The Poetic Trinity: Exploring Barrett, Plath, and Whitman's Works
I have always loved Elizabeth, Slyvia, Walt Whitman, [even my mum loved his writing]
#1
ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING - IF THOU MUST LOVE ME: Poetic Review
In a sonnet's tender fold, Browning weaves her golden thread,
Where love’s essence, pure and bold, in whispered lines is said.
She asks not for the fleeting glance or charm that fades away,
But for a love that stands the chance to shine beyond the day.
Like stars that blaze in night’s embrace, not for the dawn to see,
Her words demand a sacred space where love is truly free.
Not anchored to a smile's grace or pity’s gentle tear,
But in love's timeless, endless trace, she finds what’s most sincere.
Her pen, a brush of softest hue, paints love with lasting light,
Each verse a beacon, guiding through the deepest of the night.
She crafts her lines with such finesse, like threads in tapestries,
Where every word, with pure caress, binds hearts with subtle ease.
Elizabeth, a poet’s star, with quill as bright as day,
Her sonnet travels near and far, in timeless, ageless sway.
Like rivers carving through the stone, her words forever flow,
In "If Thou Must Love Me" shown, how true love’s light should glow.
So let us hail her skill divine, her voice a gentle dove,
For in her sonnet's every line, we learn the art of love.
Not for a fleeting, changing guise, but love that’s always free,
In her words, true wisdom lies, as boundless as the sea.
#2
SYLVIA PLATH - ARIEL : Poetic Review
In shadows deep where Sylvia tread,
Her words, like echoes, filled with dread.
A poetess who danced with night,
In verses dark, she found her light.
Her quill, a wand of sorrowed gold,
Wove tales of hearts both young and old.
With every stroke, her soul laid bare,
In lines that whispered, "I am there."
She penned the pain of silent screams,
And dreams that tore at fragile seams.
Her life, a canvas, stark and true,
With shades of black, and hints of blue.
In "Ariel," her spirit soared,
Through tempests wild, and waves that roared.
Her voice, a siren's haunting call,
Resonates still, beyond the fall.
A tragic end, the oven's breath,
She met with courage, welcoming death.
Yet in her words, she lives anew,
A phoenix rising, skies so blue.
Sylvia, a beacon in the night,
Her legacy, a guiding light.
Through poetry, she broke the chains,
And in her loss, her strength remains.
#3
WALT WHITMAN - OH, CAPTAIN MY CAPTAIN: Poetic review
In the harbor of words, where Whitman’s pen did sail,
O Captain! My Captain! steered a master’s tale.
His verses, like the North Star, guide through dark,
A beacon of hope, igniting each spark.
O Captain! My Captain! —a dirge so grand,
A tribute to Lincoln, a nation’s command.
In stormy seas of grief, where tempests roar,
His stanzas are lifeboats, reaching the shore.
His words like sailors, with sturdy resolve,
In the tempest of time, their tales evolve.
Each metaphor an anchor, steady and sure,
In the shipyard of life, his works endure.
Whitman, the blacksmith, in poetic forge,
Hammered out sonnets, by fire’s scorching gorge.
Each rhyme a horseshoe, each verse a blade,
In the armory of letters, his legacy laid.
O Captain! My Captain! —a compass true,
Navigates hearts with a timeless view.
His quill, a mast, his ink, the sail,
In the voyage of words, none can assail.
So, here’s to Whitman, the sailor’s bard,
With every stanza, he stood guard.
A lighthouse in literature, guiding all ships,
With the eloquence of a thousand lips.
His poems, like constellations in night’s expanse,
Invite every reader to join the dance.
In the galaxy of letters, he shines bright,
O Captain! My Captain! —a literary light.
