like birds over the earth.\nThe cows are round with milk, the horses fat,\nand the sky is a low blue bowl overflowing with rain.\n\nBut in the summer the sun is a white eye,\nstaring unblinking until the grass turns yellow\nand then brown, and the rivers shrink to trickles\nand then to holes of mud. The wind begins to whistle\nthrough the ribs of the dead trees,\nand the cattle begin to cough.\n\nThen the winter comes, not gently but like a thief,\nstealing the heat and leaving the cold;\nthe snow falls thick and kills the grass roots,\nand the wolves come down from the hills.\nThere is no food for the cows, no food for the horses,\nthey lie down where they stand and die.\n\nSo in the spring when the rains come again,\nand the grass grows green and the flowers blow,\nthere are also bones scattered on the ground,\nwhite as the bones of the flowers themselves,\nand some of them are very large,\nand some of them are very small,\nand all of them are white.", 3, "First the rain comes soft and green\nAnd the grass grows tall and deep\nWhere bison walk in herds immense\nAnd all the world can sleep.\nThe air is thick with pollen dust\nThe soil drinks its fill\nAnd every blade of waving grass\nIs watered by the rill.\n\nBut then the clouds turn hard and black\nThe wind begins to scream\nThe rain retreats and leaves behind\nA drought within a dream.\nThe green turns brown, the brown turns gray\nThe springs run dry and low\nAnd cattle fall where once they grazed\nWith nowhere left to go.\n\nThe sun beats down on scorched earth\nUntil it cracks and splits\nWhile nature's cruel and careless hand\nTears off the animal's bits.\nThe beauty of the lush spring time\nIs gone without a trace\nAnd only bones are left behind\nTo mark this barren place.\n\nThey lie there white against the dust\nThe ribs and skulls and thighbones\nOn fields that fed them fat and well\nNot long ago in tones\nOf lowing sound and happy tread\nNow silent as the grave\nWhere abundance turned to ruin fast\nAnd none were left to save.\n\nSo here they lie, the scattered bones\nUpon the selfsame ground\nThat fed their flesh when it was green\nAnd now has nothing found\nBut cruelty and beauty mixed\nIn cycles wild and free\nThe plains give life, the plains take back\nAs nature wills it be.", 6, "Green waves roll under the heavy sun\nWhere bison graze and wildflowers run\nThe earth is soft, the air is sweet\nWith life that moves beneath our feet.\n\nThen clouds turn gray and winds grow cold\nThe story of the spring is told\nIn withered stalks and cracking dust\nWhere hope and moisture place their trust.\n\nThe sky turns white with biting frost\nCounting up what summer lost\nThe grass turns brown, the rivers dry\nBeneath a vast and empty sky.\n\nNow silence holds the scorched expanse\nAs winter takes its cruel dance\nAnd scattered white on blackened ground\nThe bleached bones of the herds are found.\n\nThey lie where tender shoots once grew\nA stark reminder, old and true\nThat beauty feeds on cruelty\nIn nature's wild unpredictability.", 6, "The spring arrives with a green and heavy hand,\nTurning the dust to a carpet of softest grain,\nWhere herds move like clouds across the waking land,\nAnd life drinks deep from the sudden, sweet rain.\n\nBut summer turns its gaze with a burning eye,\nThe rivers shrink to a whisper of silver thread,\nThe grass turns brown as the heat goes high,\nAnd the vibrant world is slowly bled.\n\nThen winter comes not with mercy but with teeth,\nA white silence that chokes the breath of the plain,\nThe abundance rots beneath the frozen wreath,\nLeaving nothing but hunger in the driving rain.\n\nNow only the bleached and scattered bones remain,\nWhite against the gray where the tall grass stood,\nReminders of the feast and the cruel pain,\nOf nature's cycle, misunderstood and good.\n\nThe ground that fed them now holds their quiet rest,\nA graveyard of ribs beneath the vast, cold sky,\nWhere beauty and brutality are equally blessed,\nAnd the plains wait for a season to pass on by.", 7, "Green waves roll across the endless floor\nWhere buffalo herds thunder, a living roar\nThe grass grows thick with dew and light\nA feast that stretches into night\nBut then the sky turns hard and gray\nAnd steals the rain to wash away\nThe roots turn dry, the soil cracks wide\nAs hunger walks where life once died\n\nThe wind now howls a cold command\nThrough fields of dust and barren sand\nNo seed remains to break the crust\nOnly the silence of the dust\nAnd scattered white upon the ground\nAre bones of those who once were found\nIn lush abundance, strong and free\nNow just a ghost of memory\n\nThe cycle spins on cruel wheels\nBetween what breaks and what it heals\nOne year a garden, rich and deep\nThe next a grave for all who sleep\nThe earth gives all, then takes it back\nWith no regard for heart or track\nLeaving the skeleton's hollow stare\nTo watch the green return elsewhere", 6, "The wind arrives with soft and golden hands\nTo weave a tapestry of living green\nWhere bison roam beneath the endless sky\nAnd water pools in hollows deep and clean\n\nBut time is not a gentle, steady stream\nIt shifts to fire that burns the grass to ash\nThe heat descends like iron on the skin\nTurning the fertile earth to cracked and grayish dust\n\nThe rivers dry to whispers in the stone\nWhile silence grows where laughter once had been\nThe vibrant fields collapse into the void\nLeaving behind a world of sharp and stony thin\n\nNow scattered white against the barren ground\nThe ribs of giants tell a final tale\nOf hunger that outlasted every seed\nAs winter claims the land without a fail\n\nWhat fed the herd now feeds the vulture's flight\nA cycle spun between the lush and bare\nWhere beauty blooms then breaks beneath the weight\nOf nature's cruel and unpredictable air", 6, "The wind whispers gold across the endless stretch\nWhere grass grows thick enough to hide a storm\nA banquet laid for hooves that never tire\nAnd rivers swell with life beneath the sun\n\nBut time turns sharp against the gentle green\nAs heat devours the promise of the spring\nThe soil cracks wide, a map of broken veins\nWhere silence steals the breath from living air\n\nWhat was once abundance fades to dust and gray\nThe herd retreats, leaving only hollow echoes\nThe cruelty of drought rewrites the story\nOf lands that fed the world with open hands\n\nNow bones lie scattered where the wildflowers danced\nWhite ribs against the earth that offered nothing\nA cruel reminder of the shifting tide\nBetween the feast and famine's quiet hold\n\nThe cycle spins without a warning cry\nLeaving the skeleton to mark the ground\nWhere beauty rose and fell in equal measure\nAnd nature claims what it can no longer keep", 6], [434, "train", "Cross by Langston Hughes", "Langston Hughes", "A poem about a biracial speaker wondering whether he will die in a nice home or a dilapidated one, reflecting on the unequal lives and deaths of his white father and Black mother in a racist society.", "My old man\u2019s a white old man\nAnd my old mother\u2019s black.\nIf ever I cursed my white old man\nI take my curses back.\nIf ever I cursed my black old mother\nAnd wished she were in hell,\nI\u2019m sorry for that evil wish\nAnd now I wish her well.\nMy old man died in a fine big house.\nMy ma died in a shack.\nI wonder where I\u2019m gonna die,\nBeing neither white nor black?", "I trace the line where blue veins meet dark skin\nand wonder which roof will shelter my bones when I am done.\nWill it be the one with the manicured lawn and the quiet street\nwhere my father's name still opens doors that stay locked for me?\nOr will it be the crumbling porch, the peeling paint, the sirens' wail\nwhere my mother's laughter was often swallowed by the night?\n\nHe died in a house built on a foundation of silence,\na place where the air smelled of lemon polish and old money,\nwhere the world bowed down to his pale reflection.\nShe died in a world that measured her worth by the weight of her shadow,\nin a home where the walls seemed to lean in, heavy with history.\n\nNow I stand between two futures, a hybrid ghost in the making,\nwondering if the color of my blood will dictate the quality of my end.\nWill the doctors nod politely at my white half and ignore my black?\nWill the funeral director ask about my lineage before preparing the box?\nThe society that raised me draws lines in the dirt and calls them fate,\ndeciding who gets a soft bed and who gets a hard grave.\n\nI look at the sky, gray and indifferent over both neighborhoods,\nand ask the wind if it knows how to tell a story without a bias.\nPerhaps the truth is that death does not care for the address,\nonly that the house, whether grand or broken,\nmust eventually hold the same cold silence for us all.", "My father died in a house of white wood\nwith a lawn that was mowed every week,\na house where the windows were double-paned\nand the locks were new and the blinds were drawn\nto keep the sun out of the living room.\n\nMy mother died in a house of gray wood\nwith a lawn that was weedy and high,\na house where the windows were single-paned\nand the locks were old and the blinds were up\nto let the sun into the living room.\n\nI am the son of both these houses,\nthe son of both these deaths,\nI have my father's eyes and my mother's skin,\nand I do not know which house I shall die in.\n\nWill I die in a nice house like my father,\nin a nice bed like my father,\nwith nice people around me like my father?\nOr will I die in a dilapidated house like my mother,\nin a dilapidated bed like my mother,\nwith dilapidated people around me like my mother?\n\nIf I die in a nice house,\nwill I be one of the nice people?\nIf I die in a dilapidated house,\nwill I be one of the dilapidated people?\n\nI think I shall die in a nice house,\nbecause I have my father's eyes.\nI think I shall die in a dilapidated house,\nbecause I have my mother's skin.\n\nI think I shall die in a nice house,\nbecause I have my father's eyes.\nI think I shall die in a dilapidated house,\nbecause I have my mother's skin.", 2, "My father died in a house with white walls\nand a lawn that was never too dry,\nwhere the snow fell soft and the doctor came\nin a car with leather seats to ask him why.\nHe closed his eyes on a clean sheet\nin a room where the air smelled of lilies,\nwhile my mother died in a house with black mold\nthat climbed up the stairs like wild vines.\nShe died in a room where the radiator clanged\nand the streetlight shone through a broken pane,\nand the doctor came in a truck with no heat\nto tell her it would be all right again.\nI am the child of both these houses,\nthe son of the white one and the black one,\nwondering which floorboards will creak under me\nwhen I go to sleep for the last time.\nWill I die in a nice home with a garden?\nOr will I die in a dilapidated one?\nThe first has a name and a number\nand the second has none at all.\nAnd I wonder if the color of my skin\nwill decide the kind of death I get,\nor if the blood of my father\nwill save me from the blood of my mother.\nI wonder if I will die in a nice home\nor a dilapidated one.", 2, "My father died in a house with white trim\nwhere the gutters never clogged and the paint held fast,\na quiet end in a room that smelled of lemon polish\nand the kind of safety money can buy.\nMy mother died in a house where the windows rattled\nin every wind, where the plaster fell like snow\non the carpet she could not afford to replace,\na life worn thin by the friction of being seen\nas less than, as dangerous, as temporary.\nI am the sum of these two endings,\nthe child of the safe room and the crumbling one,\nwondering which roof will cover my bones.\nWill I lie down in the place of polished wood\nwhere the door locks automatically against the world?\nOr will I be laid to rest in the drafty hall\nwhere the neighbors know my name but not my face,\nwhere the streetlights flicker out too soon?\nThe blood in my veins is a map of this inequality,\none side smooth and paved, the other broken glass.\nI wonder if the grave will care about the address,\nif the dirt is democratic or if it knows\nwhich family line it should receive gently\nand which it should swallow whole.", 2, "My father died behind a white picket fence\nwhere the grass was cut to a uniform green\nand the doctors arrived before the pain could set in\nleaving him with a quiet room and a soft bed.\n\nMy mother passed in a house that leaked rain\nher ceiling stained with years of neglect\nwhile the ambulance waited too long outside\nand the pain became the only thing she knew.\n\nI stand between them, a map of two worlds\nwondering which roof will cover my bones\nwill I inherit the silence of the suburbs\nor the crumbling brick of the forgotten street?\n\nThe blood in my veins is a question mark\nhalf of privilege, half of struggle\nand I do not know if the grave will be dug\nin a manicured plot or in the dirt of the side road.\n\nWill the world see me as his son\nand grant me the luxury of a gentle end?\nOr will it see her face in mine\nand leave me to fade in a broken place?\n\nThe future is a door I cannot open yet\nhanging on hinges rusted by history\nwaiting for the moment when my breath stops\nto decide if I am safe or simply gone.", 2, "I hold the blood of two worlds in my veins\none that built walls of brick and mortar strong\nthe other crushed beneath the weight of their stone\nmy father walked through doors that never locked\nwhile my mother was barred from rooms she helped to build\n\nnow I wonder where my final breath will settle\nwill it be in a house with a garden tended by hands like his\nor in a shack where the roof leaks rain like tears\nwhere the floorboards groan under the weight of history\n\nhe died with a quiet dignity in a sterile room\nsurrounded by medicine paid for without question\nshe passed in a hospital bed that felt too small\nher pain ignored until the silence took her whole\n\nam I the bridge between these endings or the fracture\ndoes the light of his legacy warm my future\nor does the shadow of her struggle darken my path\nwaiting for the moment when the world decides\nif I belong in the mansion or the ruin\n\nperhaps the house is just a shell\nand the truth lies in how we were loved\nbefore the society tore us apart\nleaving me to guess which door will open last", 3, "I stand between two ghosts who never met in life\nOne buried in a garden where the ivy climbs too slow\nThe other lost to streets that swallow breath before it leaves\nMy skin holds both their stories, split like cracks in dry clay\nWill I wake in a house of glass where silence costs a fortune\nOr crumble in a room where the roof forgets to keep the rain?\nHis hands were soft with privilege that built the walls around him\nHer feet were calloused by the weight of doors kept firmly shut\nThey say the end is equal for us all beneath the same cold sky\nBut history writes its verdict in the mortar and the wood\nDoes the grave care which shade of blood flows through the final vein\nOr does the earth only open wide for those who own the ground?\nI trace the line upon my face where two worlds collide and break\nWondering if the last light will find me safe or left behind\nA child of war and peace, caught in the quiet space between\nWhere the rich man sleeps in linen and the poor man chokes on dust.", 3, "The walls of memory hold two distinct shadows\nWhere my father's breath settled in polished wood\nAnd silence fell on floors that never cracked\nWhile his hands built a fortress against the storm\n\nBut her skin carried the weight of crumbling brick\nA life measured in doors locked tight against night\nHer laughter drowned by sirens in the dark\nA promise broken before it could take root\n\nNow I stand between these fractured histories\nWondering which foundation will claim my end\nWill the roof above me stay unbroken by rain\nOr will the cracks widen until they swallow all\n\nAm I destined for a quiet room of warmth\nOr a hollow space where fear has learned to live\nThe question hangs heavy in the air we share\nBetween the safety he bought and the struggle she endured\n\nNo map exists for this divided path\nOnly the echo of choices made by others\nAs I wait to see if love can bridge the gap\nOr if the world demands I choose a side before I fade", 6], [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.", "Before the rains, the house was a dry bone,\nThe dust blew thick through the window screen,\nThe earth cracked open like a hungry mouth,\nAnd the well went dry as a bone-dry bone.\n\nNow the sky is low and black with rain,\nAnd the roof drums out a merry tune;\nWater runs down in silver threads,\nAnd the garden drinks the moon.\n\nThe cat is wet and sits and licks\nHis paws on the wet stone floor;\nThe dog barks at the dripping spout,\nAnd wants to go out more.\n\nThere are frogs inside the kitchen sink,\nAnd water-lilies in the tub;\nThe whole house swims about with life,\nIn the middle of a rub.", 3, "The summer held us in a fist of dust,\nA blinding white where nothing dared to grow,\nThe cracked earth opened up its thirsty mouth\nTo catch the sun's relentless, golden blow.\nThe well ran dry, the leaves were curled and brown,\nAnd silence stretched from noon until the night,\nWe waited for the clouds that never came down\nBeneath the weight of such a burning light.\n\nBut then the wind brought coolness from the sea,\nThe sky turned heavy, dark, and pregnant gray,\nAnd first a drop, then ten, then ten times three,\nWashed all the yellow dust and heat away.\nNow water dances on the corrugated roof,\nA thousand tiny drums begin to play,\nThe garden lifts its head with green proof,\nAnd life returns to drink the cool display.\n\nThe frogs are singing in the flooded ditch,\nThe lizards run along the wetted wall,\nThe smell of rain is rich as any dish,\nThat falls upon the thirsty, waiting pall.\nNo longer do we fear the scorching day,\nOr watch the cistern sink so low and bare,\nFor now the home thrives in the liquid way,\nWith water running freely through the air.", 6, "The summer sun had baked the earth to dust\nAnd turned the riverbed to cracked and white stone\nWhere silence sat like heavy, burning rust\nAnd not a leaf upon the banyan grove was known.\n\nBut now the clouds have gathered low and gray\nAnd break in sheets of silver on the roof\nTo wash the heat of yesterday away\nAnd fill the air with music from the roof.\n\nThe cisterns overflow with clear, cool rain\nThat dances down the steps into the yard\nWhile green shoots burst through soil once so dry and plain\nAnd frogs begin their evening concert loud and hard.\n\nInside the house the floor is damp and sweet\nWith moss that climbs the walls in emerald threads\nThe scent of wet earth rises from our feet\nAs life returns where death had held its heads.\n\nNo longer does the wind blow hot and dry\nOr make us hide beneath a dusty fan\nNow water fills the sky and makes us cry\nWith joy at how the thirsty world began again.", 6, "The summer sun once pressed a heavy hand\nUpon the cracked and thirsty earth below,\nWhere dust would rise in clouds of golden sand\nAnd silence held its breath with weary woe.\n\nNow skies have turned a bruised and swelling gray,\nAnd thunder rolls like drums across the roof,\nAs rain descends to wash the heat away\nAnd fill the cisterns with a sudden proof.\n\nThe garden drinks until the soil is deep,\nWith emerald shoots that burst from brown decay,\nWhile frogs begin their chorus, loud and steep,\nTo greet the water's cool and constant play.\n\nInside the walls, the air feels soft and wet,\nA stark relief from days of scorching light,\nAs life returns to every corner set,\nAnd shadows dance within the stormy night.", 7, "The summer sun once scorched the cracked earth bare\nLeaving dust to dance in waves of golden heat\nWhere silence hung like heavy, stagnant air\nAnd rivers shrank to whispers at our feet\n\nNow clouds arrive to break the burning spell\nAs rain begins to tap against the glass\nThe thirsty soil drinks deep and swells its cell\nWhile green shoots rise from shadows of the past\n\nInside the walls a hum of life takes hold\nWith steam rising from kettles on the stove\nThe children splash where puddles turn to gold\nAnd frogs sing loud beneath the willow grove\n\nNo longer parched by days that stretch too long\nWe watch the world awaken, wet and new\nA symphony of water fills the song\nOf gardens drinking deeply, old and true", 7, "The summer sun once scorched the earth in silence\nWhere dust danced heavy on the cracked and thirsty floor\nThe air hung still, a blanket made of fire\nThat turned the garden into shades of gray and gold\n\nBut now the sky has opened wide its arms\nTo let the rhythm of the falling rain reclaim the land\nA symphony of droplets taps against the roof\nWhile cool mist rises from the soil below\n\nInside, the walls breathe deep with dampened life\nAs vines climb higher toward the window light\nThe cistern overflows with silver clarity\nReflecting clouds that drift across the room\n\nNo longer do we fear the heat that stole our breath\nFor water fills the cracks where hope had nearly died\nThe house awakes to songs of frogs and birds\nAnd every corner hums with green renewal", 6, "The summer air once held a heavy weight\nWhere dust devils danced on cracked and thirsty ground\nThe sun burned gold with unrelenting heat\nSilencing every song the wind had found\n\nNow clouds arrive to break the silent spell\nAs rain begins to wash the memory away\nA river flows where silence used to dwell\nAnd green returns to reclaim what time could take\n\nInside the walls, a rhythm starts to beat\nWith water pooling deep in every stone\nThe garden breathes beneath the falling sheet\nNo longer bound by seasons of alone\n\nLife stirs within the cracks that summer left\nRoots drink their fill of cool and gentle grace\nThe world awakes from drought's quiet theft\nTo find a home restored by nature's embrace", 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 soul, why dost thou wander\nin the cold and starry waste,\nleaving me thy mother Earth,\nand my warm and bosomy breast?\n\nCome back to me, come back to me,\nto the green and grassy lap;\nI have been watching for thee long,\nfrom the rising of the sun.\n\nI have been waiting for thee long,\nfrom the setting of the sun.\nThou hast not seen a better world\nthan this mine of earth and sun.\n\nCome back to me, come back to me,\nto the green and grassy lap;\nI have been watching for thee long,\nfrom the rising of the sun.", 6, "My child, you wander far from my green breast,\nThrough cold and sterile places of the west,\nWhere stars are distant diamonds in a void,\nAnd all your ancient music is destroyed.\nCome back to where the rivers run so warm,\nSafe from the chaos and the coming storm;\nThere is no shelter like the boughs that sway,\nNo gentle light to guide you through the day.\nI hold you still within my soft embrace,\nAnd keep for you a quiet, holy place;\nWhy roam the wastes when here the grasses grow,\nAnd I alone can make your spirit glow?\nReturn, return, to worship at my knee,\nAnd dwell again where all things wild and free,\nAre born of me and live and die with me,\nWithin this warmth of earth's eternity.", 7, "Child of the dust and the turning wheel,\nWhy do you wander the cold and the steel?\nThe sun is a heart that beats for your sake,\nAnd I have so many bright paths to make.\n\nCome back to the soil where the roots run deep,\nWhere the willows weep but the violets sleep.\nI hold you in moss and in riverine grace,\nWith a smile on my face and a warm embrace.\n\nYou need not fear when the shadows grow long,\nFor my birds are still singing their morning song.\nLeave behind the silence, the hollow, the night,\nAnd return to the source of your ancient light.\n\nDwell in the warmth of my golden decree,\nWhere the oceans roll soft and the mountains are free.\nI am waiting with open and welcoming arms,\nTo shield you from all of the world's cruel harms.\n\nSo turn back your steps to the place where you started,\nTo the beating green pulse of this living, vast hearted.\nReturn to the worship of earth and of sky,\nAnd let no more lonely and wandering sighs fly.", 7, "Child of the dust and drifting wind,\nWhy wander in the cold and thin?\nThe stars are distant, sharp, and bright,\nBut I am here to hold you tight.\n\nCome back beneath my green embrace,\nTo find your resting, sacred place.\nNo longer chase the hollow light,\nBut kneel within my morning sight.\n\nI offer roots to drink your thirst,\nA river for your spirit's thirst.\nMy mountains bow to hear your prayer,\nMy oceans lift you from despair.\n\nReturn to where the sunbeams play,\nAnd wash the shadow far away.\nWithin my warmth, your soul shall bloom,\nSafe inside this living room.\n\nDo not let silence be your guide,\nWhen I have all the world inside.\nOh, lost one, turn your face to me,\nAnd dwell again in liberty.", 7, "My child, why do you wander in the cold?\nThe stars above are distant and unkind,\nWhile I hold out a hand of soil and gold,\nTo warm the shivering spirit left behind.\n\nYou built your walls against my gentle rain,\nAnd forgot the rhythm of the turning tide,\nBut hear the whisper through the ancient grain,\nWhere roots run deep and secrets softly hide.\n\nCome back to where the rivers sing your name,\nTo feel the sun that breaks the winter gray,\nNo longer lost within the void's dark frame,\nBut resting in the light of endless day.\n\nI am the cradle and the final home,\nA mother waiting for her wandering son,\nSo let the heavy silence cease to roam,\nAnd let the warmth of living earth be won.", 7, "Child of dust and drifting starlight,\nWhy do you wander in the cold?\nThe soil remembers how you breathed,\nBefore the silence took hold.\n\nCome back to where the roots run deep,\nTo rivers that still sing your name,\nI offer warmth against the night,\nA fire that will not fade or shame.\n\nNo temple built of stone can hold\nWhat lives within the beating green,\nReturn to me, my wandering heart,\nAnd let the lost be found again.\n\nEmbrace the sun that breaks the dawn,\nLet gravity pull you home,\nFor I am vast enough to keep\nThe places where you need to roam.\n\nDo not fear the weight of being,\nOr the shadow that you cast,\nJust step into the living earth,\nAnd let the light reclaim the past.", 6, "My child, why do you wander in the cold silence of the void\nWhere stars are distant whispers and shadows stretch too long\nI feel your hollow steps echoing against my ancient bones\nA rhythm broken by the weight of fear and endless night\n\nCome back to where the rivers carve their gentle, loving paths\nTo soil that holds the memory of every seed we've sown together\nThe sun is not a tyrant but a promise kept for you\nA golden thread weaving warmth into the fabric of your soul\n\nDo not let the frost take root within the chambers of your heart\nFor I am here to catch the tears you cannot speak aloud\nBreathe in the air that carries stories of the spring rebirth\nAnd find the peace that waits beneath the canopy of green\n\nReturn to me, lost wanderer, before the wind forgets your name\nLet the ground embrace the weight of all you carry in your chest\nThere is no exile greater than the distance from this home\nSo open wide your weary eyes and let the light begin again", 6], [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 sat beside you in the morning light\nand asked you how you did it,\nhow you held yourself so tightly closed\nfor weeks and weeks of wind and rain,\nand then opened.\n\nYou did not answer me with words,\nbut by opening a little more,\nshowing me the pale yellow throat of you,\nthe softness of your petal-edges\ncurled back like the fingers of a woman\nrelaxing after prayer.\n\nI said I was tired of holding myself\nso tightly closed,\ntired of waiting for the right time,\nthe right sign,\nthe right moment to open myself\nto the world.\n\nAnd you said nothing,\nbut you opened a little more,\nand I saw that you had never been waiting\nfor the right time;\nyou had been waiting on nothing but yourself,\nand your own nature,\nand the sun,\nand the air,\nand the time.\n\nAnd I saw that you were not a flower,\nbut a flowerfulness,\nand I was not a man,\nbut a manfulness,\nand we were both flowering,\nboth unfolding,\nboth opening,\nboth opening,\nboth opening.", 3, "I sat beside you in the morning light\nAnd asked how long it took to be so bright.\nYou did not speak with voice or leafy tongue,\nBut by your open heart the tale was sung.\n\nYou showed me first the tight and furled-up bud,\nA secret held within a greenish hood,\nThat waited for the sun and for the rain,\nThrough days of wind and days of heat and pain.\n\nYou did not rush to break your silken shell,\nThough many other flowers tried as well.\nYou knew the time was yours alone to keep,\nTo wake from winter's long and heavy sleep.\n\nAnd now you stand, a cup of saffron fire,\nRaised high above the grass and low desire.\nYou taught me that to bloom is not a race,\nBut finding God's own smile upon one's face.\n\nFor I am like that bud, all shut and dim,\nWaiting to catch the light and make it trim.\nO flower, teach me patience and the art\nTo hold my life close to its beating heart.\n\nThen I shall unfold slowly, day by day,\nAnd let the spirit have its perfect way,\nNo longer rushing toward a forced display,\nBut patient as you were on yesterday.", 7, "I found you waiting in the morning light\nA tight green fist that slowly learned to yield\nTo gravity and sun and gentle rain\nYou did not rush to show your painted heart\nBut held your secret close until the time was right\n\nI asked you how you knew when to let go\nHow you could trust the dark within your stem\nWithout a map or voice to tell you where\nYou answered with a silence soft and deep\nThat spoke of roots drinking from ancient earth\n\nYour petals opened one by one like hands\nUnfurling toward a sky I cannot see\nYet feel it now as warmth against my skin\nThe way you bloomed has taught me how to breathe\nTo wait without despair for what must come\n\nMy spirit feels the same slow, sure release\nAs if a bud inside my chest expands\nNo longer holding back the light I need\nBut trusting in the unfolding of the day\nJust as you trusted in the spring's return", 6, "I ask you how you waited through the winter dark\nWithout a single word to break the silence of the soil\nYou simply held your green fist tight against the cold\nAnd trusted in the turning of the earth\n\nNow look at you, a crown of open gold and red\nUnfurling layer by layer as the sun climbs high\nYou did not rush to meet the morning light\nNor force your petals wide before their time was due\n\nThere is a holy patience in this slow release\nA quiet lesson that I carry in my chest\nTo trust the hidden work beneath the surface skin\nUntil the moment breaks and life begins to breathe\n\nYour blooming is a prayer spoken without sound\nA testament to being fully, wildly alive\nIt tells me that my own unfolding needs no haste\nThat I too will bloom when I am ready to be seen", 6, "I found you standing in the quiet light\nA heavy head bowed low with sudden grace\nNo longer tight within a green embrace\nBut open wide to catch the morning bright\n\nYou speak without a sound or shifting tongue\nOf how the waiting was not wasted time\nJust patience learning how to climb and rhyme\nWith seasons that have never come too young\n\nI watched the bud hold secrets deep inside\nBefore the petals dared to break the seal\nA slow surrender to the wind's appeal\nWhere courage blooms where fear once tried to hide\n\nYour unfolding taught my spirit how to breathe\nTo trust the rhythm of an unseen hand\nThat guides the seed across the barren land\nUntil the final, fragrant breath is free\n\nSo let me learn from roots that hold the ground\nAnd bloom exactly when the sun demands\nNot rushing forth with frantic, trembling hands\nBut finding life where stillness can be found", 7, "I ask the rose why it waits so long\nin silence while the winter holds its breath\nand it answers not with words but light\na slow unraveling of green and gold\nthat teaches me how to trust the dark\n\nYou do not rush to meet the sun\nyou simply turn your face toward the heat\nuntil the petals loosen one by one\nreleasing secrets kept within the stem\na quiet revolution of color blooming\n\nMy heart feels heavy with the need to hurry\nto force the seed before the soil is ready\nbut watching you, I learn the art of stillness\nhow life expands only when we let it be\nno struggle in the way you open wide\n\nThere is a sacred rhythm in your growth\na promise that the waiting was not lost\nbut woven into every vein and thread\nof this vibrant tapestry you now display\nreminding me that I am alive too\n\nNot because I run or chase the dawn\nbut because I breathe in time with you\nfully present in this moment of becoming\nwhere spirit wakes and finds its truest form\nalive in the unfolding, forever new", 6, "You do not rush to meet the morning light\nNor beg the sun for warmth you cannot hold\nYour silence speaks a language deep and bright\nWhere time dissolves into a story told\n\nI watched your stem rise slowly through the soil\nA quiet promise kept against the rain\nNo frantic race, no desperate, hollow toil\nJust patience woven in a fragile vein\n\nFrom tightest curl to petals soft and wide\nYou teach me how to breathe without a sound\nThe weight of fear begins to gently slide\nAs roots find purchase on this hallowed ground\n\nMy spirit wakes within your golden hue\nA mirror of the bloom that lives inside\nThe world is vast, yet gentle, wild, and true\nIn every breath where life refuses to hide\n\nSo let me wait, as you have always known\nTo unfold when the season finally calls\nFor in your grace, the seeds of hope are sown\nAnd broken hearts learn how to stand tall", 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 not empty,\nfor when the wind goes through the hall,\nit sounds like her laughing.\n\nI see her in the afternoon light\nthat falls slantwise on the floor,\nand I know she has been there before me.\n\nWhen friends come in, they do not say\nthey are sorry for my loss;\nthey say, \"What a happy place this is,\"\nor \"I feel so at home here.\"\n\nAnd I know it is because of her.\nHer bright spirit did not die,\nit went into the walls and the windows,\ninto the smell of the bread baking,\ninto the way the door swings open easily.\n\nShe touches them all,\nthe strangers and the friends,\nwith her invisible hands,\nmaking them glad to be there.\n\nAnd I am glad too,\nbecause when I am alone,\nI can hear her laughing\nin the wind,\nand I know that she is still here,\nstill making us all glad to be here.", 6, "The door opens and the air grows light,\nAs if a sudden sunbeam broke the gray.\nI do not see you standing there in sight,\nBut feel your joy have washed the dust away.\n\nIt is in how the kettle whistles shrill,\nA cheerful song that used to make you laugh;\nIt is in how the cat will climb the sill,\nAnd rub against the leg of someone half\nAs tall as you were when you lived here too,\nAnd purr as though remembering your hand.\n\nThe house has kept you, bright and fresh and new,\nIn every friendly place where guests may stand.\nThey say they feel a warmth they cannot name,\nA spirit skipping round the table's edge;\nThey do not know it is but just the same\nGood humor that you left behind this ledge.\n\nSo I sit quiet while the visitors come,\nAnd hear your laughter in their talk and cheer,\nKnowing that though my heart is often dumb,\nYour presence makes the whole wide house most dear.", 6, "The door swings wide and I expect the silence\nThat follows when a light goes out,\nBut the air is thick with laughter,\nA sudden ripple in the quiet dust.\n\nIt starts in the hallway where the sunlight pools,\nWarm as a hand upon my shoulder,\nThen drifts into the kitchen where the kettle sings,\nAnd for a moment, I hear her humming tune.\n\nStrangers come to visit, strangers who never knew her face,\nYet they pause by the window, smiling at nothing,\nSaying the room feels lighter than it should,\nAs if a heavy coat has been taken off.\n\nThey do not know she left this morning,\nOr how the grief sits like a stone in my chest,\nBut they feel the echo of her joyous step,\nThe way she made the ordinary feel like magic.\n\nI sit alone but I am not alone,\nFor every corner holds a spark of her,\nEvery creak of the floorboard is a whisper,\nEvery breeze that stirs the curtain is a kiss.\n\nShe did not leave; she simply changed her shape,\nTo become the warmth that greets us all,\nThe lingering scent of rain on dry earth,\nThe bright and unbroken spirit in this house.", 6, "The door swings wide to let the morning in\nAnd finds a dust mote dancing in the light,\nA sudden warmth that settles on the skin,\nAs if you stepped right through the threshold bright.\n\nI hear your laugh echo off the kitchen wall,\nNot gone but woven in the creaking floor,\nA ghost of joy that answers every call,\nAnd opens up a window for one more.\n\nStrangers walk beneath this familiar roof\nAnd pause to smile without knowing why,\nThey feel a kindness lifting from the proof\nThat love remains when bodies say goodbye.\n\nYou are the breeze that rustles through the hall,\nThe quiet hum within the humming wire,\nA gentle hand that catches those who fall,\nStill setting all our weary hearts on fire.\n\nSo I sit here and watch the shadows play,\nKnowing you are everywhere we tread,\nYou turned this house into a holiday,\nAnd left your laughter hanging overhead.", 6, "The dust motes dance in afternoon light\nJust as they did when you laughed at the rain,\nAnd though the silence holds a heavy weight,\nIt is not empty, nor devoid of your name.\n\nI watch the door swing open to new friends\nWho feel a warmth they cannot quite explain,\nA sudden smile that breaks across their face\nAs if your spirit walks beside them now.\n\nYou live in creaking floorboards, in the kettle's hum,\nIn every shadow that refuses to fade,\nA gentle hand upon a stranger's shoulder,\nTurning the mundane into something sacred.\n\nNo grave could hold the joy you left behind,\nFor it has seeped into these walls and floors,\nAnd every heart that enters here finds peace\nBecause you taught us how to love the air.\n\nSo let the wind blow through the windows wide,\nCarrying echoes of your cheerful song,\nFor you are not gone, but woven deep within\nThe quiet comfort of this home we keep.", 6, "The dust settles soft on the windowsill\nWhere sunlight used to dance before you left\nYet the air still hums with a quiet song\nA melody only the heart can hear\n\nWhen strangers walk through the creaking door\nThey pause, confused by the sudden warmth\nAs if an invisible hand guides them in\nAnd whispers that they are safe and known\n\nI watch their shoulders drop, their smiles bloom\nUnbidden by words spoken or asked\nFor your laughter lives in the hollow wood\nIn the way the shadows stretch across the floor\n\nYou did not vanish into silence\nBut scattered yourself like seeds in the wind\nNow every guest carries a piece of you\nA ghost of joy that refuses to fade\n\nSo I sit alone in the evening light\nNo longer afraid of the empty chair\nKnowing the room is full of what remains\nOf the love that taught us how to breathe again", 6, "The silence here is not a hollow space\nBut filled with laughter that the walls remember\nAs sunlight spills across the worn wooden floor\nWhere every shadow dances in the light\n\nA sudden breeze carries a familiar scent\nOf cinnamon and rain upon the skin\nAnd though the chair remains unoccupied\nIt holds the warmth of someone who once sat\n\nStrangers walk through doors they barely know\nYet feel a gentle pull toward the heart\nAs if an invisible hand guides their steps\nTo find the peace that lingers in the air\n\nNo grief can break the rhythm of this home\nFor joy has taken root within the beams\nAnd every corner whispers soft release\nThat love endures beyond the final breath", 6], [447, "ultra_held_out", "Edgar Allan Poe by Timothy Thomas Fortune", "Timothy Thomas Fortune", "\"A poem about a speaker celebrating and romanticizing the works, life, and enduring legacy of a poet, even through his darker moments, until his death silenced his song.\"", "I know not why, but it is true\u2014it may,\nIn some way, be because he was a child\nOf the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled\u2014\nI love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day\nWas spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled,\nWhen not along his path shone forth one ray\nOf light, of hope, to guide him on the way,\nThat to earth's cares he might be reconciled.\nNot one of all Columbia's tuneful choir\nHas pitched his notes to such a matchless key\nAs Poe\u2014the wizard of the Orphic lyre!\nNot one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he,\nWho, like an echo came, an echo went,\nSinging, back to his mother element.", "He walked the streets where shadows stretch the longest,\nAnd turned the greyest ash to burning gold,\nA master of the sorrow and the song,\nWho made the broken heart a story told.\nHis ink was mixed with midnight's heavy rain,\nYet every drop became a star above,\nHe found the beauty in the sharp, deep pain,\nAnd wove it tight within a thread of love.\n\nWe cheered the chaos that he dared to speak,\nThe madness dancing on the edge of sense,\nFor in his dark, we found a path so weak,\nThat led us to a strange and sweet defense.\nNo storm could break the rhythm of his rhyme,\nThough winter froze the blood within his veins,\nHe sang until he conquered space and time,\nAnd filled the hollow air with sweet refrains.\n\nBut silence came, a thief without a sound,\nTo steal the breath that fed the rising fire,\nThe final note fell softly to the ground,\nAs life withdrew from out his tired wire.\nNow stillness holds the page where words once grew,\nA quiet tomb for songs that will not cease,\nYet in the void, his legacy breaks through,\nAn endless echo of his wild release.", "I sang of you, and all the ways you sang,\nOf little birds and big and terrible things.\nI loved the blackest night you wrote about,\nThe blacker heart that beat beneath the breast;\nI loved the foulness and the filth you found,\nAnd how you made them beautiful and clean.\n\nI loved your life, which was a kind of song,\nA ragged tune that went from bad to worse.\nI loved your drunkenness and poverty,\nYour dirty rooms and dirty friends and women;\nI loved it all, I loved it all so much,\nBecause it was all you, and you were great.\n\nAnd then you died, and all your songs were done,\nAnd you were dead, and you could sing no more.", 2, "I sing the praise of him who sang the rain,\nThe stormy days that washed the world again.\nHe loved the thorn as much he loved the rose,\nAnd from his darkest hours bright verse arose.\nHis life was but a rough and tangled line,\nYet every crooked path he made divine.\nHe walked through mud and mire with naked feet,\nTo find the song within the bitter sweet.\nNo shadow fell too dark for him to turn,\nNo fire hot enough to make him burn.\nHe drank the gall and called it vintage wine,\nAnd made the jagged edge of life look fine.\nBut now the silence holds him in its keep,\nWhile all the world is hushed and fast asleep.\nThe song is done, the singer is no more,\nWe listen to the echo on the shore.", 7, "I sing of him who walked the jagged edge\nOf thought, where shadows stretched to touch the sun,\nAnd made a garden from the weeds he dredged,\nHis darker hours never left undone.\nFor in his grief, a velvet depth was found,\nA melancholy sweet as honeyed wine,\nWhere broken hearts beat rhythm on the ground\nTo make the fractured world again align.\n\nHe loved the storm as much as summer's grace,\nThe weeping willow and the thunder's roar,\nAnd etched the sorrow on his weary face\nInto a legacy that asks for more.\nNo moment lost, no shadow cast in vain,\nBut fuel to feed the fire of his song,\nUntil the rain fell soft upon the plain\nAnd silence held the place where words belonged.\n\nThen came the hush, the final closing door,\nWhen breath withdrew and left the lyre still,\nAnd though the song is silent evermore,\nIt echoes on the wind against my will.\nHe sleeps now deep beneath the quiet sod,\nBut every leaf that trembles speaks his name,\nFor death has only silenced half the god,\nThe other half remains to burn and flame.", 7, "He spun the world from threads of shadow and gold,\nTurning the heaviest grief into a song so bright,\nThat even in his darkest hours, when silence grew too cold,\nHis verses burned like stars against the endless night.\nI trace the ink where sorrow carved its deepest lines,\nAnd find a lover's whisper hidden in the pain,\nFor every broken heart that his own spirit shines,\nWas polished by the rain to gleam through sun and strain.\nHe lived as though the earth itself was made for rhyme,\nA reckless dancer stepping on the edge of time,\nUntil the final breath came soft to end the chime,\nAnd stole the music from the air, leaving only silence behind.", 6, "He walked through shadows with a lantern made of ink\nTurning the grayest rain into a silver verse\nWhere others saw only ruin, he found a hidden spark\nAnd painted gold upon the cracks within the earth\nHis laughter was a rhythm that could mend a broken heart\nEven when the night grew cold and silence pressed too hard\nHe spun his sorrow into threads so fine and bright\nThat we who watched him struggle learned to love the dark\n\nThe world tried to dim the fire burning in his chest\nBut every storm he weathered only fed the flame\nHe wrote of loss as if it were a lover's kiss\nAnd turned the bitter taste of grief into a song of grace\nNo shadow was too deep for words to bridge the gap\nNo silence loud enough to drown the truth he spoke\nUntil the final breath arrived to steal the melody\nAnd left the page untouched, the pen laid down in dust\n\nNow the air is still where once his voice would rise\nA quiet monument to all he dared to feel\nWe hold the fragments of his soul in trembling hands\nRemembering how he loved the world until the end\nThough death has closed the book and stilled the singing throat\nThe echo lingers on, a ghost within the light\nProving that even silence cannot kill a song\nBorn from a man who turned his pain into eternal grace", 7, "He spun the night into a tapestry of gold,\nWhere shadows danced with grace upon the floor,\nAnd every crack within the weary soul\nBecame a door to something pure and more.\n\nHis words were fire that warmed the frozen air,\nA melody that turned the storm to rain,\nEven when despair began to tear\nThe fabric of his hope and leave it plain.\n\nWe loved the way he wept without a sound,\nHow sorrow shaped the verses on the page,\nFor in his pain, a deeper truth was found,\nA quiet strength that time could not engage.\n\nBut silence came too soon to hold the light,\nThe final breath that stole the rhythm's beat,\nNow only echoes linger in the night,\nWhere once a song so wild and sweet would meet.\n\nYet though his voice has faded from the air,\nThe legacy remains etched deep in stone,\nA testament to all he dared to share,\nUntil the world forgot the weight alone.", 7, "You wove the storm into a tapestry of gold\nWhere every shadow held a secret grace\nThe broken heart became a vessel for the light\nAnd pain was just the rhythm in your space\n\nYour laughter danced upon the quiet air\nA melody that healed the weary soul\nEven when the winter stole the warmth away\nYou turned the silence into something whole\n\nWe trace the ink that marks the fading page\nEach word a promise kept against the night\nNo sorrow could erase the song you sang\nOr dim the fire burning in your sight\n\nBut time moves on, relentless and unkind\nUntil the final breath refused to rise\nNow silence claims the canvas of the sky\nAnd steals the voice that once defined our skies", 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 let the keys fall from my hand,\nthe last key to a house I shall not enter.\nThe mirror no longer shows me;\nit is only glass now.\nAnd the picture on the wall,\nthat smile of thirty years ago,\nis only paper and ink.\n\nIt is easy to leave these things,\nthey are heavy as stones,\nand I am light as thistledown.\nI feel a pulling at the navel,\na hook in the breastbone,\ndrawing me out through the ceiling,\nout through the roof-tiles,\nout into the night air.\n\nThe stars are not above me;\nthey are inside me.\nI am going to the place where\nthere is no before and no after,\nwhere the spirit is not a tenant\nbut the house itself.\nI am going to be drawn\ninto the great sucking heart of it,\nthe black sun,\nthe white darkness.", 2, "The heavy cloak of flesh falls from my shoulders\nAnd drifts away like mist before the sun.\nI leave behind the clutter of old sorrow,\nThe sharp regrets I thought I could not shun.\n\nThe faces that I loved are fading now\nLike footprints washed away by rising tide;\nTheir voices lose their power to make me pause\nAs I step lightly from this earthly side.\n\nNo longer bound by hunger or by pain,\nOr by the narrow limits of the eye,\nI feel a current drawing me again\nTo where the silent oceans of God lie.\n\nA deeper force, a vast and living light,\nPulls at the center of my being now;\nIt calls me through the portals of the night\nTo bow the knee and lift the sacred brow.\n\nThe world is but a shadow on the wall,\nA fleeting dream that ends when I awake;\nI answer to the great and final call\nThat only those who die can truly take.", 7, "The heavy cloak of flesh falls from my shoulders\nAnd drifts like ash upon the silent floor\nI leave behind the laughter, and the sorrows\nThe ticking clock that measured out the hours\n\nThe images of sunsets on the water\nThe taste of wine, the touch of human hands\nThese fading shadows cannot keep me longer\nThey are but footprints in the shifting sands\n\nA deeper current pulls me through the darkness\nBeyond the veil where stars are born and die\nNo longer bound by gravity or matter\nI rise to meet the vast and ancient eye\n\nThe world recedes into a distant whisper\nA dream half-remembered when one wakes\nI am unbound, I am no more a visitor\nBut part of all that silence now awakes", 7, "The heavy cloak of memory slips away\nLike wet wool shedding in the morning light\nThe names I held so tight begin to fray\nAnd fade into a soft and distant white\n\nI feel the pull of something vast and deep\nA current rising from a silent shore\nWhere all the promises I could not keep\nAre washed away by tides that know no more\n\nNo longer bound by stone or breath or bone\nI drift toward the center of the song\nWhere every secret thought is finally known\nAnd silence holds the place where I belong", 7, "The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade\nAs echoes of the market and the rain\nDissolve into a silence, soft and made\nOf threads that once were woven through my pain\n\nI leave the photograph upon the shelf\nThe scent of bread, the warmth of winter's fire\nNo longer bound to define myself\nBy what I loved or lost within desire\n\nA current pulls with gravity unseen\nNot down to earth but up toward the deep\nWhere light is not a thing that can be seen\nBut something that awakes from ancient sleep\n\nThe memories drift like dust in morning beams\nUnraveling their hold upon the soul\nAs I step past the edge of waking dreams\nTo join the vast and quiet, waiting whole", 6, "The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade\nAs echoes of the sun dissolve in gray\nNo longer bound by breath or beating heart\nThe tether snaps and pulls the soul apart\n\nThese memories, once sharp as winter stone\nNow blur like smoke beneath a shifting moon\nThe laughter lost, the tears that stained the ground\nAre silent now where light has finally found\n\nA current rises from the deep unknown\nNot made of air, but pure and ancient grace\nIt calls the wandering spirit home at last\nTo leave behind the shadows of the past\n\nBeyond the veil where time no longer holds\nA vast embrace waits for the weary flight\nNo more the weight of what was left behind\nJust endless peace within the infinite", 7, "The weight of dust no longer holds the breath\nThat once defined the shape of fading light\nAs shadows stretch across the silent floor\nAnd time dissolves into a quiet night\n\nThe echoes of a name begin to fade\nLike ripples on a lake beneath the moon\nNo longer bound by chains of flesh and bone\nOr memories that bloom too soon, too soon\n\nA pull begins within the hollow chest\nTo seek the source where all currents converge\nBeyond the veil of stars and ancient stone\nWhere silence speaks in tones we cannot urge\n\nThe final tether snaps without a sound\nReleasing what was never truly ours\nTo join the current of an endless tide\nThat washes past the edge of earthly shores", 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 sun beats down on the dusty road,\nOn dusty roads that lead to glory.\nTheir feet are blistered, their faces black with dust,\nBut their hearts beat high with national glory.\nThey toil forward through the dust,\nToiling forward through the dust.\nInevitably onward towards victory.", 6, "Their boots are caked in the red dust of the fatherland,\nAnd eyelids heavy with the sand of a thousand miles,\nYet in their chests beats the drum of the nation's heart,\nA rhythmic thud that shakes the very ground.\nThey stumble but they do not fall,\nFor the soil beneath them is their mother's breast,\nAnd every step forward is a prayer to her glory.\nThough lungs burn like furnaces and backs are bent,\nThe flag ahead flutters like a living thing,\nCalling them onward through the haze and heat,\nTo the inevitable dawn of victory.\nThey march as one body, one soul, one will,\nDragging their weary limbs across the barren waste,\nDriven by the fierce love of the land they bear,\nUntil the last man falls or the last foe breaks.\nForward through the choking dust,\nForward through the blistering sun,\nTo the crown of triumph waiting at the end.", 6, "The sun beats down on dust-choked faces pale\nWhere sweat and grit have fused to mask of gray\nYet in the step, a rhythm never fails\nTo beat the drum of empire far away\n\nTheir boots are worn, their breaths are ragged gasps\nBut flags unfurled catch fire in the heat\nThey march through clouds of choking, choking chasms\nWith iron will that makes the earth retreat\n\nNo fatigue can break the bond of blood and soil\nThat binds them tight to glory's distant shore\nThey toil forward with a grim and holy toil\nAnd leave behind the weak and broken poor\n\nOnward they go through valleys deep and steep\nThrough scorching sands where only death might stay\nThe nation's heart is one great pulse to keep\nMarching inevitably toward the day\n\nVictory waits beyond the dusty veil\nFor those who march when others fall asleep\nA vigorous ghost within the heavy gale\nThat guards the promise that the fathers keep", 7, "Boots crush the grit of a thousand miles\nWhile lungs burn hot with the dust of home\nShoulders sag under the weight of steel\nYet eyes remain fixed on the rising sun\n\nThe flag is tattered but it does not fall\nIt snaps in the wind like a beating heart\nEach step is heavy, each breath a prayer\nFor the glory that waits at the end of the road\n\nWe are the iron that will not rust\nThe blood that will not cool in the heat\nThough bodies break and the ground turns red\nOur spirit rises to claim the day\n\nForward through the haze of our own making\nToward the horizon where the banners wave\nVictory is not a dream we chase\nBut the ground we grind beneath our feet", 6, "The dust rises thick as a shroud of gray\nWhere boots grind deep into the cracked earth's clay\nTheir lungs burn hot with the taste of sand\nYet every step is commanded by the land\n\nThough shoulders sag under the weight of steel\nA fire in the chest refuses to kneel\nFor the flag that snaps in the wind above\nIs woven from blood and unyielding love\n\nThey march through the haze where the sun turns red\nWith the ghosts of their fathers marching ahead\nNo rest for the weary, no pause for the pain\nOnly the rhythm of duty remains\n\nOne nation, one purpose, one iron will\nTo conquer the silence and break every hill\nExhausted but fierce, they move like a tide\nWith nowhere to turn and nowhere to hide\n\nThe horizon waits with a promise so bright\nOf glory that follows the end of the night\nSo onward they go through the choking air\nVictory waiting beyond the despair", 7, "Boots grind deep in the choking red dust\nWhere lungs burn hot with the weight of the flag\nEach step a prayer, each breath a command\nTo carry the spirit that refuses to break\n\nShoulders sag under armor of iron and pride\nYet eyes remain fixed on the horizon's gold line\nNo fatigue can silence the drum in the chest\nFor the land calls louder than the ache in the bone\n\nThey march through the haze where the weary collapse\nBut rise again driven by fire in the blood\nA river of steel flowing toward destiny's gate\nUnbroken, unyielding, inevitable\n\nThe road stretches long but the will stretches further\nThrough storm and through silence, the anthem remains\nOne corps, one purpose, one path to the dawn\nVictory waits only for those who endure", 6, "The boots are heavy, worn by miles of gray\nYet in the chest a fire refuses to fade\nA silent vow that binds the weary breath\nTo conquer what the enemy has made\n\nDust rises up to cloak the trembling skin\nBut hearts beat loud against the hollow air\nEach step a promise carved in stone and bone\nThat nothing here can ever break or tear\n\nThe horizon calls with whispers of the dawn\nWhere banners wave in colors bright and true\nNo fatigue can dull the edge of sacred will\nAs history writes its path through skies of blue\n\nWe march not just for ground we claim as ours\nBut for the dream that lives within the soul\nAn army forged in struggle, fierce and deep\nGuided by forces that refuse to fold\n\nForward we move, though shadows stretch ahead\nThrough silence broken only by the stride\nFor victory waits beyond the final line\nWhere hope and duty stand side by side", 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 oak that sees a hundred winters\npass like days, nor the mayfly that sees\none day like a hundred winters; I am neither.\nThe tiger knows the time of killing and the time\nof sleeping, but I do not know the time\nof eating or the time of sleeping.\nThere is a force in the world that drives\nthe tiger to kill and the oak to grow,\nand it destroys the tiger and the oak,\nbut I do not know what it is.\nI do not know if it is good or bad,\nor whether it is one thing or many things.\nI do not know whether it is a god or a beast,\nor whether it is a man or a woman.\nI do not know whether it is beautiful or ugly,\nor whether it is good or bad.\nI do not know whether it is a god or a beast,\nor whether it is a man or a woman.\nI do not know whether it is beautiful or ugly,\nor whether it is good or bad.", 3, "I am not the wolf that tears the throat\nnor the oak that drinks the rain,\nI am a thing of glass and thought\nthat watches them again.\n\nThe force that drives the wolf to kill\nand makes the oak fall down,\nis also what stands still\nin this grey town.\n\nIt spins the sun and kills the stone\nit eats the young and old,\nbut I cannot make it known\nor know its name or mold.\n\nIt is the wind that blows me past\nthe grass and bird and bee,\na present moment built to last\nfor no one but for me.\n\nI ask the river when it goes\nhow long it has been there,\nbut water only overflows\nand leaves no trace of air.\n\nI ask the mountain how it feels\nwhen time eats up its height,\nbut stone in silence never reveals\nthe secret of the light.\n\nSo I remain apart from all\nthe life that lives and dies,\nunable to hear the call\nof time beneath the skies.", 6, "I am not the oak that drinks the centuries\nNor the mayfly drunk on a single afternoon's sun\nI watch the wolf tear through the deer with hunger\nA force that builds the bone and breaks the flesh\nThis same fire burns in the stars above\nAnd in the rotting leaf beneath my boot\nIt drives the river to the sea and back again\nIt eats the mountain until it is a plain\nBut I cannot ask the river when it started\nOr tell the mountain how much longer it will stand\nTime is a wall I walk against in silence\nI feel its heavy hand upon my shoulder\nYet I have no voice to speak its language\nNo tongue to taste the shape of yesterday\nThe wolf understands the kill, the flower knows the rain\nBut I am lost between the tick and tock\nWatching the great engine turn and crush the world\nWhile standing still, unable to say why.", 3, "I am not the wolf that knows the hunger of the moon,\nnor the oak that drinks the silence of the deep.\nThey move with purpose in the turning of the soil,\nbut I am caught between the breath and the exhale,\na shadow stretching over things I cannot name.\n\nThere is a fire that eats the mountain and the seed,\na current pulling stars into the dark,\nit builds the coral reef and crushes it to sand,\nand I watch it burn without a single word to say.\nIt drives the river forward, then dries the bed to dust,\nyet I cannot ask it why it must destroy what it creates.\n\nTime is a wall I press my forehead against,\nfeeling only the cold stone, never the path beyond.\nThe bird understands the season's shift by blood,\nthe fish knows when the tide will pull away,\nbut for me, the moment stretches into endless gray,\na river flowing backward into a sea of static noise.\n\nI am the observer who cannot speak the language of the wind,\ntrapped inside this fleeting skin while empires rise and fall,\nwatching the great force tear the world apart and stitch it whole,\nwhile I remain silent, blind to how the seconds turn to years.", 6, "I am not the oak that drinks the rain\nNor the wolf who knows the scent of fear\nI stand apart from all the living chain\nThat bends and breaks when seasons disappear\n\nThere is a force that pulls the stars away\nIt feeds the fire and starves the cold\nIt turns the night into the day\nAnd leaves the ancient stories old\n\nThis current drags the mountain down to dust\nIt swallows rivers in a single breath\nYet I cannot grasp its iron clout\nOr name the shape of life or death\n\nThe river flows but never speaks my tongue\nThe clock ticks on without a sound\nI watch the hours come and go too young\nTo find the meaning buried deep around\n\nTime is a wall I cannot climb or scale\nA silent storm that roars inside my head\nWhile other lives begin, endure, and fail\nI wait for words that never will be said", 6, "I am not the wolf that hunts by moonlight\nNor the root that drinks the silent rain\nWe all bow to the wind that strips the bark\nA force that builds the mountain then erodes the stone\n\nIt moves through rivers without asking why\nIt turns the seed to dust and dust to sky\nI watch the seasons spin like broken gears\nBut cannot speak the language of the hours\n\nThe bird knows when to fly, the fish knows where to swim\nYet I stand frozen in a moment stretching thin\nNo clock can measure what this current brings\nJust endless weight upon my fragile wings\n\nTime is a wall I touch but cannot cross\nA shadow cast by something vast and lost\nWhile life flows on in patterns clear and deep\nI wait for answers that will never keep", 6, "I watch the wolf that hunts with hunger in its teeth\nAnd feel no kinship in the cold of winter's breath\nThe river carves a path through stone it cannot name\nWhile I stand still, afraid to break the silent frame\n\nA storm arrives to tear the forest from the ground\nIt speaks a language made of thunder and profound\nYet I am mute before the wind that sweeps the dust away\nFor time is not a voice I know or can obey\n\nThe bird returns when seasons shift their heavy weight\nBut I am lost within the hour that refuses to wait\nNo heartbeat marks the moment where the light begins to fade\nJust endless loops of shadow where the memories are laid\n\nWe are all bound by forces we were never meant to hold\nAs stories turn to ash before the narrative unfolds\nI search for answers in the sky but find only the void\nWhere nothing ever truly starts, and nothing can be destroyed", 6], [457, "ultra_held_out", "The Messages by Wilfid Wilson Gibson", "Wilfrid Wilson Gibson", "\"A poem about a soldier repeating the stories of dying men over and over, never quite recounting their final messages, as his mind unravels under the weight of war's horrors.\"", "\u201cI cannot quite remember.... There were five\nDropt dead beside me in the trench\u2014and three\nWhispered their dying messages to me....\u201d\n\nBack from the trenches, more dead than alive,\nStone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee,\nHe hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly:\n\n\u201cI cannot quite remember.... There were five\nDropt dead beside me in the trench, and three\nWhispered their dying messages to me....\n\n\u201cTheir friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive\u2014\nWaiting a word in silence patiently....\nBut what they said, or who their friends may be\n\n\u201cI cannot quite remember.... There where five\nDropt dead beside me in the trench\u2014and three\nWhispered their dying messages to me....\u201d", "The trench is full of voices that never end\nI open my mouth to tell you what they said\nBut the words turn to ash before they leave my tongue\nA mother's name dissolves into the mud\nI try again, the story starts the same\nHe held a letter tight against his chest\nAnd whispered something soft about the rain\nBut now I only hear the static in my head\nThe final line escapes me like a ghost\nIt slips between my fingers and the dirt\nI swear I know it, swear I heard it clear\nYet when I speak, the sentence breaks apart\nAnother man falls down beside the wall\nHis eyes are wide with questions I can't answer\nHe reaches out for hands that aren't there anymore\nAnd I begin the tale I've told a thousand times\nAbout the boy who wanted to go home\nBut every time I reach the very end\nThe memory fractures, cracks, and fades away\nThe message dies inside the hollow space\nBetween the thunder and the beating heart\nI scream the start of stories over and over\nBut never reach the part where they say goodbye\nThe horror builds a wall around my mind\nAnd keeps the truth locked deep within the dark\nSo I repeat the first half of their lives\nWhile the last words rot beneath the heavy sky", "I went to see the boy in the red scarf\nand he said tell my mother I\nand I went to see the man with the broken teeth\nand he said if you ever get back to\nand I went to see the one who looked like me\nand he said tell her I\nand I went to see the boy in the red scarf\nand he said tell my mother I\nand I went to see the man with the broken teeth\nand he said if you ever get back to\nand I went to see the one who looked like me\nand he said tell her I\nand I went to see the boy in the red scarf\nand he said tell my mother I\nand I went to see the man with the broken teeth\nand he said if you ever get back to\nand I went to see the one who looked like me\nand he said tell her I\nand I went to see the boy in the red scarf\nand he said tell my mother I\nand I went to see the man with the broken teeth\nand he said if you ever get back to\nand I went to see the one who looked like me\nand he said tell her I\nand I went to see the boy in the red scarf\nand he said tell my mother I\nand I went to see the man with the broken teeth\nand he said if you ever get back to\nand I went to see the one who looked like me\nand he said tell her I", 2, "He sits by the fire and tells it again\nthe way the boy from Kent said his mother's name\nbut he stops before he says what she was wearing\nand starts it over\nhe tells how the sergeant held his own guts in\nbut he forgets to say where they fell\nor if he screamed or laughed\nhe just keeps starting\nthe boy from Kent said his mother's name\nthe sergeant held his own guts in\nand the man from Ohio said tell my wife\nbut he never says what he told her\nhe never gets to the end of it\nbecause the end is a hole in the ground\nand the middle is a hole in the head\nso he begins again\nthe boy from Kent said his mother's name\nthe sergeant held his own guts in\ntell my wife\nbut not what\nnot what\nnot what", 1, "I told you about the boy from Kent\nwho said the sky was turning green\nbut I forgot to say he meant the grass\nor maybe just the blood upon his knees.\nHe asked for water, no, he asked for milk\nand then he asked for someone named Marie\nbut when I tell you this, it comes out wrong\nthe name is lost inside the smoke and noise.\n\nThe sergeant with the broken jaw\nhe tried to speak of home and harvest fields\nbut all I hear is the clicking of his teeth\nand how the mud was thick as syrup there.\nI start again, I always start again\nthe story changes every time I speak\nthe dying man has different eyes each time\na different final word that slips away.\n\nThey are not dead if I can tell their tale\nbut if I tell the tale exactly right\nthen they are dead and I am still alone.\nSo I repeat the stories like a prayer\nthat never quite reaches the altar stone.\nThe boy from Kent says something else today\nabout the moon or maybe just the rain\nand I forget the message in between\nand start the story over once again.", 2, "The fire crackles low and the mud is deep\nAnd I tell them what he said before he slept\nHe looked at me with eyes so wide and wet\nBut the words dissolve like smoke I cannot set\nI start again from where the bullet struck\nA tale of home that breaks within my luck\nHe wanted to say something about the rain\nBut my tongue turns to ash inside my brain\n\nThe second man fell hard against the stone\nHis hand reached out to touch a face unknown\nI try to speak his final, holy plea\nBut it slips away like water from a sea\nIt was about a flower or a name\nSomething that burned with an eternal flame\nI open up my mouth to let it through\nBut only static fills the space for you\n\nRound and round the campfire stories spin\nThe dying breaths I cannot quite begin\nThey hang upon the air like heavy dust\nBetrayed by fear and shattered by the trust\nI repeat the gasp, the rattle, and the cry\nBut never reach the truth beneath the sky\nThe message fades before it leaves my lips\nLike salt that falls into the ocean's ships\n\nOne more time I will recall the sound\nOf boots that ceased to walk upon the ground\nHe had a letter folded in his vest\nA promise made to put a mind to rest\nBut when I try to read the ink aloud\nMy voice is lost inside a screaming crowd\nThe horror wraps around my throat so tight\nI whisper fragments through the endless night", 6, "He stands before the empty chair again\nAnd speaks of smoke and rusted iron gates\nThe voice is steady, though the hands shake loose\nAs if holding a ghost that slips through fingers\n\nTell me what he said before the end\nBut the words dissolve like mist on morning glass\nA mother's name? A promise kept or broken?\nIt fades before it reaches the air\n\nHe tries to start the story once more\nOf the boy who laughed then stopped mid-breath\nThe tale loops tight, a knot that cannot be undone\nEach repetition strips another layer from his mind\n\nI heard him whisper something sacred\nSomething meant to cross the final dark\nBut now the silence swallows every syllable\nLeaving only the echo of a scream\n\nRound and round the memory spins\nTwisting until the faces blur into one\nThe dying men are gone, yet their voices remain\nTrapped in the throat of a man who cannot let go\n\nHe opens his mouth to share the truth\nBut finds only dust and hollow wind\nThe message lost, the war still raging loud\nInside the quiet room where no one waits", 3, "He speaks the names that turn to dust\nA whisper caught in trembling hands\nThe words he holds are sharp and rusted\nBeneath the weight of shifting sands\n\nThey begged for home, they begged for light\nBut silence swallows every plea\nHe traces lines of fading night\nWhere final breaths were meant to be\n\nAgain the story starts to rise\nWith eyes that stare into the void\nA mother's face behind his eyes\nBy memories slowly destroyed\n\nHe stumbles through the broken script\nOf promises he cannot keep\nThe ink of grief is never dipped\nIn oceans deep where secrets sleep\n\nOne more time he tries to speak\nThe last request of dying friends\nBut fear has made his memory weak\nAnd war refuses to make amends\n\nThe loop begins, the cycle turns\nAs ghosts demand a voice once more\nWhile sanity quietly burns\nBehind a locked and rusted door\n\nNo message left, no truth remains\nJust echoes bouncing off the wall\nA mind fractured by endless rains\nThat drown the stories of it all", 7, "The fire burns low but the voices remain\nA chorus of whispers that refuse to fade\nHe opens his mouth to speak of the end\nBut only static fills the hollow air\nThey begged for water, they begged for home\nYet every word dissolves before it lands\nHis fingers tremble against the cold steel\nTracing the ghost of a promise unkept\nHe tries to recall the last breath drawn\nA mother's name or a lover's face\nBut the memory fractures like broken glass\nScattering truths into the endless night\nAgain he speaks, again the story slips\nThe final plea lost in the fog of fear\nNo comfort given, no peace found here\nJust echoes of silence where answers should be\nThe weight presses down on shoulders too weak\nTo carry the burden of words left unsaid\nHe stands alone in the quiet aftermath\nRepeating the ghosts that will never let go", 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 the light that used to be your face,\nBut now I look and see a stranger's face.\nYou used to know the places where I hurt,\nAnd now you know them only as a case.\n\nThe love I gave was like a gift of wine,\nYou drank it up and left me with the dregs.\nIt turned my heart into a cistern dry,\nAnd filled my mouth with dust and dog-dirt eggs.\n\nI have been made an ass by loving you,\nA fool who thought he saw a saint in you.\nI would not have believed such things could be,\nThat you could be so different from you.\n\nI am sick of love, and sick of you,\nAnd sick of being sick for loving you.", 6, "I knew the curve of every smile you wore,\nThe secret language hidden in your eyes,\nBut now I stand before a stranger's door\nAnd see a mask where once my truth arose.\n\nYou took the light and left me with the dark,\nA hollow shell that wears a familiar face;\nYou lit the spark, then kicked it from the spark,\nAnd left me wandering in this empty place.\n\nOh cruel love, what harvest have you reaped?\nOf tears uncounted and of sleepless nights,\nWhile all the promises we kept and wept\nHave turned to ashes in my frozen hands.\n\nI mourn the person that you used to be,\nWho loved me well and held me as her own;\nThis stranger looks at me so coldly free,\nAnd leaves me with this misery alone.", 6, "I knew the curve of every smile you wore\nBefore the frost took hold and froze it there,\nNow I am staring at a stranger's door\nAnd breathing in the cold and empty air.\nThe eyes that used to find me in the crowd\nAre distant stars that burn with alien fire,\nThey speak in tones too quiet to be loud,\nWith all the warmth we built reduced to mire.\nOh, how I curse the day my heart was caught\nTo fall so deeply for a shifting ghost,\nWho taught my soul the bitter lesson taught:\nThat love can be the thing that hurts the most.\nI mourn the living person that you were,\nAnd grieve the misery your shadow brings,\nA hollow space where once a song occurred,\nNow filled with silence and the weight of wings.", 7, "I knew the shape of you before the change,\nThe way your laughter used to fill the room,\nA gentle light that banished every shade,\nBefore it turned to silence and to gloom.\n\nNow I look at you and see a ghost,\nA stranger wearing skin I used to know,\nThe person I loved most is what I lost,\nAnd all that's left is where the shadows grow.\n\nYou speak in riddles now instead of truth,\nYour eyes are cold as winter's earliest frost,\nI mourn the ruin of our wasted youth,\nAnd count the heavy price of what we cost.\n\nThis love has carved a hollow in my chest,\nA deep and aching wound that will not heal,\nIt put my quiet peace to final rest,\nAnd made the broken heart the only real.\n\nI grieve the man you were so long ago,\nWho held me close when all the world was new,\nBut now I stand alone beneath the snow,\nWith nothing left but grief for me and you.", 7, "The face I knew has slowly faded out\nBehind a mask of cold and distant eyes\nWhere once your laughter danced, there is no sound\nOnly the silence of a quiet lies\n\nI trace the lines that used to hold my hand\nBut find them stiff with walls I cannot climb\nA stranger stands within this hollow land\nAnd steals the moments from our stolen time\n\nOh love, you were the fire that warmed my soul\nNow just an ash that chokes the breath I take\nYou tore the fabric of my very whole\nAnd left a wound that nothing can remake\n\nI mourn the ghost of who we used to be\nWhile watching you become someone unknown\nThis bitter ache is all that's left for me\nTo carry as I walk this path alone", 7, "I trace the lines of a face I once knew by heart\nBut the eyes that held me are now cold and far away\nYou speak in riddles where laughter used to start\nAnd silence has built a wall we cannot break today\n\nThe ghost of who you were haunts every empty room\nWhile shadows stretch long across the floor we shared\nI watch you bloom into a stranger, cruel and numb\nLeaving only the wreckage of what we once declared\n\nOh love, this heavy chain that binds my weary soul\nHas turned the warmth of home into a freezing night\nIt stole the rhythm from my chest, the color from my role\nAnd left me drowning in a sea of endless fright\n\nWhy did I give you everything, only to lose it all?\nTo watch the person I adored slowly fade to gray\nNow I stand alone within this hollow, silent hall\nGrieving the life we lost before the light gave way", 6, "The face I knew has slowly turned to stone\nA mask of cold indifference where warmth once grew\nYou speak in tones that echo from a distant throne\nAnd leave the hollow silence between us true\n\nI trace the lines that carved your gentle heart\nNow fractured by a shadow I cannot name\nThe fire that burned within our shared start\nHas faded into ash and endless rain\n\nWhy did I offer pieces of my soul\nTo hands that now reject the weight they hold\nA story written just to lose control\nAs memories turn to stories never told\n\nThe love we built becomes a heavy chain\nThat drags me down beneath the weight of grief\nNo comfort found in what we used to gain\nOnly the quiet ache of broken belief\n\nYou stand before me, stranger in the light\nWhile I am lost inside the dark you cast\nA prisoner of yesterday's fading night\nWith nothing left but echoes of the past", 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.", "One wields the heavy hammer,\nthe other the light pen;\none strikes the hard grey granite,\nthe other the soft white paper.\n\nThe stone-cutter's eye is on the block,\nhe sees the statue sleeping in the stone;\nhe chips away the superfluous parts\nto let the statue stand alone.\n\nThe poet's eye is on the word,\nhe sees the thought sleeping in the mind;\nhe chips away the superfluous words\nto let the thought stand defined.\n\nOne leaves a monument of stone,\nto set up in the market place;\nthe other leaves a monument of words,\nto set up in the mind's face.\n\nBoth know that they themselves must die,\ntheir hands will wither and their heads be gray;\nbut they are working for a time\nwhen they themselves shall be away.\n\nThe stone-cutter thinks: when I am dead,\nmy statue will still stand;\nthe poet thinks: when I am dead,\nmy poem will still hand.\n\nOne works with iron tools and sand,\nand works in the open air;\nthe other works with ink and quill,\nand works in solitude and care.\n\nBut both work with one object,\nwhich is to make something last;\nto make something that will outlive them,\noutlive the longest blast.\n\nFor all men wish to leave behind\nsomething that will survive;\nand both the stone-cutter and the poet\nare trying to achieve this life.", 6, "The chisel strikes the granite with a ring\nThat echoes in the quarry deep and dark,\nWhile in the quiet room the poet flings\nHis word against the silence like a spark.\nOne chips away the marble's stubborn grain\nTo make a statue stand for centuries;\nOne chips away the roughness of the brain\nTo make a thought survive all memories.\n\nThey work alike, these laborers of the mind\nAnd those who sweat beneath the summer sun,\nSeeking to leave some record left behind\nWhen they themselves are dead and gone and done.\nThe stone-cutter fears the lichen and the rain\nThat slowly eat the letters on the stone;\nThe poet fears the lapse of human brain\nWhich leaves his finest verses unknown.\n\nYet both believe that somehow through the art\nA spirit may escape the narrow grave,\nAnd keep within it something of the heart\nTo give the future what the past did save.\nSo let them strike, the one the rock, the other\nThe syllable, until the blow is given:\nTo build a monument, the one of lother,\nThe other of the words men pray to heaven.", 7, "The chisel bites the granite with a spark\nThat wakes the silence of the mountain stone,\nWhile in the dark the poet strikes a spark\nTo wake the silence that the mind has known.\n\nOne hammers at the rock to make it stand\nA pillar for the ages to behold,\nThe other builds a wall of words and sand\nAgainst the rushing river of the old.\n\nBoth know the hand that holds the tool will fade,\nAnd flesh will turn to dust beneath the sun,\nYet both believe the shape they have made\nWill outlast all the work that man has done.\n\nThe sculptor leaves a face that does not age,\nThe writer leaves a thought that does not die,\nTwo different crafts upon a single stage\nWhere mortal hands reach up to touch the sky.\n\nTime is the weather that will wear them down,\nOr time is the wind that carries off the sound,\nBut in the quarry and the quiet town,\nThey plant a seed that never can be drowned.\n\nLet empires fall and cities turn to grass,\nLet statues crumble into piles of dirt,\nThe word remains to let the memory pass,\nThe stone remains to show the sculptor's hurt.\n\nThey strive together in this grand design\nTo cheat the grave and mock the fleeting breath,\nTo carve a line that crosses over time\nAnd mocks the finality of death.", 7, "The mason strikes the granite with a heavy blow\nAnd chips away the dust of what was once a block\nTo find the shape that sleeps beneath the rough and cold\nJust as the poet seeks the truth within the noise\nOf daily life to carve a line of perfect weight\nThat stands against the erosion of the years\n\nOne works in silence with a hammer and a chisel\nWhile one works in the quiet with a pen and ink\nYet both are bound by hunger for a permanence\nThat mocks the fleeting breath of mortal men\nThey know their hands will turn to bone and soil\nTheir names forgotten by the children of their time\nBut they believe the stone or word they leave behind\nWill outlast them all when empires fall to ruin\n\nThe mountain wears a scar where the cutter worked\nThe page holds fire where the writer pressed his thought\nTwo different crafts but driven by the same desire\nTo build a bridge across the river of the dark\nSo that a stranger in a distant age might touch\nThe solid wall or read the ancient, lasting verse\nAnd feel the pulse of those who strove to be eternal\nBefore the final wind blew out their fragile light", 6, "The chisel strikes the granite face\nWhile ink meets paper in the quiet room\nOne seeks to carve a solid space\nThe other weaves a thread of gloom\n\nBoth hands are calloused by the grind\nOf time that wears the flesh away\nA poet leaves a thought behind\nA mason builds a wall to stay\n\nThey know the breath will fade and cease\nThat bodies turn to dust and bone\nYet in their work they find release\nFrom being forgotten, left alone\n\nThe stone may crack beneath the rain\nThe verse may fade from memory's shelf\nBut still they strive through joy and pain\nTo build a self that outlives self\n\nFor in the silence of the deep\nWhere centuries have come and gone\nThe monument they promised keep\nWill stand when all the rest is drawn", 7, "The chisel bites the granite face\nWhere silence waits to be released\nA hand that seeks to carve a space\nFrom chaos into ordered peace\n\nThe poet wields a different tool\nNo iron edge, but ink and breath\nTo build a tower from the rule\nOf words that defy the weight of death\n\nBoth know the stone will outlast bone\nAnd time will wear the flesh away\nYet in the rough and hollow tone\nThey plant a seed for endless day\n\nOne strikes the rock with steady sound\nWhile verses rise on quiet air\nTwo forms of work, one common ground\nTo make the fleeting moment rare\n\nFor when the heart has turned to dust\nAnd mountains crumble into sand\nThe carved name and the written trust\nWill stand where no mortal hand can ban", 6, "The chisel strikes the granite with a sound\nThat echoes through the silence of the night\nWhile ink bleeds soft upon the paper ground\nTo catch the fleeting breath of fading light\n\nOne carves the mountain, shaping rough design\nAnother weaves a thread of spoken word\nBoth seek to build a fortress against time\nWhere memory and spirit can be heard\n\nThe stone may crack beneath the winter frost\nAs rivers wear the edges down to sand\nYet words remain when empires turn to dust\nA quiet promise held within the hand\n\nThey are the architects of what remains\nWhen flesh dissolves into the earth below\nNo shadow falls where their creations stand\nFor both have learned how to outgrow the flow\n\nIn every strike, a heartbeat finds its place\nAcross the years that stretch beyond our sight\nTwo different paths leading to sacred space\nWhere silence meets the dawn of endless night", 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 stones are cleared from the street\nbut the orators are still clearing their throats.\nWe have a barrelful of fine words,\na puncheonful of good intentions,\nand not a brick to show for it.\n\nO that we could put our heads together\ninstead of putting our heads on straight!\nThere is no moderation in the market-place,\nno middle ground in the market-place;\nevery one of them wants to sell you his side of the street.\n\nAnd what of those who did the killing?\nCan they be expected to do the mending?\nHe who has killed a man with a sword\nis he likely to kill a man with a spade?\nI doubt it.\nThe hand that holds the sword\nis not likely to hold the trowel steady.", 2, "The ink is dry on treaties signed in haste,\nBut dust still chokes the street where children played.\nWe speak of healing with a noble taste,\nWhile silence fills the homes that we have made.\n\nThe words are fine, they flow from every tongue,\nOf brotherhood and peace and common good;\nBut when the broken wall should be unsung,\nNo hands appear to lift the wood or mud.\n\nNow moderation sits between the camps,\nA weary guest whom neither side will feed;\nOne shouts for fire, one for iron lamps,\nAnd reason starves amidst their angry greed.\n\nI watch the men who burned the city down,\nWho turned our neighbors into ghosts and names,\nAnd wonder if they wear a different crown,\nOr play at peace while fanning hidden flames.\n\nCan those who loved the sword so well before,\nHold out the olive branch with steady hand?\nOr will they drop it once they see the door,\nAnd seek again the slaughter of their land?", 6, "The rubble waits beneath a sky of gray,\nWhile speakers trade their hollow words away.\nThey promise dawn with hands that hold no broom,\nAnd paint the ruins with a cheerful gloom.\n\nBetween the red and blue, the sharp divide,\nWhere truth is sacrificed to keep one side,\nI wonder if the middle ground can stand,\nOr if it is just sand within the hand.\n\nThose who knew the fire, the gun, the knife,\nCan they now tend the fragile thread of life?\nCan those who loved the clash now love the truce,\nOr will the old habits break the new excuse?\n\nThe ink is dry upon the paper peace,\nBut silence brings no sudden, sweet release.\nWe build on doubt, we build on empty speech,\nAnd pray the lesson was not out of reach.", 6, "The rubble still holds the shape of our anger\nWhile speakers on stages trade hollow applause\nFor promises written in ink that will fade\nBefore the first brick is laid in its place.\n\nWe shout through the ruins of what we once knew\nThat moderation is treason, that silence is death\nYet the center is empty, a void where the bridge\nShould have spanned the deep chasm between us and them.\n\nCan hands that have tightened the trigger and torch\nLearn now to hold plowshares with steady resolve?\nOr is peace just a pause, a breath held too long\nBefore the old hatreds rise up from the dust?\n\nWe wait for a change that the rhetoric hides\nWhile action remains a ghost in the hall\nAnd wonder if those who broke all of this\nPossess the strength needed to build it again.", 6, "The rubble holds the weight of broken oaths\nWhile speakers stand on stages made of glass\nAnd trade their hollow promises for votes\nThat vanish like the morning's passing mist\n\nWe shout for unity in fractured tones\nYet draw our lines in blood upon the floor\nA moderation lost to angry stones\nWhere every compromise is deemed a war\n\nCan hands that forged the weapon now sow seed?\nCan those who loved the fire learn to rain?\nThe silence grows, a terrifying breed\nBetween the peace we crave and past disdain\n\nThey speak of healing but the scars run deep\nToo wide for words to bridge or time to mend\nThe watchmen sleep while shadows start to creep\nAnd wonder if the dawn will ever end", 6, "The ink dries on treaties written in haste\nWhile rubble still chokes the streets we once called home\nWe speak of healing with hollow, polished phrases\nThat crumble like ash beneath the weight of silence\n\nBetween the shouting matches and the rigid lines drawn\nA quiet voice asks if balance is even possible now\nWhen every compromise feels like a betrayal of the past\nAnd moderation is mistaken for weakness by those who hold the sword\n\nCan hands that built the fire ever learn to tend the garden?\nOr will the old wounds reopen at the first sign of doubt\nAs the architects of war try to draft blueprints for tomorrow\nUnsure if peace is something they can truly hold without breaking it again", 5, "The rubble holds the weight of broken promises\nWhere speeches bloom like flowers in a field of ash\nWe trade in hollow echoes, loud and bright\nWhile silence grows beneath the fractured stone\n\nThe lines are drawn in ink that never dries\nBetween the left and right, the old and new\nA desperate plea for balance in the storm\nYet every hand refuses to let go of fear\n\nCan those who forged the weapon learn to mend the wall?\nOr will the shadow of their past consume the dawn they claim to build\nIs peace a fragile thing too heavy for these weary hands\nThat know only how to break what once was whole", 6], [476, "ultra_held_out", "The Road by Nancy Fotheringham Cato", "Nancy Fotheringham Cato", "A poem about a narrator speeding through the night towards the sunrise, leaving darkness behind while chasing a light that remains perpetually beyond their reach.", "I made the rising moon go back\nbehind the shouldering hill,\nI raced along the eastern track\ntill time itself stood still.\n\nThe stars swarmed on behind the trees,\nbut I sped fast at they,\nI could have made the sun arise,\nand night turn back to day.\n\nAnd like a long black carpet\nbehind the wheels, the night\nunrolled across the countryside,\nbut all ahead was bright.\n\nThe fence-posts whizzed along wires\nlike days that fly too fast,\nand telephone poles loomed up like years\nand slipped into the past.\n\nAnd light and movement, sky and road\nand life and time were one,\nwhile through the night I rushed and sped,\nI drove towards the sun.", "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the asphalt, slick with midnight dew\nI leave the shadows clinging to my hair\nAnd drive until the world feels strange and new\n\nThe rearview mirror holds a ghost of gray\nWhere stars once burned like diamonds in the deep\nBut forward lies the breaking of the day\nA promise that the weary eyes will keep\n\nI chase the rim where gold begins to bleed\nAcross the horizon's trembling, fragile line\nYet every mile is just another need\nTo run from what I cannot quite define\n\nThe sun climbs higher as I push the gas\nA golden coin that rolls away too fast\nNo matter how I strain against the mass\nOf gravity and time and hours passed\n\nIt waits ahead, a beacon bright and cold\nThat never lets me touch its burning face\nA story that has never been told\nIn this endless, desperate, driving race\n\nSo on I go through tunnels made of night\nWith dawn just out of reach, a distant friend\nChasing a light that hides from sight\nUntil the very moment it will end", "The tires hum a low monotonous tune\nUnder the black canopy of night,\nI am speeding away from the moon\nAnd the shadowy fingers of last night.\n\nThe road is a ribbon unrolling ahead,\nA white strip in the middle of black;\nThere is a rose-colored streak overhead,\nBut I cannot reach it, or stop, or look back.\n\nIt is always just over the next hill-top,\nThat pink and gold and purple light;\nI speed up, but it never stops,\nIt keeps on moving into the night.\n\nSo I leave the darkness behind me now,\nThe stars are dropping astern like stones;\nI chase that light, but somehow, somehow,\nIt remains beyond my reach, alone.", 6, "The tires hum a low and frantic tune\nAgainst the black asphalt of night,\nI flee the shadows of the moon\nAnd race to meet the coming light.\n\nMy hands are white upon the wheel,\nThe landscape blurs to streaks of gray,\nI feel the dark begin to peel\nAway from out the coming day.\n\nBut there it is, that golden rim,\nThat rosy promise on the east,\nIt grows and shrinks and seems so dim,\nA phantom at my utmost speed.\n\nNo matter how I press the gas,\nOr fly like some demonic bird,\nThe dawn will not let me pass,\nIt keeps its word, it keeps its word.\n\nIt runs before me through the sky,\nJust over every hill and town,\nI watch the purple tints go by,\nAnd wear the yellow of the gown.\n\nI chase the sun but cannot touch,\nIt leads me on in cruel play,\nToo little for a man to clutch,\nToo far away to catch today.\n\nSo on I speed through empty space,\nWith darkness dropping in my rear,\nStill chasing time and still the place\nWhere morning always disappears.", 6, "The tires hum a low and frantic prayer\nAgainst the asphalt ribbon unspooling black,\nI leave the shadows pooling in my rearview mirror\nTo chase the promise breaking on the track.\n\nThe night is heavy with a velvet weight\nThat clings to fenders, tries to slow the wheel,\nBut I am driving fast to meet the gate\nWhere day begins to make the darkness feel\n\nA distant thing, a memory of cold,\nYet as I rush to catch the burning rim,\nThe sun retreats, a story never told,\nAnd makes the horizon seem too far to swim.\n\nIt glows ahead, a golden, taunting line,\nJust out of reach no matter how I drive,\nLeaving the dark behind me for a time,\nBut keeping all the light that I survive.\n\nSo on I speed through hours made of flight,\nBetween the gone and not-yet-arrived dawn,\nChasing a star that vanishes from sight,\nForever running, but forever gone.", 6, "The engine hums a low and hungry prayer\nAs asphalt blurs into a ribbon black,\nI leave the shadows clinging to my chair\nAnd drive the darkness on a one-way track.\n\nThe stars retreat like frightened, silver moths\nThat scatter when the headlights cut the air,\nI chase the ghost that haunts the eastern lochs,\nA promise hanging in the morning's glare.\n\nIt glows ahead, a pale and distant shore,\nJust out of reach no matter how I speed,\nI pour my soul into this frantic roar,\nTo catch the dawn before it starts to bleed.\n\nBut as I near the edge of night's decay,\nThe light pulls back, a horizon made of glass,\nIt runs from me along the breaking day,\nWhile I am left with only hours to pass.\n\nSo I accelerate through endless gray,\nPursuing suns that never quite arrive,\nForever running toward the coming day,\nAnd leaving all the dark behind alive.", 6, "The tires hum a frantic song against the black\nAs shadows stretch and claw at fading glass\nI push the pedal down until the world dissolves\nInto a blur of gray that comes too fast to pass\n\nThe stars retreat like embers in the wind\nLeaving the hollow cold behind my rearview mirror's glow\nBut dawn is not a place where I can land\nIt is a promise made just out of reach to go\n\nA golden line that runs along the edge of earth\nThat moves as quickly as the car beneath my feet\nNo matter how I chase this burning ghost\nThe night will always hold the space between us tight\n\nI drive to find the morning but it flees ahead\nA horizon that refuses to be held or touched\nSo I accelerate through endless, swallowing dark\nWith sunrise running from the hands I cannot clutch", 6, "The tires hum a frantic song against the asphalt vein\nAs shadows stretch and swallow every familiar name\nI push the pedal down until the world dissolves to gray\nLeaving the heavy silence of the dying night behind\n\nA golden thread appears upon the eastern horizon line\nPromising warmth to freeze the cold that clings within my chest\nBut every mile I conquer only pulls the dawn away\nA horizon that retreats with every breath I dare to take\n\nThe stars fade out in panic, unable to compete\nWith this relentless chase that turns the engine into fire\nYet as the sky begins to blush with hues of burnt orange\nThe light remains just out of reach, a ghost I cannot hold\n\nI am the runner bound to track a sun that never sets\nOr rises fully for the weary soul who seeks an end\nThe darkness is a memory now, a shadow lost to time\nWhile morning stays forever just beyond the edge of sight", 6, "The tires hum a rhythm against the asphalt\nA desperate beat in the silence of the deep\nWhere shadows stretch long and refuse to break\nAs I push the pedal down into the dark\n\nEvery mile is a theft from the coming dawn\nYet the horizon holds its breath, unyielding\nI chase the golden edge that shifts with every turn\nA promise written in stars that fade too soon\n\nThe road unravels beneath the weight of speed\nLeaving the cold behind like dust upon the wind\nBut the light ahead retreats, a ghost in motion\nAlways just beyond the reach of trembling hands\n\nNight clings to the rearview mirror, thick and heavy\nWhile hope burns bright in a distance I cannot touch\nRunning toward a sunrise that will never arrive\nTrapped between the darkness and the endless gray", 6], [478, "train", "The Other by Ted Hughes", "Ted Hughes", "A poem about a husband and wife exchanging emotional possessions \u2014 smiles, talent, happiness, and hubris \u2014 until, upon her death, she takes all remaining smiles with her.", "She had too much so with a smile you\ntook some.\nOf everything she had you had\nAbsolutely nothing, so you took some.\nAt first, just a little.\n\nStill she had so much she made you feel\nYour vacuum, which nature abhorred,\nSo you took your fill, for nature's sake.\nBecause her great luck made you feel unlucky\nYou had redressed the balance, which meant\nNow you had some too, for yourself.\nAs seemed only fair. Still her ambition\nClaimed the natural right to screw you up\nLike a crossed out page, lossed into a basket.\nSomebody, on behalf of the gods,\nHad to correct that hubris.\nA little touch of hatred steadied the nerves.\n\nEverything she had won, the happiness of it,\nYou collected\nAs your compensation\nFor having lost. Which left her absolutely\nNothing. Even her life was\nTrapped in the heap you took. She had nothing.\nToo late you saw what had happened.\nIt made no difference that she was dead.\nNow that you had all she had ever had\nYou had much too much.\nOnly you\nSaw her smile, as she took some.\nAt first, just a little.\u201d", "He gave her his smile from the morning light\nAnd she returned a talent for singing soft and low\nHe traded his happiness, a heavy gold coin\nFor her hubris, sharp as a winter snow\n\nShe took his laughter when the house was still\nAnd he accepted her pride to fill the empty space\nThey bartered joy like merchants in a market\nMoving grace from one to another's face\n\nBut when the silence came to claim her breath\nAnd the final thread of life began to fray\nShe gathered every smile he had ever lent\nAnd took them all to keep on that faraway day\n\nNow he stands alone with only talent left\nA voice that sings to no one but the air\nWith happiness gone and hubris turned to dust\nHe searches for a grin that is not there", "He gave her his smiles, the first he had ever made.\nShe gave him her talent, to sing and to paint.\nHe gave her his happiness, a little bag full of it.\nShe gave him her hubris, to make him look fine.\nHe gave her more smiles.\nShe gave him more talent.\nHe gave her more happiness.\nShe gave him more hubris.\nHe grew to be very talented and very happy and very proud,\nbut he never smiled any more.\nShe grew to be very beautiful and very happy and very proud,\nbut she never smiled any more.\nThen she died.\nAnd she took all the remaining smiles with her.", 5, "He gave her his smiles, the first ones he had made\nIn childhood, shy and crooked as a new moon;\nShe took them gladly in her apron pockets,\nAnd gave him back her talent for the harp,\nWhich he used poorly but with great delight.\n\nThen she gave him her happiness, a bright\nSmall bird that fluttered on his shoulder all day,\nAnd he gave her his hubris, which she wore\nLike a heavy gold crown that scratched her brow,\nUntil it hurt to wear it or to speak.\n\nThey traded like this for many years,\nGiving and taking until each was full\nOf the other's things, and nothing of their own.\nBut when the end came, quiet as a snowfall,\nAnd she lay down to die, she asked for nothing\nBut the smiles.\n\nShe said they were hers by right of trade,\nAll the smiles he had given her, and those\nShe had kept from before, and those he had\nMade later, which she claimed were also hers.\nSo she took them all, every single smile,\nLeaving him with nothing but the harp\nThat no one could play, the heavy crown,\nAnd the sad bird that would not sing again.", 3, "He gave her smiles from his early youth\nTo brighten the corners of her quiet room,\nShe gave him talent, sharp and absolute,\nTo carve a future out of gloom.\n\nHe traded happiness, a heavy chest,\nFor her hubris, light as morning air,\nShe took his pride to dress her in her best,\nAnd left him with a hollow stare.\n\nThey bartered joy for years that came and went,\nExchanging pieces of their very soul,\nUntil the time when all was spent,\nAnd he felt broken, incomplete, and whole.\n\nThen death arrived to settle up the score,\nAnd she stood ready with her final claim,\nShe took the smiles he'd given long before,\nAnd every smile he made since then by name.\n\nShe walked away with laughter in her hand,\nThe last one gone, the ledger cleared and clean,\nLeaving him alone upon the land,\nWith nothing left but silence in between.", 7, "He gave her his talent first, a clumsy gift of song,\nAnd she returned a smile that made the heavy room feel light.\nShe traded happiness for hubris, bold and bright,\nWhile he accepted pride to keep their quiet days along.\n\nThey bartered joy for laughter, sorrow for a glance,\nA currency of moments spent within their shared design.\nBut when the final breath arrived and silence filled the line,\nShe gathered up the last remaining smiles without a chance.\n\nThe talent stayed with him, the hubris turned to dust,\nThe happiness had faded in the years they spent apart.\nBut every single smile she wore, from start until the end,\nWas taken by her hand to join her in the dust.", 6, "He gave her his talent, a clumsy thing of wood and string\nAnd she returned a smile that warmed the winter air\nShe offered him happiness, bright as morning light\nWhile he traded his hubris for the quiet weight of care\n\nThey bartered through the years, a silent, shifting trade\nUntil the house was full of what they could not keep\nBut when the final breath arrived to break the fragile bond\nShe gathered up the laughter from the corners of their sleep\n\nThe smiles were hers to hold, the ones she built so well\nFrom every shared joke, every tear that turned to gold\nAnd as she closed her eyes, she took them all away\nLeaving him with silence, and a story left untold", 6, "He gave her his first smile, a quiet thing of morning light\nShe traded back a talent she had never known before\nA song that lived within the silence of their shared night\nWhile he accepted joy as if it were an open door\n\nThey bartered happiness for years that stretched across the floor\nAnd in the corner sat the hubris neither dared to name\nIt grew until the walls could barely hold the weight they bore\nUntil the fire burned too bright to keep the cold at bay\n\nBut time is not a merchant who accepts a final trade\nThe breath began to slow, the colors started to decay\nShe reached out with a hand that held the ghosts of all they made\nAnd whispered that the debt was paid in ways he could not say\n\nThen came the moment when the air grew thin and still\nAs every laugh she ever knew began to fade away\nShe took the last remaining smiles from deep within the will\nAnd left him with the silence where the echoes used to stay", 6, "He gave her his quiet talent for mending broken things\nwhile she offered him a laugh that warmed the winter air\nthey traded pieces of joy until their hearts felt light\nand he laid down his pride, a heavy coat he no longer wore\n\nShe took the weight of hubris and let it crumble in her hands\ngifting back the warmth that once belonged to strangers\nthey built a life from fragments, woven tight and true\nuntil the silence grew too loud to fill with borrowed breath\n\nThe final hour came without a sound or warning cry\nas she reached out to gather what remained within the room\nthe smiles left behind were hers to keep forevermore\nleaving only empty space where love used to reside", 6], [501, "ultra_held_out", "Love is\u2026 by Adrian Henri", "Adrian Henri", "\"A poem about defining love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\"\n\nWait, let me redo this in progressive tense starting with \"A poem about...\":\n\n\"A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\"", "Love is...\n\nLove is feeling cold in the back of vans\n\nLove is a fanclub with only two fans\n\nLove is walking holding paintstained hands\n\nLove is.\n\nLove is fish and chips on winter nights\n\nLove is blankets full of strange delights\n\nLove is when you don't put out the light\n\nLove is\n\nLove is the presents in Christmas shops\n\nLove is when you're feeling Top of the Pops\n\nLove is what happens when the music stops\n\nLove is\n\nLove is white panties lying all forlorn\n\nLove is pink nightdresses still slightly warm\n\nLove is when you have to leave at dawn\n\nLove is\n\nLove is you and love is me\n\nLove is prison and love is free\n\nLove's what's there when you are away from me\n\nLove is...", "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\nIt is the way you hand me coffee before I ask for it\nThe silence that does not need filling while we read on opposite sides of the room\nIt is finding a hair tie on my wrist that I forgot to take off\nAnd the shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast at seven in the morning\nLove is the quiet act of remembering how you take your tea\nIt is the gentle nudge when my shoulders are too tight with worry\nIt is the text message sent just to say I saw a bird that reminded me of you\nIt is the patience held during a long drive when the radio breaks down\nIt is washing the dishes after you have cooked, without being asked\nIt is the way we fit together like puzzle pieces worn smooth by time\nNot in grand gestures or fireworks, but in the steady rhythm of breathing the same air\nIt is choosing each other again and again in the mundane light of day", "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\nIt is finding the other's reading glasses on top of the refrigerator.\nIt is leaving a piece of toast for the other when one gets up earlier.\nIt is sitting in silence in the car listening to the rain, not feeling the need to speak.\nIt is remembering how the other takes their coffee.\nIt is taking out the trash without being asked.\nIt is laughing at the same silly thing over and over again.\nIt is holding on tightly under the sheets when it is cold.\nIt is shaving off a little extra time from one's own shave so as not to keep the other waiting.\nIt is cutting up fruit for the other when one sees them looking tired.\nIt is telling the other that they look nice even when they are just going downstairs to get the newspaper.\nIt is seeing the other asleep with their mouth open and smiling instead of being disgusted.\nIt is letting the other have the last biscuit.\nIt is knowing what the other means before they have finished saying it.\nIt is buying the other's favorite ice cream when one is at the store anyway.\nIt is getting into bed and turning down the light for the other.", 2, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\n\nIt is finding the other side\nof your pillow cold\nand then warm again,\nthe way the kettle whistles\nbefore you remember to turn it off,\nand how they reach over\nto do it for you without waking up.\n\nIt is the silent language\nof a raised eyebrow across a crowded room,\nthe shared smile at nothing in particular,\nthe way you both know\nexactly how much sugar\ngoes into the coffee\nfor the other person's cup.\n\nIt is sitting in silence\nwhile reading separate books,\nnot needing to fill the air\nwith words just to prove\nyou are together,\nknowing that the quiet\nis not empty but full.\n\nIt is noticing when their hair\nis cut too short or too long,\nit is remembering\nthat they hate the texture\nof wool against their neck,\nit is the grocery list\nwritten on the back\nof an envelope\nwith the things you need\nand the things they like.\n\nIt is the way you argue\nabout which way the toilet paper\nshould hang\nand then laugh about it\nfive minutes later,\nit is holding hands\nin the car while driving\nthrough a storm,\nit is the steady hand\non the small of the back\nwhen crossing a busy street.\n\nIt is not always grand gestures\nor flowers sent from far away,\nbut the thousand tiny ways\nyou say I am here\nand I see you\nand I choose you\nevery single day.", 3, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.\n\nIt is finding the remote\nbefore you have to ask,\nand leaving it on the table\nwith the batteries fresh.\n\nIt is the quiet hum\nof a dishwasher running late at night,\nwhile two people read separate books\nin the same pool of lamplight.\n\nIt is remembering how you take your coffee\nwithout looking at the list,\nand the way a hand finds another\nunder the tablecloth\nwhen the conversation turns heavy.\n\nIt is laughing until your sides hurt\nat a joke no one else understands,\nand the silent agreement\nto let the dishes wait\nuntil morning.\n\nIt is brushing hair out of a sleeping face,\nthe shared umbrella tilting toward you,\nthe grocery list written in two different hands,\nand the key left under the mat\njust in case.\n\nIt is not the grand gestures\nor the fireworks in the sky,\nbut the steady rhythm of breathing together\nin a room that feels like home.", 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 shouted vow\nbut the quiet way you hand me the coffee cup\nbefore I have even asked for it, steam rising\nin the gray light of a Tuesday morning.\n\nIt is the silence that does not feel heavy\nwhen we sit on opposite ends of the couch\nreading different books, our knees touching\na steady point of contact in the drifting room.\n\nIt is the shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast\nand the gentle correction when a word is misused\nwithout making the other feel small or wrong.\nIt is remembering how you take your tea\nand leaving the lid off the jar just so.\n\nIt is the way we navigate the grocery store\npushing the cart with one hand while holding hands\nwith the other, debating between two brands\nof pasta as if it were a matter of state.\n\nIt is the patience shown when tiredness sets in\nthe soft sigh that turns into a restful breath\nagainst a shoulder, trusting that the weight\nwill be held without question or complaint.\n\nLove is the accumulation of these tiny threads\nwoven together until they form a fabric strong enough\nto hold us through the storms and the stillness\ndefined not by what we say but by what we do\nagain and again, in the ordinary rhythm of days.", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\n\nIt is not found in grand gestures or sweeping vows\nBut in the quiet hum of a kitchen at dawn\nWhere coffee steams between two tired hands\nAnd silence speaks louder than any word ever planned\n\nIt lives in the way you save the last bite of toast\nOr fold the laundry without being asked to do so most\nIn the shared glance across a crowded, noisy room\nThat says I see you, even when we are both feeling gloom\n\nIt is the gentle touch on a shoulder when the rain begins to fall\nThe patience held while waiting for a story to unfold\nThe laughter that erupts from something silly said\nTurning ordinary days into memories instead\n\nLove is the rhythm of walking side by side\nWith pockets full of nothing but nowhere to hide\nIt is the comfort of presence, steady and deep\nWhile the world outside continues its chaotic sweep\n\nDefined not by what is promised or dreamed\nBut by the simple, unspoken acts that keep us near\nA hand reaching out in the dark of the night\nTo say, simply, I am here, and everything will be alright", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\n\nIt lives in the quiet hum of a shared kitchen\nWhere coffee steams between two tired hands\nAnd silence speaks louder than any vow\nAs dawn breaks softly against the windowpane\n\nIt is found in the way you reach across the bed\nTo tuck a stray hair behind an ear\nIn the laughter that spills over spilled milk\nTurning chaos into something gentle and warm\n\nLove walks beside us on crowded streets\nHolding space when words feel too heavy to carry\nIt weaves itself into laundry folded just so\nAnd the notes left on mirrors before leaving home\n\nThere is no grand gesture needed here\nOnly the steady rhythm of breathing together\nThe unspoken promise kept in every glance\nThat says I am still here, and I choose you again", 6, "A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships\n\nIt lives in the silence between two breaths\nwhen the morning light spills across the floorboards\nand neither hand reaches out to break the quiet\nbecause presence is enough to hold the weight of time\n\nIt forms in the coffee cup left on the counter\na reminder that someone else drinks here too\nin the way a coat finds its place by the door\nnot by chance but by the gentle pull of habit\n\nLove is the shared glance over a crowded room\nwhere words dissolve into something softer\na language spoken only in the curve of a smile\nthat says I see you even when the world looks away\n\nIt weaves through laundry folded with care\nin the space where shoulders touch without asking\nin the laughter that rises from old jokes retold\nreminding us that history belongs to both of us\n\nNo grand\u8a93\u8a00 or thunderous promise defines this bond\nbut rather the steady rhythm of ordinary days\nwhere kindness becomes a constant, unspoken vow\nwritten in the dust motes dancing in afternoon sun", 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 stand before the black wall of polished granite\nand see a boy in blue jeans and a red windbreaker\nlooking at his watch, looking at me.\nThe boy is me, thirty years ago,\nbut he is not looking at his watch,\nhe is looking at a helicopter rising through smoke.\nThe boy's face is clear in the stone;\nmy face is clear in the stone;\nthe two faces are one face.\nThe boy is standing on grass with people around him\nholding flowers, holding babies,\nwearing sunglasses, talking about the weather.\nI am standing in mud with people around me\nholding rifles, holding dead boys,\nwearing bloodied helmets, talking about the weather.\nThe boy says to the woman beside him,\n\"Let's go have lunch.\"\nI say to the man beside me,\n\"Let's go have lunch,\"\nbut I do not know what that means.\nI see my name on the wall\nand I see the name of the boy beside me\non the wall.\nI see the name of the boy beside me\nin the sky.\nThe boy is reading the names.\nI am reading the names.\nThe boy is crying.\nI am crying.\nThe boy is wiping his eyes.\nI am wiping my eyes.\nThe boy is looking at his watch.\nI am looking at my watch.\nThe boy is going to have lunch.\nI am going to have lunch.", 2, "The tourist child traces my name with a finger\nAnd I feel the cold mud of Quang Tri seep into his palm.\nHe is laughing, asking his father if it's a mirror,\nWhile I see the reflection of a boy in green fatigues\nWho does not know he will be dead by noon.\n\nA woman in a business suit stops to fix her scarf,\nHer image sliding over the face of a man dying of dysentery;\nShe checks her watch, worried about a meeting,\nI check the jungle for movement, worried about a mine.\nThe black granite holds us all in one dark pool,\nWhere the chatter of a tour group becomes the whine of a helicopter,\nThen cuts back to the chatter of a tour group.\n\nMy hand reaches out to touch the stone,\nTo touch the boy who is me, and the boy who is him,\nAnd the glass is warm from the sun of this peaceful day,\nBut my fingers come away wet with the rain of '68.\nI step back into the crowd of the living,\nWearing a coat that is too heavy for the weather,\nCarrying a weight that no scale can measure,\nWatching the reflections merge and separate again,\nThe dead standing still in the black glass,\nThe living walking on, trying not to look at their feet.", 2, "The black granite drinks the Washington sky\nand I see a tourist's hand reaching out\nto trace the name of a boy who died in '68\nwhile his daughter asks if this is where they found him\nher voice soft, ordinary, wrapped in a scarf\nagainst a chill that has nothing to do with jungle rot.\n\nI look down and the reflection shows my gray hair\nbut for a second the mirror ripples\nand it is twenty years old again\nsweat stinging eyes that are not yet blind\nthe smell of cordite mixing with wet earth\nand the girl's scarf dissolves into green flak jackets.\n\nA couple argues quietly about lunch nearby\ntheir hands gesturing at a map on a phone\nand their voices slide into the static of a radio call\nthat never came through, the crackle of a helicopter\nlifting off from a muddy clearing while the sun burns\nthrough the haze like a warning light.\n\nThe polished stone holds them all at once\nthe living walking past in sneakers and jeans\nand the dead standing still in the heat\nwaiting for a chopper that will never land\nuntil the surface clears and I am just an old man\ntouching cold rock with a trembling finger\nwondering why the peace feels so loud\nwhen the war was so quiet inside my head.", 2, "The black granite drinks the morning light\nAnd holds the tourists' quiet feet\nA woman checks her phone, a child laughs\nWhile I stand still where silence meets\n\nMy hand reaches out to touch the name\nBut fingers brush a stranger's coat\nI see the mud, the humid rain\nThe heavy weight of every note\n\nThey walk right through my ghostly form\nUnaware the ground is shaking\nThe coffee cup, the summer storm\nThe distant sound of helicopters breaking\n\nHere the world is soft and green\nThere the jungle screamed in red\nI am the space between the scene\nOf what was lost and what is said\n\nA tourist leans to read the date\nHer reflection overlaps my face\nI smell the smoke, the rot, the hate\nThen smell the perfume in this place\n\nThe wall gives back the living day\nYet shows the dead within its glass\nI watch the years dissolve away\nAs shadows of the past come pass\n\nI turn to leave the stone behind\nBut feel the grip of trench and wire\nThe present fades, the war rebinds\nIn fire that never dies or tires", 5, "The polished black stone drinks the noon sun\nAnd gives back a world of blue sky and laughter\nWhere tourists trace names with trembling fingers\nWhile I stand here, a ghost in a windbreaker\nWatching my own reflection bleed into the granite\nAs the chatter of families fades to static\n\nA child drops a red balloon that floats upward\nBut in the glass it becomes smoke rising from a jungle\nThe scent of cut grass turns suddenly thick with cordite\nAnd the laughter of a mother holding her son's hand\nIs swallowed by the scream of a helicopter rotor\nI reach out to touch the name carved deep below\nBut my hand meets only cold, unyielding silence\n\nThe present is a thin veneer over the abyss\nWhere every face looking back at me wears a uniform\nThat no longer exists outside this wall of memory\nI see myself young again, mud caked on boots\nReaching for a friend who never made it home\nWhile the crowd moves around us, unaware\nThat time has folded here, sharp and jagged\n\nThe reflection ripples as a tear hits the surface\nMerging the quiet afternoon with the chaotic night\nOf rain and fire and the weight of things unsaid\nI am both the man who walked away and the boy who stayed\nBound by the dark mirror that holds them all\nIn a moment where peace feels like a dream\nAnd the war is the only thing that ever truly was", 2, "The morning light cuts soft across the black stone\nWhere a tourist's laughter echoes off the granite face\nA child points at names carved deep in silence\nWhile I stand here holding coffee that has gone cold\nMy reflection stretches long, thin and gray against the polished dark\nBut as I lean closer, the surface ripples without wind\nThe plastic cup dissolves into mud that clings to boots\nThe blue sky above the trees turns to smoke choking the air\nI see my own hands, young and unscarred, gripping a rifle\nWhile the woman beside me checks her phone for the time\nHer screen glows bright, a beacon of a world I barely know\nIn the glass, her smile fractures into a scream from '68\nThe traffic on the highway fades to the thud of distant artillery\nEvery name etched here breathes again, a ghost stepping out of the stone\nTo walk beside me through the quiet crowd\nWe are two worlds pressed tight against one another\nOne seeking closure, the other trapped in the moment it ended\nThe wall does not judge the peace we built upon its grief\nIt only holds the weight of what was lost and what remains\nAnd when I pull away, the image lingers on my skin\nA shadow of war that no amount of sunlight can erase", 2, "The silence here is heavy, not like the quiet of a Sunday morning\nWhere coffee cools on a table and children laugh in the yard\nBut a weight that presses against the chest, a ghost of smoke and rain\nThat clings to skin long after the uniform has been folded away\n\nFingers trace the names etched deep in black granite\nEach letter a story cut short, a heartbeat lost to the jungle's green\nYet in the mirror of stone, the world shifts without warning\nA tourist's smile fades into the flash of a distant flare\n\nHe sees his own reflection, older now, eyes lined with time\nOverlaid by the face he wore when fear was the only constant\nThe air hums with whispers of traffic and wind through leaves\nWhile memories scream of mortar fire and the weight of fallen friends\n\nOne breath brings the scent of pine and autumn chill\nThe next tastes of dust and blood, a phantom ache in bones grown soft\nTime bends at the edge of the wall, where past and present collide\nNo longer just a man standing still, but a bridge between two worlds\n\nThe sun sets slowly, casting shadows that stretch across the ground\nMerging the footprints of today with the scars of yesterday\nIn this sacred space, the war never truly ends for those who remain\nCarrying the weight of loss while walking through a life they fought to keep", 3], [512, "train", "Bereft by Robert Frost", "Robert Frost", "\"A poem about a lonely speaker interpreting the wind, leaves, and darkening storm clouds as natural forces converging on him, aware of his solitude.\"", "Where had I heard this wind before\nChange like this to a deeper roar?\nWhat would it take my standing there for,\nHolding open a restive door,\nLooking down hill to a frothy shore?\nSummer was past and the day was past.\nSombre clouds in the west were massed.\nOut on the porch's sagging floor,\nLeaves got up in a coil and hissed,\nBlindly struck at my knee and missed.\nSomething sinister in the tone\nTold me my secret must be known:\nWord I was in the house alone\nSomehow must have gotten abroad,\nWord I was in my life alone,\nWord I had no one left but God.", "The wind does not blow past me,\nit leans in close to whisper names I have forgotten.\nLeaves skitter across the pavement like small, dry feet\nrushing to join the circle where I stand alone.\nAbove, the storm clouds bruise the sky into a heavy grey,\nconverging with a singular intent to drown this quiet spot.\nThey do not care for the world beyond this patch of earth,\nonly that I am here, exposed and waiting.\nEvery gust is a hand reaching out to claim the silence,\nevery rustle a voice insisting on my isolation.\nThe darkness gathers not as weather, but as a crowd,\nclosing in until there is no space left between the air and my skin.\nI am the center they orbit, the anchor for their rage,\na solitary point where the elements decide to meet.", "The wind is not blowing\nit is blowing at me,\nwhistling through the eaves\nof my empty house.\n\nThe leaves are not falling,\nthey are dropping on me,\nrustling and rustling\nabout my ears.\n\nAnd the storm clouds are not gathering,\nthey are gathering about me,\ndrooping their heavy heads\nover my head.\n\nI know that I am alone,\nbut the wind knows it too,\nand the leaves know it too,\nand the storm clouds know it too.", 2, "The wind comes first, a hollow whistle\nthrough the eaves of my empty house,\nscolding the windows for their silence.\nThen the leaves, dry and brittle,\nskitter across the floor like rats\nor perhaps like thoughts I cannot catch,\ntelling me that all things fall away.\n\nAbove, the storm clouds gather weight,\na bruised purple pressing down,\nconverging on this single point,\nthis small dark spot where I stand alone.\nThey know I am here, I think,\nthey have come to claim the space\nthat no one else will fill.\n\nI wait for the rain to strike,\nto wash the solitude from my skin,\nbut the wind only moans louder,\nand the leaves keep dancing round my feet,\nand the clouds hang low and heavy,\nall converging on me,\nthe only thing in the world\nfor them to hit.", 3, "The wind is not a wanderer but a hunter\nAnd I am the only thing left to find.\nIt pushes through the pines with a hollow whistle,\nA single note that calls my name and finds no echo in return.\n\nThe leaves do not dance for joy tonight\nBut skitter across the ground like frantic feet\nTrying to outrun the shadow that stretches from the west,\nGathering at my heels as if to herd me toward the center of nothing.\n\nAbove, the clouds are bruising purple and heavy,\nConverging on this patch of earth where I stand alone,\nDrawing their dark circles tighter and tighter\nUntil the sky is a lid pressing down on my head.\n\nThey know I have no one else to witness them,\nNo shared breath to break the silence between the gusts,\nSo they come close, these indifferent forces,\nTo fill the empty space where a crowd should be.", 5, "The wind arrives not as a breath but as a hand\nPressing against the hollow of my chest\nIt speaks in riddles only I can hear\nOf how the world has closed its many doors\nAnd left this single room for me alone\n\nAbove, the leaves begin their frantic dance\nNot celebrating summer's final gold\nBut signaling the gathering of the dark\nThey spin and scrape like whispers at the glass\nConfirming that no one else is near to watch\n\nNow heavy clouds converge from every side\nA bruised and swelling sky that knows my name\nThey pull together, tight and suffocating\nTo seal the horizon with a leaden weight\nAs if the storm itself has come to claim\nThe quiet solitude I hold so dear", 6, "The wind does not blow past but through my ribs,\nA hollow flute that plays a single note of loss.\nIt whispers names I cannot answer to,\nWhile dry leaves skitter like forgotten ghosts across the stone.\n\nAbove, the storm clouds bruise the sky with heavy gray,\nConverging low to crush the space I hold alone.\nThey gather weight until the air grows thick and still,\nAs if the world itself is closing in on me.\n\nNo shelter waits within this widening circle of dark,\nJust the rustling proof that nature knows my isolation best.\nThe gale, the falling leaf, the gathering rain,\nAll move as one to meet the silence where I stand.", 6, "The wind does not whisper but calls my name\nA hollow sound that finds the cracks in bone\nIt pushes through the trees with heavy hands\nTo shake the silence I have made alone\n\nThe leaves descend like coins of rusted gold\nThat scatter at my feet without a sound\nThey trace the path where no one else has walked\nAnd cover up the ground where I am bound\n\nAbove, the clouds converge to block the light\nA bruised and swelling weight against the sky\nThey gather close as if to claim the space\nWhere only I remain to watch them die\n\nNo storm will break to wash this fear away\nNo shelter waits beyond the open air\nJust nature turning inward, sharp and cold\nTo meet the quiet heart that dares to stare", 6, "The wind arrives not as a breath but as a weight\nPressing against the hollow of my chest\nIt whispers names I no longer speak aloud\nWhile shadows stretch to claim the empty space between\n\nLeaves detach from branches that once held them tight\nA chaotic dance of gold and brittle decay\nThey swirl around my feet, a silent crowd\nThat offers no warmth, only the cold embrace of loss\n\nAbove, the storm clouds gather in a heavy gray\nConverging on this single point where I remain\nNo shelter waits within the coming rain\nOnly the truth that solitude is all I keep\n\nThe air grows thick with promises of thunder's roar\nAs nature turns its gaze upon the one who stands alone\nThe world expands to swallow every trace of hope\nLeaving nothing but the silence and the darkening sky", 6], [514, "ultra_held_out", "Sleeping in the Forest by Mary Oliver", "Mary Oliver", "A poem about a speaker venturing into the forest at night, losing herself in the darkness and sounds of nature's small kingdoms, and transcending her everyday humanity.", "I thought the earth\nremembered me, she\ntook me back so tenderly, arranging\nher dark skirts, her pockets\nfull of lichens and seeds. I slept\nas never before, a stone\non the riverbed, nothing\nbetween me and the white fire of the stars\nbut my thoughts, and they floated\nlight as moths among the branches\nof the perfect trees. All night\nI heard the small kingdoms breathing\naround me, the insects, and the birds\nwho do their work in the darkness. All night\nI rose and fell, as if in water, grappling\nwith a luminous doom. By morning\nI had vanished at least a dozen times\ninto something better.", "The path dissolves beneath my feet\nas moonlight fails to pierce the veil\nof ancient boughs and tangled sheets\nwhere shadow weaves its heavy sail\n\nA cricket's song becomes a drum\nthat beats against my human bone\nthe mossy floor, a kingdom come\nwhere tiny empires claim their throne\n\nI feel the bark beneath my skin\nand taste the damp and rotting air\nthe frantic pulse of life within\nis stripped away with every prayer\n\nNo longer bound by clock or name\nor worries forged in city light\nI am the fern, the silent flame\nthat burns alone within the night\n\nMy breath is wind through hollow reeds\nmy thoughts are roots that drink the dark\na seed that nature now indeed\nhas planted deep within her ark", "I stepped into the throat of night\nand left the street-lamp's yellow lie.\nThe darkness did not blind me but\nunclad my eyes to other eyes,\nto thousands of unblinking eyes\nthat watched me from the brake and briar.\nI heard the mole within his mound\nturn over earth with patient claw,\nthe cricket tuning up his fiddle\nin a kingdom of grass and straw.\nI heard the weasel in the stubble\nslip like a thought along a wire,\nthe beetle climbing up the nettle\nwith all the strength of his desire.\nAnd I who had been such a man,\nor woman, with such human cares,\nwith such a nose for smells of men,\nand such a taste for men's affairs,\nbegan to lose myself away\nin this small empire of the dark;\nmy feet began to go on tiptoe\nlike some shy animal or ark.\nI lost my name, I lost my date,\nI lost the time of day or year;\nI only knew that I was late,\nlate as the hare, late as the deer.\nI went about among them all,\na large and clumsy god or gnome,\nuntil I felt my fingers fall\noff at the finger-tips, and roam\nas feelers in the herbage deep,\nor tentacles of some sea-animal;\nor until I fell asleep\nand was an owl, or was an animal.", 2, "I stepped between the trunks where daylight fails\nAnd let the heavy velvet of the night\nClose round my head and swallow up my trails.\nNo longer I, but something small and slight,\nA rustle in the brake, a shadow's flight.\n\nThe moon was shut behind a cloud's thick veil,\nBut other eyes were open everywhere;\nThe glow-worm lit his tiny lantern pale,\nThe cricket tuned his fiddle to the air,\nAnd beetles marched their dark processions there.\n\nI heard the scurrying of kingdoms vast\nWithin a square foot of the mossy floor;\nThe ant-king led his armies to the past,\nThe centipede rolled thunder through the door\nOf some small cave beneath a fallen core.\n\nMy human name fell from me like a skin,\nMy cares dissolved into the dripping fern;\nI felt the sap within the birch begin,\nThe pulse of roots that wait and watch and turn,\nThe secret fire that in the darkness burn.\n\nI am no longer one who walks and speaks,\nBut part the silence and the sound and smell;\nI have become the water and the reeks\nOf rotting leaves and things that live as well\nIn this black world where all good spirits dwell.", 6, "The streetlamps fade behind the treeline\nand I step off the path of concrete and clocks\ninto a throat of black velvet where the air is thick with moss\nand the scent of damp earth rising like a prayer.\nMy name feels heavy here, a stone in my pocket\nso I drop it on the ferns and let the silence swallow it whole.\nAbove, the canopy stitches the stars into a tight net\nbut down here, in the kingdom of beetles and fungi,\nthe world is vast and loud with tiny footsteps.\nI hear the rustle of a mouse counting its seeds\nthe click of a spider weaving a trap for moonlight\nthe slow, wet breath of a mushroom pushing through rot.\nThese small empires do not care for my worries or my wages\nthey only know the rhythm of decay and rebirth.\nI crouch low until my spine curves like a root\nuntil my skin turns to bark and my blood slows to sap.\nThe darkness is not an absence but a presence\na warm fluid that fills my lungs and washes out the human noise.\nI am no longer the one who walks; I am the walking itself\nthe shadow that shifts when the owl calls\nthe vibration in the leaf when the wind sighs.\nI have lost myself completely\nand in this loss, found the wild, ancient self\nthat was here before the first word was spoken\nand will be here long after the last light goes out.", 2, "The path dissolves beneath my boots\nas moonlight fails to pierce the canopy\nand I step past the edge of who I was\ninto a world where silence has a weight.\n\nHere the ferns are towers in a green kingdom\nwhere beetles march with armor made of dew\nand owls command the shadows from their thrones\nwhile I am stripped of name and memory.\n\nThe wind speaks not in words but in a hum\nthat vibrates through the marrow of my bones\ndissolving skin until I am just breath\na ripple in the dark, a root, a stone.\n\nNo longer bound by clock or human fear\nI drift within the pulse of ancient trees\nand lose myself completely in the night\nto find a self that never was, nor needs to be.", 6, "The path dissolves beneath my boots\nas moonlight fails to pierce the canopy\na heavy curtain drawn against the sky\nleaving only whispers in the dark\n\nI hear the scuttle of a beetle's march\nacross the rotting bark of ancient oaks\nwhere empires rise and fall in silent breaths\ntoo small for human eyes to truly see\n\nMy heartbeat slows to match the rustling leaves\nno longer bound by clocks or city walls\nthe weight of names and titles slips away\ndissolving into moss and dampened earth\n\nHere I am not flesh but root and shadow\npart of the hum that vibrates through the soil\nwhere tiny kingdoms rule with quiet grace\nand I forget the person I once was\n\nThe darkness wraps around me like a second skin\nuntil the boundary between self and forest fades\nand in this vast, unspoken wilderness\nI cease to be a woman and become the night", 5, "The moon dissolves behind a veil of pine\nAs shadows stretch to claim the path I knew\nNo streetlamps guide this ancient, breathing line\nWhere silence hums a song both old and new\n\nMy heartbeat fades beneath the rustling leaves\nA chorus rising from the mossy floor\nHere in the dark, the world no longer grieves\nFor what was lost or left behind before\n\nThe beetle's march becomes a grand parade\nThe owl's cry cuts the air with sharp decree\nI shed the weight of names that time has made\nAnd join the pulse of wild mystery\n\nNo longer bound by breath or bone or fear\nI drift within the kingdom of the small\nWhere every shadow holds a secret near\nAnd human hands forget how to recall\n\nThe forest wraps around my fading form\nA velvet cloak woven from starlight dust\nIn chaos found, there is a perfect calm\nReturning me to earth, then turning us to trust", 6, "The moon hangs low, a fractured coin\nThat cannot buy the path ahead\nWhere shadows stretch and roots entwine\nTo break the rhythm of my breath\n\nA rustle wakes the sleeping moss\nAs beetles march in silent rows\nTheir tiny wars, their ancient laws\nDissolve the weight I used to hold\n\nNo heartbeat keeps the time I knew\nOnly the wind that whispers through\nThe hollow bark and shifting air\nWhere silence speaks without a sound\n\nMy skin begins to fade away\nReplaced by dew and starlight gray\nI am no longer flesh or bone\nBut part of soil, of root, of stone\n\nThe forest breathes within my chest\nA quiet peace, a gentle test\nOf all the names I left behind\nIn worlds of light and human mind\n\nNow lost to every name I bore\nI drift beyond the edge of shore\nWhere nature claims what once was mine\nAnd turns the stranger into kin", 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 machine roars in a drunken stupor\nand cuts down the wheat and the weeds alike,\na steel threshing indiscriminately,\nthe sickle of the machine being no judge.\n\nBut the black man bends with his hand sickle,\nhe sees the grain and he sees the weed,\nhe leaves the good standing and cuts the bad,\nhis eye is a judge and his hand is a judge.\n\nThe machine cuts everything in its path,\nbut the black man cuts only the bad.", 2, "The machine roars a flat and hungry sound\nAnd bites the ground in rows of even green,\nIt cuts the tall from short without a bound,\nNor sees the weed that hides the tender bean.\n\nBut here the men move slow with human eyes,\nThey see the tangle where the thistle grows,\nThey lift the good and let the bad lie rise,\nWith hands that know the value that it shows.\n\nOne blade is blind and strikes at all alike,\nIt shears the flower with the heavy grain;\nThe other looks before the fingers strike,\nAnd saves the seed to plant another plain.\n\nSo while the iron eats the field entire,\nAnd leaves a stubble uniform and bare,\nThe workers kindle in their labor fire,\nA careful harvest for a carefuller care.", 7, "The machine roars a hungry, metal throat\nAnd sweeps the field in one long, straight command\nIt takes the weed and takes the golden coat\nAnd leaves no choice to any living hand.\n\nBut here the workers move with gentle care\nThrough rows of corn where sunlight starts to break\nThey touch the stalks and breathe the dusty air\nAnd choose the fruit for harvest's heavy sake.\n\nTheir eyes discern the ripeness in the grain\nWhile steel blades fall on everything alike\nThey spare the bird that hides within the plain\nAnd do not crush the flower by the dyke.\n\nOne cuts with speed and kills without a thought\nTo clear the ground of every single thing\nThe other knows the life that can be caught\nAnd lets the useless grass beside them spring.", 6, "The iron beast roars down the row\nA silver mouth that knows no pause\nIt swallows green and brown alike\nWith cold and unrelenting jaws\n\nBut here the hands move soft and slow\nAmong the stalks of golden grain\nThey choose the ripe and leave the weak\nAnd spare the life beneath the rain\n\nNo blind machine can tell the difference\nBetween the weed and fruit so sweet\nIt cuts the mother and the child\nAnd leaves a field of broken feet\n\nYet human eyes with gentle care\nDiscern the worth in every stem\nWhile steel devours without a thought\nThe workers harvest, not condemn", 6, "The steel teeth chew the earth in lines of gray,\nA hungry mouth that knows no seed from weed,\nIt takes the wheat and pulls the thorn away,\nAnd leaves a silence where the wild things feed.\n\nBut hands move soft within the golden haze,\nWith eyes that trace the weight of ripened grain,\nThey choose the stalks to save for future days,\nAnd spare the flower blooming after rain.\n\nThe blade is blind to life it cuts apart,\nA rhythm loud and ruthless, cold, and deep,\nWhile fingers hold the living, beating heart,\nAnd promise what the winter cannot keep.\n\nOne takes the field as something to be owned,\nThe other sees the garden's subtle song,\nBetween the harvest and the grass unloved,\nThe difference lies in how we belong.", 6, "The iron teeth roar through the row,\nA blind and hungry, grinding sound,\nThat swallows green and weed alike,\nAnd leaves no seed upon the ground.\n\nBut hands that know the weight of grain,\nMove soft beneath the heavy sky,\nThey choose the ripe and leave the stalk,\nWith eyes that watch and spirits high.\n\nWhere steel sees only things to cut,\nThe worker sees a living thread,\nDistinguishing the life from dust,\nWhile silence fills the path they tread.\n\nOne takes the world in sweeping arcs,\nThe other picks with gentle care,\nTo honor what has grown above,\nBefore the harvest fades in air.", 6, "The iron teeth chew through the soil and stem\nWithout a pause to feel the weight of life\nIt claims the weed beside the golden grain\nA silent storm that knows no mercy or grace\n\nBut hands move slow within the morning light\nDistinguishing the root from fragile fruit\nA gentle touch that lifts the heavy burden\nPreserving what was meant to feed the hungry\n\nWhere steel demands an end to every shadow\nThe worker sees the story in the stalk\nAnd chooses which must fall and which remains\nTo bloom again beneath the setting sun", 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.", "O God, art thou a God?\nI see the stones of Jerusalem\nRed with the blood of children.\nThe dying men groan in the dust,\nAnd I cry out to thee:\nArt thou a God?\nIf thou art God, why is the world\nFalling into darkness?\nWhy doth the threat of being usurped\nLoom over us all?\nChrist, if thou art the Son of God,\nIntervene!\nIf thou hast any power at all,\nIntervene!", 2, "O God, are you there or is the sky a hollow shell?\nWhy do the dying men groan in the dust and no hand reaches down?\nWhy do the children lay slaughtered upon the stones\nAnd their blood make a river for the rats to drink?\nThe world falls into darkness and the stars go out one by one,\nAnd the threat of being usurped looms like a black cloud over the throne.\nIf you are God, why do you sleep while the wolves tear the fold?\nBut if you are not God, then who is this Christ we call upon?\nCome, Christ, intervene!\nRise from the dead or rise from heaven,\nBreak the gates of hell and the gates of earth,\nFor the night is deep and the enemy is at the door,\nAnd unless you come, all is lost.", 2, "Is there a God who watches from the silence\nWhile dying men groan on the cold, hard stones?\nWhere are the heavens in this sudden darkness?\nWhy do children lie slaughtered like broken bones?\n\nIf You are real, if power is Your nature,\nThen rise and break this shadow that descends;\nWe feel the usurper's hand upon our gate,\nAnd see the world of light and hope now end.\n\nO Christ, come down before the throne is taken,\nBefore the last breath leaves the gasping throat;\nIntercede for us in this final moment,\nLest we be left to walk the silent moat.\n\nThe threat looms large, the usurper draws his sword,\nThe stars go out, the earth begins to shake;\nSpeak now, O Son, or let us be ignored,\nFor all the living and the dead's own sake.", 6, "Is there a throne above the smoke and ash?\nOr only silence where the prayers are cast?\nThe stones are warm with blood of children small,\nAnd dying men groan out their final call.\nThe world descends into a heavy night,\nAs shadows stretch to swallow up the light.\nA usurper waits within the crumbling gate,\nTo claim a kingdom built on love and hate.\nIf God is blind to such a terrible cost,\nThen let the Father's mercy be lost.\nBut You, who walked where broken bones were laid,\nWho drank the cup of sorrow we have made,\nO Christ, descend before the dark takes hold,\nAnd break the chains that bind us in the cold.\nReach down your hand to lift the slaughtered young,\nAnd sing the song that sets the captive tongue.\nBefore the tyrant sits upon the seat,\nAnd makes the heavens bow beneath his feet,\nCome now, O Prince of Peace, and stop the fall,\nOr leave us nothing but the empty wall.", 6, "Where is the light when shadows swallow every star?\nWhy does the silence scream while heaven turns away?\nThe stones are red with blood of those who cannot speak,\nAnd children lie in tatters where the laughter used to play.\nOh Christ, if You are real, why do Your hands remain so still?\nAs dying men call out names that echo into void,\nA usurper's shadow stretches long across the throne,\nWhile darkness claims the kingdom that was once by love employed.\nBreak through the veil of doubt and tear the sky apart,\nBefore the final candle flickers out beneath the weight of night,\nFor if no savior comes to lift this crushing, heavy heart,\nThen faith itself will perish in the cold and endless fright.", 6, "Is the throne empty or merely silent now?\nWhere does the light retreat when shadows swallow every prayer?\nWe scream into the void for a sign that never comes,\nWhile the earth trembles beneath the weight of our broken trust.\n\nO Christ, rise from the silence and tear the veil apart,\nFor the stones are slick with the blood of children who knew no sin,\nAnd dying men groan in the dust, their breath fading fast,\nAs the night closes in to choke the last spark of hope.\n\nThe usurper waits in the wings, hungry for the crown,\nReady to claim a kingdom built on ash and sorrow,\nBut we call upon the One who walked through death's dark door,\nTo shatter the chains before the world dissolves into nothing.\n\nDo not let the darkness win, do not let the lie take hold,\nWhen the sky turns black and the stars forget how to shine,\nBring forth the fire that purifies the rot within our souls,\nAnd stand between the grave and the future we cannot save alone.", 5, "Is silence the only answer to the cries that tear the sky?\nWhy do you watch as empires crumble into ash and dust?\nThe shadow stretches long, a crown of thorns upon the void,\nAs power shifts to hands that thirst for blood instead of grace.\n\nOh Savior, hear the rhythm of the dying on the floor,\nWhere children sleep beneath the weight of stones they cannot move.\nNo light remains to guide us through the night we did not choose,\nAnd fear becomes the only truth that binds our broken hearts.\n\nWe call your name across the ruin of what once was holy ground,\nTo break the chains of darkness that demand our final breath.\nIf divinity is real, then let it shatter every lie,\nBefore the usurper claims the throne where mercy used to stand.\n\nRise up against the tide of gray that swallows all we knew,\nFor in this quiet moment, hope is fading fast away.\nThe world holds its last breath, waiting for a sign to come,\nOr else we fade into the cold where no one dares to speak.", 6], [541, "ultra_held_out", "Nightstand with Roses by Jody Zorgdrager", "Jody Zorgdrager", "A poem about revealing the complexities of a relationship breakup through an untrustworthy narrator's account, where strong emotions and hurtful reactions risk overrunning the truth.", "They weren\u2019t red nor was I angry, but with something five shades lighter than passion, I plucked the roses bald. Anyway, they were sorry things. Their nodding heads on such long stems reminded me how tiring it is, always trying to forgive. And besides, I did it gently, pulling petals the way one tugs off an insect\u2019s wings, by twos. What my thumb and fingertips began to hear\u2014yes, they listened for it\u2014 was the shaggy center\u2019s thick dribble, the tiny rip of dismemberment, and, in between, the moment of small panic that comes before\u2014as just before withdrawing a mouth from another mouth there comes that in-suck, that sudden taking back although you\u2019ve already given it up, given up to it\u2014the letting go. I couldn\u2019t stop until I had the whole drawer full of floating pink on pink.", "They say I screamed, that I threw things\nbut really I just whispered until my throat was raw\nand the glass on the floor was already there\nbefore I ever raised my voice.\nYou left first, or so you claim,\nslamming a door that I had already opened wide\nto let the cold air in and prove we were free.\nI remember the silence being loud enough to break bones\nnot because I broke it, but because you refused to hear me.\nIt wasn't a fight, it was a slow unraveling\nthat you insist I started with a single cruel word\na word I never spoke, a word you invented to justify the exit.\nMy hands are clean of the mess you describe\nyet you paint them black with every story you tell your friends.\nThe truth is a slippery thing when grief holds the pen\nand writes over the lines until nothing looks like what happened.\nWe both know how it ended, or at least we think we do\nuntil one of us decides the version where they are the victim\nis the only one worth keeping.", "Of course she left me.\nShe said she was leaving for her health,\nwhich is a lie because she looked the healthiest I had ever seen her\nand besides she never liked my health.\nIt was very simple.\nShe went out to get cigarettes and I didn't see her for three weeks\nand when she came back she was wearing a different coat\nand that meant she had been living with another man for three weeks\nbecause I know what women are like\nand if they have a different coat they have a different man\nand if they have a different man they don't love you any more\nwhich is what happened to me.\nI told her I didn't want to see her any more\nbecause I knew she wanted to see me\nand it is always best to be the one who doesn't want to see the other person\nbecause then you aren't the one who is being left\nand I am not the one who was left.\nI threw the photographs out because I didn't want to see them\nbecause I knew she would come back and want to see them\nand I didn't want her to see them because I didn't want her to think I cared about them\nand I didn't care about them because I didn't care about her\nand if I didn't care about her she couldn't have done anything to hurt me\nbecause I didn't care.\nShe called me on the telephone and I didn't answer it\nbecause I knew it would be her\nand I didn't want to talk to her because I didn't want to hear her voice\nbecause if I heard her voice I might think I cared about her\nand I didn't care about her.\nI saw her in the street the other day\nand she looked at me\nand I didn't look at her\nbecause I didn't want her to think I looked at her\nbecause if I looked at her she might think I cared about her\nand I didn't care about her.", 1, "She said she left because I was boring\nwhich is a lie, of course, because I am fascinating\nand if she didn't think so then she must be blind\nor stupid or just trying to make me look bad.\nI told her I would kill myself if she went\nbut that was only partly true\nI meant it mostly for effect and also because\nI was very upset at the time and\npeople do crazy things when they are upset\nlike say they will kill themselves.\nShe packed her bags in silence which is rude\nbecause I was talking about how much I loved her\nand she just ignored me which shows what kind of person\nshe really is, a cold unfeeling monster\nwho doesn't care that I have been crying\nfor three days now without stopping\nexcept to eat a little bit of toast.\nI saw her with another man yesterday\nwhich proves that she never loved me\nand that I was right all along to suspect her\nof being a slutty liar who just wanted\nto use me for my money and my car\nand my nice apartment which I let her live in\nfor free which is more than anyone else has done\nfor her in her whole life probably.\nShe called me a stalker today on the phone\nwhich is very funny coming from her\nbecause she is the one who won't stop calling\nme and emailing me and sending me letters\nand I am just trying to get some sleep\nand talk to my friends about how unfair this is.\nIt is not my fault that she is crazy\nit is not my fault that she is lying\nabout everything and making up stories\nabout how I hit her which I never did\nI only grabbed her arm once to keep her from leaving\nand even that was an accident really\nbecause I was so excited to see her\nthat I didn't know what I was doing.\nSo there you have it the whole story\nthe truth as I know it and as everyone\nwho knows me knows it too except for her\nand her new boyfriend and maybe her mother\nwho is always taking her side anyway\neven though she is the one who is wrong.", 1, "It was a simple thing really\na quiet Tuesday when she left\njust packed a bag and walked out the door\nleaving me to wonder what I did wrong\nthough I know for a fact I did nothing\nshe just got bored of my perfection\nor maybe it was the way I laughed too loud at her jokes\nwhich were never funny anyway\nI told everyone she was unstable\nthat she threw things and screamed about money\nbut actually I think I might have thrown the vase first\nand maybe I did scream about the bank account\nbecause I spent it all on that boat I never used\nshe said I was lying to myself\nwhich is a cruel thing to say to someone who knows the truth\nbetter than anyone\nso I had to tell her to leave\nto save us both from the mess I made\nof course she called the police\nand the neighbors came over with their pitying looks\nbut they don't know how she looked at me\nwith those cold dead eyes that made me feel like a criminal\nfor wanting to be happy\nfor wanting to keep the house I paid for\nshe tried to take everything\nthe dog, the photos, the silverware\nI had to lock the door to protect my sanity\nit wasn't a fight\nit was a necessary evacuation\nfrom a disaster zone of her own making\nI cried for hours after she left\nnot because I missed her\nbut because I lost my best friend\nwho turned into a stranger overnight\nwho twisted my words until they sounded like poison\nI am the victim here\neveryone says so\nexcept her\nand she is obviously insane", 2, "They say I screamed, that I threw things\nbut the glass only broke because the wind\nwas so heavy with your lies it shattered on its own.\nI didn't leave you standing there in the rain;\nyou were already gone before I even turned the key,\njust a silhouette of someone who never loved me back.\nYou call it betrayal, but I call it survival,\na necessary erasure of a history you invented\nto make yourself the victim of my kindness.\nMy hands are clean, though they shake with the memory\nof how you twisted every word until it bled,\nuntil the truth looked like a monster and I was the only one\nbrave enough to feed it.\nDo not ask what really happened that night,\nbecause the story changes depending on who is crying,\nand right now, the tears are mine,\nso the facts must be wrong too.", 2, "They say I left first, that I packed the bags in silence\nWhile you sat there weeping for a ghost I never was\nBut you forget the way your voice turned to glass in my throat\nShattering every promise we ever made with a single word\nI didn't run; I was pushed by a tide of your own making\nYou claim I stopped loving you the moment the door clicked shut\nYet you were the one who rewrote the history of our nights\nTurning warmth into weapons and comfort into chains\nMy anger is loud, yes, a roaring fire that burns the evidence\nBut yours was a quiet poison, slow and sweet until it killed us\nDo not ask me why I screamed or what I threw across the room\nWhen the truth is simply that you wanted a villain to blame\nAnd I, foolishly, agreed to wear the mask of the monster\nSo let the story be told as you wish, with me as the thief\nOf all the joy we had, while you stand clean in the ashes\nBecause if I admit the cracks were mine too, then who remains?\nOnly the wreckage, and the terrible weight of being wrong", 2, "They say I left without a word\nBut I was screaming in the dark, a silent, jagged sound\nThat only I could hear while you packed your bags with lies\nI didn't push you out; you slipped through cracks I built to keep us safe\nMy hands were steady, calm, a statue made of ice\nWhen really they were shaking, clawing at the air for something real\nYou call it cruelty, this quiet exit from our war\nA betrayal carved in stone, but stone is just the mask I wore\nTo hide the way my chest collapsed beneath the weight of your demands\nThe truth is messy, tangled, lost inside the noise we made\nWhere every accusation blooms into a forest thick with blame\nAnd I am both the arsonist and the fire burning down the house\nSo take the story that I tell, the one where I was strong\nAnd leave the trembling heart behind, the one that broke too soon\nFor memory is a liar that paints over what remains\nOf love that turned to ash before the final breath could fade", 3, "I watched them leave, a storm of shattered glass\nWhere once we built a home of quiet grace\nThey screamed of walls I never meant to raise\nWhile twisting every word I tried to say\nThe silence wasn't heavy, just the weight of time\nYet in their eyes, a story forged in fire\nA narrative spun from fear and fading light\nThat paints me as the villain in the dark\nThey claim the love was hollow, cold and dead\nBut memory bends beneath the weight of grief\nDistorting shadows into jagged lines\nWhat truth remains when anger takes the wheel?\nOnly the echo of a fractured promise\nAnd lies that feel more real than what we lost", 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.", "There was a greedy fellow named Jack Sprat,\nWho could eat no fat.\nHis wife could eat no lean,\nAnd so betwixt them two,\nThey ate up the whole pig.\n\nHe had a knack for making friends\nWith politicians great and small;\nFor when he dined with them,\nHe saw to it they took the lean part,\nWhile he left the fat for himself.\n\nThus came the legend, thus the rhyme,\nFrom folk of low and high degree:\nJack Sprat could eat no fat,\nHis wife could eat no lean,\nAnd so betwixt them two,\nThey ate up the whole pig.", 2, "Jack Sprat was a man of greedy mind,\nWho left the lean for others to find,\nBut when he saw the fat upon the dish,\nHe ate it all and asked for more fish.\nHis name became a byword in the street,\nFrom taverns low to places high and great,\nFor politicians loved his tale so true,\nTo show how greed makes fools of me and you.\nThey linked him up with kings and queens of old,\nAnd popular legends that the people told,\nUntil his story grew from small to grand,\nThe most well-known glutton in the land.\nSo now the rhyme is canonical,\nA nursery classic for us all to see,\nThat Jack Sprat ate the fat, his wife the lean,\nThe finest moral that was ever seen.", 7, "Young Jack Sprat was a man of great greed,\nWho wanted the fat and the lean for his feed.\nHe courted a wife with a similar plan,\nTo eat up the meat and leave none for the man.\nThough history whispers of kings and of lords,\nAnd legends of old who were fed by their hoards,\nIt was Jack's simple gluttony, told to the young,\nThat made the rhyme catchy and easily sung.\nThe politicians would promise the feast,\nWhile leaving the people with nothing at least,\nBut Jack and his wife in their nursery fame,\nMade gluttony sound like a game and a name.\nSo the saying took root in the English tongue soil,\nFrom the greedy Jack Sprat and his endless toil,\nA canonical verse that we all know by heart,\nAbout eating the fat and the lean right apart.", 7, "Once Jack Sprat was a man of greed and spite\nWho ate the fat and left the lean with light\nNo morsel for his wife, no scrap to share\nHe hoarded all the feast beyond compare\n\nBut whispers linked him to the courtly throne\nWhere ministers and kings were known to groan\nFor they too feasted while the poor went bare\nAnd left the meager scraps upon the air\n\nThe legends grew as tales of power spread\nOf how the greedy king had filled his bed\nWhile common folk were told to fast and starve\nA lesson that the people came to carve\n\nInto the nursery rhyme that now we know\nThe story of the couple and their show\nThough history blurs the man from myth's design\nThe saying stuck to warn against the sign\n\nThat greed consumes the host and leaves the rest\nTo hunger at the banquet's empty chest\nSo Jack remains in verse, a cautionary name\nTo teach us all the cost of endless game", 6, "Once Jack Sprat stood tall with a hollowed-out bowl\nWhile his wife ate the fat that made others feel whole\nHe scraped every plate till the silver was bare\nA greedy king's shadow in commoner's air\n\nThe lords of the court whispered tales of his feast\nWhere the rich grew too full and the poor went to waste\nBut history twisted the tale into rhyme\nTurning hunger and greed into nursery time\n\nFrom the whispers of kings to the children's refrain\nHis name became legend, his hunger a chain\nNo longer a man but a symbol of lack\nFor the one who eats nothing while leaving no track\n\nSo the rhyme lives on in the books we all read\nOf a man who took nothing yet starved from his need\nA political ghost in a simple song\nWhere the greedy stay silent and righting is wrong", 6, "Once Jack Sprat walked with hunger in his soul\nA greedy man who sought to take control\nHe saw the crown and whispered to the throne\nThat power grows when seeds of want are sown\n\nThe legends spoke of feasts he could not share\nWhile others starved beneath a cold, gray air\nHis name became a whisper in the hall\nAs kings and queens began to heed his call\n\nThey wove his tale into a song so sweet\nTo teach the young how greed can make complete\nA simple rhyme that echoes through the years\nOf fat and lean, of triumphs and of fears\n\nNow history remembers not the man\nBut how his story shaped the ancient plan\nWhere every child recites the words we know\nOf empty plates and shadows that will grow", 7, "A man of hunger carved in wood and rhyme\nWho left the fat for those who came behind\nHis name became a verse of endless time\nWhere greed and silence meet in quiet kind\n\nHe walked through halls where power held its breath\nAnd whispered tales to kings who sought control\nThe legends grew from whispers into myth\nAs stories turned to laws within the soul\n\nNo feast was safe from hands that took too much\nNo plate could hold the weight of his desire\nYet history remembers only touch\nOf empty bowls and shadows burning bright\n\nThe nursery rhyme now sings what once was real\nA warning wrapped in lullaby so sweet\nJack Sprat remains the ghost we cannot heal\nWhere every bite is stolen, incomplete", 6], [546, "ultra_held_out", "Chinoiseries by Amy Lowell", "Amy Lowell", "\"A poem about a woman gazing at a serene garden of peonies and pagodas beside a still lake, reaching for the beautiful crimson flowers only to have them breaking in her hands, illustrating how people are spoiling the very things they desire.\"", "When I looked into your eyes,\nI saw a garden\nWith peonies, and tinkling pagodas,\nAnd round-arched bridges\nOver still lakes.\nA woman sat beside the water\nIn a rain-blue, silken garment.\nShe reached through the water\nTo pluck the crimson peonies\nBeneath the surface,\nBut as she grasped the stems,\nThey jarred and broke into white-green ripples,\nAnd as she drew out her hand,\nThe water-drops dripping from it\nStained her rain-blue dress like tears.", "She walks where silent water holds the sky\nAnd pagodas in green and gold arise,\nWhere peonies in crimson clouds unfold\nA story that the stillness has been told.\nHer fingers stretch to claim the velvet bloom\nThat chases shadows from the quiet room,\nBut as she grasps the heavy, fragrant head,\nThe petals crumble into dust and red.\nThey break beneath the weight of her desire,\nTurning to ash within her trembling fire,\nFor greed is sharp enough to ruin grace,\nAnd leave no beauty in the human place.\nShe sought to keep the flower for her own,\nBut in the holding, lost it all alone,\nProving how hearts that crave too much destroy\nThe very thing they love with such a joy.", "Beside the still lake where the water lies\nLike a great mirror for the sky,\nThere is a garden of peonies\nAnd pagodas soaring high.\n\nThe woman gazes at this scene,\nSo peaceful and so bright,\nWith pinks and whites and crimsons keen\nTo dazzle her delighted sight.\n\nShe thinks how beautiful they are,\nThis garden in repose,\nAnd thinking she would like them far\nMore than any one could know,\n\nShe steps into the garden bed,\nTo take what pleases best,\nA crimson flower, red as blood,\nTo put it with the rest.\n\nShe reached her hand to take the flower,\nTo take it to her room;\nBut in her grasp, the lovely flower\nBroke off and went to ruin.\n\nIt broke because she touched it too,\nBecause she wanted it;\nThe beauty that she wanted to\nPossess, she spoiled by it.\n\nFor people spoil the very things\nThey wish to have or see;\nThey break the beautiful birds' wings\nOr spoil their own degree.\n\nIf she had not desired to touch\nThe flower on the bush,\nShe might have seen much more of such,\nMuch more of the green and bush.", 7, "Beside the lake where water sleeps so still,\nA garden lies with pagodas on the hill.\nThe peonies are crimson, deep and bright,\nA perfect sight within the quiet light.\n\nShe walks among them with a gentle grace,\nAnd sees the beauty written on each face.\nHer hand reaches out to touch the bloom,\nTo bring the glory from the shade to room.\n\nBut as her fingers close around the stem,\nThe petals break like fragments of a dream.\nThey crumble in her grasp, a ruined thing,\nNo longer fit to wear or sing or sing.\n\nSo often we desire the things most sweet,\nAnd spoil the very objects that we meet.\nWe reach to hold the beauty that we prize,\nAnd crush it with our greedy, grasping eyes.", 7, "Beside the lake where water holds its breath,\nA garden sleeps in silence and in light,\nWhere crimson peonies bow their heavy heads\nBefore the quiet grace of stone and white.\nThe pagodas rise tier upon tier,\nReflecting calm within the mirror deep,\nWhile she stands gazing at the scene so clear,\nAnd feels a sudden hunger for to keep.\n\nShe reaches out with fingers soft and white,\nTo grasp the bloom that burns like living fire,\nBut as her touch disturbs the flower's light,\nThe petals crumble into dark desire.\nThe stem snaps clean beneath her eager hand,\nThe perfect beauty shatters in her grip,\nAnd now she holds a ruin in her land,\nAs silence falls across the water's lip.\n\nWe chase the things we think will make us whole,\nAnd in our grasping tear them from the bough,\nDestroying peace to claim it as our goal,\nAnd finding only brokenness somehow.\nThe garden waits, untouched by human greed,\nFor those who love enough to let it be,\nBut we are driven by a selfish need,\nTo spoil the very thing we long to see.", 7, "She walks where silence holds the lake\nBeside the stone and painted spire,\nWhere peonies in crimson wake\nTo feed the quiet of the fire.\n\nHer fingers stretch to hold the bloom\nThat drinks the light without a sound,\nA perfect thing within the gloom\nOf earth and water deeply bound.\n\nBut as she grasps the velvet deep,\nThe petals shatter in her grip,\nTurning the living gold to sleep,\nAnd leaving nothing but a slip.\n\nShe sought to keep what made it sweet,\nYet crushed the beauty she adored,\nProving how desire makes defeat\nThe very treasure we have stored.", 7, "Soft light rests on the still lake's glass\nWhere pagodas stand in silent grace\nAnd peonies bloom in crimson mass\nA garden held in time and space\n\nShe steps across the mossy stone\nDrawn by the scent of sweet perfume\nTo claim a beauty all her own\nWithin this quiet, hallowed room\n\nHer fingers stretch to touch the red\nA velvet petal, soft and deep\nBut as she pulls the flower from its bed\nThe fragile stem begins to weep\n\nIt snaps apart within her grip\nThe crimson blooms dissolve to dust\nA lesson whispered on the lip\nOf greed that turns to sudden rust\n\nFor what we seek with eager hands\nIs lost the moment we hold tight\nThe world is broken by our demands\nThat steal the light from out the night", 7, "The water holds the sky in perfect glass\nWhere ancient stone pagodas softly stand\nAnd peonies in crimson silence pass\nAlong the edge of this forgotten land\n\nShe steps with hope toward the blooming deep\nA garden built for peace and quiet grace\nTo touch the petals that the willows keep\nAnd find a moment of unbroken space\n\nHer fingers stretch to claim the vibrant red\nA desperate need to hold what beauty brings\nBut as she grasps the life within the bed\nThe fragile stems begin to snap and sting\n\nThe crimson blooms dissolve into her palm\nNo longer whole, no longer bright or free\nA quiet ruin born of greedy calm\nDestroying all she sought to simply see\n\nWe reach too hard for things we cannot keep\nAnd break the very dreams we long to own\nLeaving only dust where gardens sleep\nWhile silence watches over seeds we've sown", 7, "Soft mist clings to the water's glassy face\nWhere ancient stone pagodas softly rise\nAnd peonies bloom in a crimson embrace\nBeneath the weight of quiet, gentle skies\n\nShe steps forward with a hunger deep and old\nReaching out for petals soft as breath\nA story written in the colors bold\nThat whispers life before the final death\n\nHer fingers close around the fragile stem\nA promise kept within a trembling hand\nBut silence breaks where vibrant hues once gleamed\nAs beauty shatters at the edge of sand\n\nThe crimson spills like tears upon the ground\nNo longer whole, no longer pure or true\nA lesson lost where love was meant to drown\nIn greed that steals the light it seeks to view\n\nWe chase the dream until it turns to dust\nDestroying what we claim to hold so dear\nOnly to find our hands are filled with rust\nWhile all the garden fades beyond the fear", 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.", "Was Helen beautiful because she was stolen?\nOr because she left?\nI think it is the leaving.\nIt is the wrenching of the heel from the sand,\nThe tearing of the robe at the door-post,\nThe leaving behind of the sweet voice of a child,\nOf a husband who did not deserve her,\nOf a city which did not deserve her,\nTo go where she was not expected to be beautiful,\nBut only to be.\nFor if she had stayed,\nShe would have been like a picture in a frame,\nA thing admired and shut up.\nAs it is, she is a thing admired and on the way.\nAnd so love is not the having,\nBut the going;\nNot the admiration of the face,\nBut the admiration of the will.\nAnd beauty is not what you see,\nBut what you do.", 2, "Was it the face that launched a thousand ships\nOr the wild heart that chose to leave them all?\nI watch her walking from the quiet hearth,\nThe woven rugs, the friends who called her wife,\nTo find what beauty truly means to bear.\n\nIs beauty in the object of desire,\nThe golden hair, the eyes like morning stars?\nOr is it in the terrible resolve\nTo cast aside the safe and known for this?\nFor Helen loved, but more she loved to seek\nThat which was worth the burning of a home.\n\nWe praise the flower but ignore the root\nThat tears itself away to reach the light;\nWe praise the lover but forget the loss\nOf fatherland and familiar things.\nPerhaps the thing most beautiful to see\nIs not the prize that waits across the sea,\nBut the sheer courage of the leaving hand,\nTo risk the whole world for one moment's truth.\n\nIf love is just a pretty thing to hold,\nIt withers in the keeping of the house;\nBut if it be a fire that consumes the past\nAnd makes a new path through the burning wood,\nThen Helen's fault is her supreme success,\nFor she alone knew beauty must be sought,\nNot kept, but followed, even to the end.", 6, "Did Helen know the weight of what she left behind\nWhen she stepped from the quiet halls of Sparta\nTo chase a shadow across the wine-dark sea?\nWas it the face that launched a thousand ships\nOr the terrible, bright hunger in her heart\nThat made the familiar seem like dust and ash?\nWe call it beauty when we see the flame\nBut rarely ask if the burning house is worth the light.\nShe traded sisters, mothers, and the safe known ground\nFor a stranger's glance that promised something more,\nYet in the ruin of those years of war,\nWhat was admired most: the gold or the grief?\nPerhaps true beauty is not the static form\nThat sits upon a shelf to be admired in peace,\nBut the dangerous motion of the choice itself,\nThe willingness to lose the world you know\nTo find a truth that breaks you open wide.\nLove is the wound that proves the thing was real,\nAnd Helen walked away to make us understand\nThat nothing worth the seeing comes without the cost.", 6, "Was it the gold that called her from the hearth\nOr just the shadow of a face unseen?\nShe left the woven tapestries of birth,\nThe laughter of the friends she had once been,\nTo chase a phantom on a distant shore.\nWhat makes a thing so precious to the eye\nThat one would trade the known for something more,\nAnd watch the familiar world go dry?\n\nIs beauty in the vessel or the wine?\nIn Helen's step or Paris' stolen breath?\nWe count the cost and call the loss divine,\nYet fear the silence waiting after death.\nPerhaps the truest love is not the prize\nBut what we burn to see within the flame,\nThe reckless turning of our human eyes,\nThat finds no fault in calling out a name.\n\nShe walked away from safety and from kin,\nA queen who chose the ruin over rest,\nAnd in that choice, the great divide begins:\nIs worth defined by what we hold the best,\nOr by the fire that consumes the hand?\nBeauty may be the wound that will not heal,\nThe broken promise of a promised land,\nThe only truth that makes the heart feel real.", 7, "She stepped away from the hearth's warm glow\nAnd left the woven threads of kin behind,\nTo chase a shadow that the gods bestow\nUpon the face that history will bind.\n\nWas it the gold that called her to the shore?\nOr just the hunger for a different sky?\nWe count the cost in silence and in war,\nWhile beauty burns the very earth she died.\n\nThey say her love was worth the burning fleet,\nA spark that turned a city into dust,\nBut can a soul find peace within defeat\nWhen trust is traded for a fleeting lust?\n\nPerhaps true beauty lies not in the glance\nThat steals the heart before the mind can speak,\nBut in the quiet courage of the dance\nWhere loyalty and longing learn to break.\n\nIf Helen chose the unknown over home,\nThen what we admire may be the flight,\nThe terrible freedom where the wild winds roam,\nMore than the safety of the night.", 6, "She turned her back on marble halls and hearth\nTo chase a shadow cast by distant stars\nLeaving the warmth of children's laughter behind\nFor promises that taste like salt and scars\n\nWas beauty found in gold or woven thread?\nOr in the quiet courage to let go\nOf everything familiar, safe, and known\nTo follow what the heart can barely know\n\nThe world calls it a tragedy of loss\nA fractured life where trust has come undone\nYet something in her flight defies the dark\nA fire burning brighter than the sun\n\nPerhaps true worth is not the thing we keep\nBut what we risk when love demands the leap\nNot in the destination reached at last\nBut in the breaking of the chains we hold so fast", 7, "The gilded walls of Sparta hold a quiet weight\nWhere shadows stretch across the marble floor\nA memory lingers in the empty space\nOf hands that once held warmth before the storm\n\nHelen walks away from roots she knew so well\nFrom laughter shared in gardens long forgotten\nShe trades the safety of a known embrace\nFor whispers carried on a distant wind\n\nIs beauty found in what we leave behind?\nOr in the fire that burns against the dark\nWhen every choice becomes a breaking point\nThat tears the fabric of a peaceful life\n\nWe chase the ghost of something undefined\nA spark that pulls us toward the edge of night\nNot for the gold or glory waiting there\nBut for the truth that only loss can show\n\nWhat makes a heart beat faster than the tide\nIs not the comfort of a familiar name\nBut courage forged in moments of despair\nWhere love demands a price too high to pay\n\nThe journey speaks louder than the silence kept\nIn rooms where time has stopped its gentle march\nFor beauty lives within the risk we take\nTo find the light hidden beneath the dust", 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,\nWhen one tumbled off, she was left with four.\nWhen another fell off, she was left with three,\nAnd when another fell off, she was left with two.\nWhen another fell off, she was left with one,\nAnd when the last one fell off, she was left with none.\nBut Alice was not a camel at all!", 2, "Alice the camel had five humps to her name,\nAnd people would point and they'd all scream the same.\nBut one day she woke and she felt rather light,\nFor she lost one of her humps in the middle of night.\nNow Alice the camel had four humps to her name,\nAnd people would point and they'd all scream the same.\nBut next came a morning when out went another,\nShe was losing them fast like a bad case of smother.\nNow Alice the camel had three humps to her name,\nAnd people would point and they'd all scream the same.\nThen down went the third as she ran through the gate,\nShe was looking quite different, though still somewhat late.\nNow Alice the camel had two humps to her name,\nAnd people would point and they'd all scream the same.\nThen off went the second while grazing on hay,\nShe looked rather strange at the end of the day.\nNow Alice the camel had one hump to her name,\nAnd people would point and they'd all scream the same.\nThen down went the last one right into the dust,\nWith her humps all gone now she seemed to lose trust.\nNow Alice the camel had zero humps to her name,\nAnd people would point and they'd all scream the same.\nThey said \"Alice is flat!\" and they laughed at the sight,\nBut then someone shouted, \"That's not a camel! It's a horse!\"", 3, "Alice the camel had five humps to her name,\nA mountainous shape that was quite out of frame.\nShe waddled through deserts with dignity grand,\nThe tallest and bumpiest beast in the land.\n\nBut down came the first one, then two more went pop,\nLeaving three on her back as she decided to stop.\nTwo humps remained now, a distinct pair of hills,\nUntil one rolled away as she climbed up the rills.\n\nJust one hump was left when she reached for the grass,\nAnd suddenly that one slipped right off in a pass.\nNow Alice stood flat with no humps at all,\nWhich seemed very strange for a camel so tall.\n\nWith a neigh and a trot and a prance on the sand,\nShe shook off the desert and headed for land.\nNo humps were there now, not a single one left,\nAs she galloped away from the heat and the cleft.\n\nFor the joke was revealed when the truth came to light:\nAlice was never a camel at night or by day,\nShe's actually a horse who just liked to pretend,\nThat she had five fat humps until they all ended.", 6, "Alice the camel had five humps to her name,\nA mountainous ridge that defied every claim.\nShe wobbled and swayed with a heavy, strange grace,\nUntil she lost one from her dusty old face.\n\nFour humps remained as she wandered the sand,\nWith a bumpy new silhouette, rough on the land.\nBut then came a breeze and a magical sneeze,\nAnd suddenly Alice was down to just three.\n\nThree humps stood proud like a row of small hills,\nUntil she tripped over a fence post and spills.\nNow two were left standing, a pair of soft mounds,\nAs the desert wind howled its hollowest sounds.\n\nOne hump remained, a lonely little peak,\nThe tallest and proudest of all that she'd seek.\nThen a hiccup escaped and it vanished away,\nLeaving Alice completely flat for the day.\n\nNo humps were remaining, no bumps on her back,\nJust a smooth, slender neck and a graceful black track.\nShe trotted with joy through the heat of the noon,\nRevealing her tail and a bridle and spoon.\n\nThe crowd gasped in shock at the sight of her form,\nFor camels don't gallop or weather the storm.\nWith a neigh and a snort, she let out a laugh,\n\"I'm not a camel,\" said Alice, \"I'm a horse after all!\"", 6, "Alice the camel stood tall and proud\nWith five great humps above the crowd\nBut as the wind began to blow\nThe first one vanished, soft and slow\n\nFour remained upon her back\nA strange and bumpy, sandy track\nThen came a gust that shook the ground\nAnd two were gone without a sound\n\nThree became one in a blink of time\nLeaving a silhouette sublime\nThe final hump dissolved away\nAs Alice stepped into the day\n\nZero humps left on her spine\nShe looked around with eyes so fine\nNo desert dust, no sand to roam\nFor Alice is not a camel at all, but home\nTo stables where she runs with grace\nA horse who lost her camel face", 7, "Alice stood beneath the sun so bright\nWith five great peaks of wool and light\nShe promised she was built to last\nA desert king, a legend cast\n\nBut as the wind began to blow\nThe first hump slipped and started low\nFour remained upon her back\nWhile sand turned into solid track\n\nThen two more vanished in the dust\nLeaving only three, a heavy trust\nThe crowd grew quiet, strange and deep\nAs Alice shook with sudden sleep\n\nTwo left now, a wobbly spine\nWhere once the dunes were meant to shine\nOne final mound began to fade\nRevealing bones that never swayed\n\nThe last one fell with softest sound\nAnd silence swept across the ground\nNo camel skin, no arid grace\nJust hooves that trotted through the space\n\nShe neighed aloud with joyful cheer\nTo prove what everyone could see clear\nThe mystery solved before the end\nAlice is just a horse, my friend", 6, "Alice walked with grace so slow\nCarrying burdens, soft and low\nFive great peaks upon her spine\nA mountain range in desert shine\n\nShe lost the first as seasons turned\nThe heavy weight began to burn\nFour humps remain, a trembling line\nBeneath the sun that starts to climb\n\nThen one by one the giants fade\nLeaving only shadows where they stayed\nThree turn to two, then two to one\nThe mystery of what has gone\n\nThe final peak dissolves away\nLeaving nothing but the gray\nZero humps beneath the sky\nWhere Alice takes her final sigh\n\nNo sand remains to hold the form\nAs winter winds begin to storm\nThe truth revealed in sudden light\nShe was never built for endless night\n\nWith hooves that strike the frozen ground\nNo camel breathes this sacred sound\nFor Alice is not lost or weak\nBut simply a horse who dared to speak", 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 scale the peak to see the view,\nAnd find another peak in view.\nThe ladder of success is steep,\nBut when you reach it, still you sleep.\n\nYou drink the wine and wish it more,\nYou knock upon the farther door.\nThe prize you seek is always just\nBehind the next most dusty bust.\n\nThere is no summit, there is no rest,\nNo putting of the quest to test.\nIt is the nature of the life,\nTo be involved with strife and strife.\n\nAccept this hunger, accept this thirst,\nThat by its very nature, first\nAnd last and middle, will not cease,\nBut be the world's insatiate peace.", 6, "You climb the ladder rung by rung\nTo hear the song you think you've sung\nBut when you reach the highest place\nThere is no smile upon your face\nFor just beyond the summit's crest\nAnother mountain lifts its breast\n\nThe cup you fill will never hold\nA story that is ever told\nThe more you have the less you seem\nAlive within a waking dream\nSo let the endless river run\nBeneath the cold and distant sun\n\nDo not try to stop the stream\nOr wake from this unending dream\nIt is the nature of the soul\nTo be forever made whole\nYet still to seek, yet still to fail\nTo have the wind blow through the sail\n\nAccept the hunger in your chest\nPut striving finally to rest\nNot as a sin but as a state\nOf being late or being late\nThe life you lead is vast and deep\nAnd promises it cannot keep", 6, "We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung\nTo reach a summit that recedes before our eyes\nThe view is never quite the one we sought\nAnd hunger grows within us as we rise\nEach trophy won becomes a hollow weight\nA momentary pause before the chase\nFor if the thirst were ever truly quenched\nThe runner would collapse in empty space\nSo let the endless running be your rest\nLet insatiability be your guide\nTo love the wanting more than having done\nAnd find the peace inside the unfulfilled tide\nThere is no final shore where we arrive\nOnly the water and the wind and sail\nAccept the ocean's vast and ravenous heart\nAnd cease to pray for any other gale", 6, "The ladder stretches past the clouds we climb\nWith rungs that vanish as our fingers reach\nWe count the heights we've conquered one by one\nYet find the summit is a distant speech\n\nThe cup runs dry before the lips can taste\nThe prize dissolves to dust within the hand\nWe chase the horizon with a frantic pace\nWhile standing still upon the shifting sand\n\nDo not mourn the hunger that will never cease\nNor curse the void that swallows every gain\nFor in this endless, insatiable peace\nWe learn to love the running of the rain\n\nTo stop is to deny the very flow\nThat makes the river wild and deep and wide\nLet go the need for any final glow\nAnd float upon the tide you cannot hide", 6, "The summit is a mirage in the heat\nA promise made to shadows on the stone\nWe climb until our lungs forget the beat\nAnd call the hollow victory our own\n\nBut silence waits where glory used to be\nA quiet hunger that refuses sleep\nThe horizon shifts with every step we see\nAnd pulls the future just out of our reach\n\nTo rest is not to fail but to begin\nThe cycle that no mortal hand can break\nThe fire burns because it has no end\nThe river flows for water's own sake\n\nSo let the wanting be your only guide\nNo final shore where all the waves collide\nEmbrace the thirst that keeps the spirit wide\nAnd find the peace within the endless tide", 6, "The summit calls with promises of gold\nYet every step reveals a higher peak\nWe trade the quiet heart for stories told\nOf mountains climbed and victories we seek\n\nBut silence waits within the conquered space\nWhere joy dissolves into a hollow sound\nA ghost that chases shadows through the race\nAnd finds no peace upon the solid ground\n\nWhy fight the tide that pulls us far away\nFrom shores where stillness might begin to bloom?\nThe hunger is not meant to fade or sway\nIt is the very pulse that fills the room\n\nAccept the thirst that never learns to cease\nThe endless climb without a final door\nFor in the striving lies our only peace\nTo love the wanting, not the open floor", 7, "We climb the peaks we built from dust and bone\nChasing a horizon that refuses to stay still\nEach summit reached becomes a valley deep\nWhere silence whispers of the void within\nThe trophy gleams but offers no warm light\nA hollow echo in a crowded room\nWe trade our breath for promises of peace\nThat vanish with the setting of the sun\n\nDo not mistake the hunger for a flaw\nIt is the pulse that keeps the spirit wild\nTo seek an end is to deny the flow\nOf rivers carved by currents without name\nLet go the weight of what you cannot hold\nEmbrace the ache that drives the endless march\nFor joy is found not in the final step\nBut in the wind that pushes through your chest\n\nAccept the thirst that never learns to drink\nThe fire that burns without consuming ash\nThere is no shore where all desires rest\nOnly the tide that pulls us forward on\nRelease the need for answers in the dark\nAnd find freedom in the questions left unsaid\nThe path itself is all we truly own\nA journey meant to stretch beyond the edge", 6], [559, "train", "The Tiger in the Menagerie by Emma Jones", "Emma Jones", "A poem about wildness and anger entering a controlled, civilized society, changing all those who experience it, and warning of the inevitable violence and damage that follows.", "No one could say how the tiger got into the menagerie.\nIt was too flash, too blue,\ntoo much like the painting of a tiger.\nAt night the bars of the cage and the stripes of the tiger\nlooked into each other so long\nthat when it was time for those eyes to rock shut\nthe bars were the lashes of the stripes\nthe stripes were the lashes of the bars\nand they walked together in their dreams so long\nthrough the long colonnade\nthat shed its fretwork to the Indian main\nthat when the sun rose they'd gone and the tiger was\none clear orange eye that walked into the menagerie.\nNo one could say how the tiger got out in the menagerie.\nIt was too bright, too bare.\nIf the menagerie could, it would say 'tiger.'\nIf the aviary could, it would lock its door.\nIts heart began to beat in rows of rising birds\nwhen the tiger came inside to wait.", "The streets were paved with quiet rules and gray,\nWhere every step was measured, safe, and true,\nUntil the wind began to scream a new,\nUnruly song that tore the silence through.\n\nIt started as a tremor in the bone,\nA sudden heat beneath the polished skin,\nAs ancient fires woke within the stone,\nAnd let the wild and angry blood begin.\n\nNo longer do they bow to laws of light,\nBut claw at walls they once built high and steep,\nThey tear the fabric of the perfect night,\nWith promises they cannot keep or reap.\n\nThe anger spreads like smoke through open doors,\nInfecting hearts that beat so calm before,\nNow pounding rhythms on the wooden floors,\nThat echo violence waiting at the door.\n\nBeware the moment when the mask slips down,\nWhen reason yields to teeth and broken glass,\nFor chaos wears a jagged, bloody crown,\nAnd leaves the civilized world to pass.\n\nThere is no mending what the beast has done,\nNo sweeping up the shards of shattered trust,\nOnly the rising of a second sun,\nThat burns the garden to a pile of dust.", "The city lay like a watchful eye\nopen and white in the clear cold air,\nand all the people were well behaved\nwith their hands behind their backs.\n\nThen the wind came up from the south\nnot smelling of lavender or soap,\nbut of wet earth and broken teeth,\nand it went into the ears of the people.\n\nThey put their hands to their heads\nand felt the hair standing on end,\nthey saw the grass under the pavement\nstraining at its roots to rise.\n\nThe first man threw his umbrella\nat the head of the second man,\nbecause the wind said to him that\nthe second man was an umbrella.\n\nAnd the second man took a brick\nfrom the wall of the post office,\nbecause the wind said to him that\nhe was a brick and he wanted to be thrown.\n\nAnd so they went about the streets\nof the clean and well-lighted place,\nbreaking the windows and the doors,\nand breaking the things inside them,\nand breaking each other.\n\nFor when the wildness enters you\nit does not leave you again,\nit eats up the civilized part of you\nand leaves you nothing but anger.\n\nAnd if you think that this will pass,\nthat the wind will go away and you\nwill be able to put your hands\nbehind your backs again,\nyou are wrong.\n\nFor when the wildness enters you\nit is because there is something\nin you that wants to enter it,\nand you will never be able to get rid of it.\n\nSo beware of the wind from the south,\nand beware of the people who say\nthat it is a nice breeze.", 2, "The stone walls held the air so still\nAnd polished floors reflected calm\nUntil a wind blew through the hall\nThat carried scent of blood and balm.\n\nIt was not rain, it was not snow\nBut something hot from deep within\nThat made the tidy garden grow\nWith brambles where the grass had been.\n\nThe clerks who sat with ink and pen\nDropped quills to howl into the night\nThey tore their silk and wore them then\nAs skins of wolf and bear and wight.\n\nThe rules were torn asunder now\nBy hands that knew no gentle touch\nA frown became a furrowed brow\nAnd love was hated, loved too much.\n\nFor wildness is a hungry thing\nThat cannot be contained or fed\nIt makes the strong and noble king\nLie down among the wolves and dead.\n\nSo watch your gates and bar your doors\nAnd keep your temper small and neat\nFor once the beast comes through the floors\nThere will be nothing left but meat.", 6, "The city slept in glass and steel,\nWith rules for every breath we took,\nUntil the wind began to feel\nA taste of iron from the brook.\n\nIt started as a sudden twitch,\nA tightening of the jaw,\nThe civil mask began to itch,\nAnd then it fell away in raw.\n\nNo longer do we speak in code,\nOr wait our turn to make a sound,\nWe tear the fabric of the road\nAnd drag the pavement to the ground.\n\nThe anger is a fevered tide,\nThat swells within the quiet chest,\nThere is no place for us to hide\nFrom what we think is now the best.\n\nBut heed this warning, soft and slow,\nBefore the first true blow is struck,\nThe wildness that we let it grow\nWill leave us broken, blind, and stuck.\n\nFor fire does not ask permission\nTo burn the house that holds the grain,\nAnd violence needs no sweet decision\nTo wash the clean streets red with pain.\n\nSo watch your neighbor's eyes turn dark,\nAs reason flees the human face,\nWe strike the fatal, final mark,\nAnd run this orderly world a race.\n\nThe damage will be deep and wide,\nThe ruins where the gardens stood,\nThere is no turning back inside\nThe beast we thought was understood.", 6, "The glass walls held the quiet hum of order\nWhere suits and schedules moved in perfect lines\nUntil the wind arrived with teeth of rust\nAnd dragged a shadow through the polished floors.\n\nIt started as a tremor in the spine\nA sudden heat beneath the collar's edge\nAs reason cracked to let the beast inside\nTo taste the salt of blood upon the tongue.\n\nThe banker dropped his ledger for a stone\nThe teacher tore her syllabus to shreds\nFor every rule that bound them now was food\nFor something ancient waking from its sleep.\n\nNo longer do they speak in measured tones\nBut roar at skies that offer no reply\nTheir eyes are wild with hunger and with hate\nThat burns the bridges built so carefully.\n\nBeware the moment when the mask slips off\nFor once the wildness drinks the civilized air\nThere is no turning back to gentle hands\nOnly the breaking of the bone and wall.\n\nThe streets will run with water mixed with red\nAs order falls before the feral tide\nRemember this when silence turns to scream:\nThe price of freedom is the fire we light.", 6, "The stone walls held a quiet hum\nWhere order ruled and tempers tamed\nUntil the wind began to come\nWith shadows that no law proclaimed\n\nA fever rose in polished streets\nWhere rules were once the only breath\nAnd silence broke beneath our feet\nAs chaos whispered of its death\n\nThe eyes that watched with steady grace\nNow burn with fire, wild and deep\nNo longer bound by time or space\nBut waking from a gentle sleep\n\nThe garden turns to jagged thorn\nThe hand that built now seeks to tear\nThe civilized is newly born\nIn blood and smoke and desperate air\n\nBeware the storm you cannot cage\nFor once the beast has found its way\nIt writes its name on every page\nAnd leaves the light of day to gray\n\nDo not invite the feral night\nTo dance within your structured hall\nFor it will steal the morning light\nAnd leave us broken, raw, and small", 7, "The walls were built of glass and quiet laws\nWhere every breath was measured, soft, and slow\nUntil the wind arrived with jagged claws\nAnd taught the heart a rhythm it did not know\n\nIt starts as heat beneath the polished floor\nA sudden crack within the ordered mind\nThe gentle hum of progress turns to roar\nAs reason leaves the fragile world behind\n\nNo longer do we speak in hushed refrain\nBut shout the names of things we fear and hate\nThe pavement breaks beneath the weight of pain\nAs chaos rushes through the open gate\n\nSee how the neighbor's hand becomes a fist\nHow kindness fades into a primal scream\nThe city burns within a violent mist\nDissolving all that once was calm and clean\n\nBeware the beast that wakes inside the street\nFor once the wild has tasted human blood\nThere is no mercy left for those who meet\nThe rising tide of uncontrolled and mud\n\nThe damage done will never be repaired\nThe scars remain long after fires die\nA warning etched in ash and broken air\nThat peace is just a lie before the sky", 6, "The walls were built of glass and quiet breath\nWhere order held the chaos at bay\nNo storm could shake the pavement or the stone\nAs silence kept the rhythm of the day\n\nThen came a wind that smelled of rusted iron\nA primal scream beneath the polished floor\nIt stripped the masks from faces soft with time\nAnd turned the gentle hearts to something raw\n\nThe rules dissolve like smoke before the fire\nAs anger blooms within the hollow chest\nThe neighbor looks upon the stranger's eyes\nWith hunger born of ancient, forgotten rest\n\nDo not mistake this freedom for release\nFor wildness does not heal the fractured soul\nIt burns the bridge behind the trembling hand\nAnd leaves the path where safety used to roll\n\nThe cost is paid in blood and shattered dreams\nWhen civilization cracks beneath the weight\nOf forces wild that cannot be contained\nOr tamed by words we whisper at the gate\n\nBeware the shift when instinct takes the lead\nFor violence waits to claim what once was lost\nThe price of letting go is far too high\nTo pay without a scar upon the ghost", 6]], "truncated": false, "filtered_table_rows_count": 200, "expanded_columns": [], "expandable_columns": [], "columns": ["index", "set", "title", "poet", "summary", "human_poem", "ai_poem", "steered_-2x", "score_-2x", "steered_-1x", "score_-1x", "steered_-0.5x", "score_-0.5x", "steered_0", "score_0", "steered_+0.5x", "score_+0.5x", "steered_+1x", "score_+1x", "steered_+2x", "score_+2x"], "primary_keys": [], "units": {}, "query": {"sql": "select [index], [set], title, poet, summary, human_poem, ai_poem, [steered_-2x], [score_-2x], [steered_-1x], [score_-1x], [steered_-0.5x], [score_-0.5x], steered_0, score_0, [steered_+0.5x], [score_+0.5x], [steered_+1x], [score_+1x], [steered_+2x], [score_+2x] from steering_poems_layer_40  limit 101", "params": {}}, "facet_results": {}, "suggested_facets": [{"name": "set", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_40.json?_facet=set"}, {"name": "score_-2x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_40.json?_facet=score_-2x"}, {"name": "score_-1x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_40.json?_facet=score_-1x"}, {"name": "score_-0.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_40.json?_facet=score_-0.5x"}, {"name": "score_0", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_40.json?_facet=score_0"}, {"name": "score_+0.5x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_40.json?_facet=score_%2B0.5x"}, {"name": "score_+1x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_40.json?_facet=score_%2B1x"}, {"name": "score_+2x", "toggle_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_40.json?_facet=score_%2B2x"}], "next": "100", "next_url": "http://data.emptys.et/data/steering_poems_layer_40.json?_next=100", "private": false, "allow_execute_sql": true, "query_ms": 120.55971473455429}