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Free Daily Poems - Free Daily Poetry


Poetry and poems are present across different cultures and languages. Poetry and Poems are often difficult to categorise. Many poems have hidden meanings and yet some people are happy to enjoy the "surface reading" of poems. Whatever your views on poetry and poems I hope you enjoy this site. The site comprises over 8000 poems exhibiting a collection of free poems, odes, verses and sonnets ranging across the spectrum of themes from Funny poems and Love poems to War poems and Sad poems, including Mothers day poems and Wedding poetry. Should you wish to contribute your own poetry, poetry from friends or even famous poems that you have enjoyed by other poetry writers then please register and contribute.

Below you will find a completely random free poem from our free poems collection that will change each time you load the page. The random free poem of the day and random poet of the day will, unsurprisingly, change each day.


RANDOM FREE POEM OF THE MOMENT.

Poem title:  A terre
   
Poem category:  War Poems
   
Poets name:  Wilfrid Owen
   
Poet Biography:  Wilfred Owen was born 1893 in Oswestry (United Kingdom). He moved to Bordeaux (France) in 1913, as a teacher of English. He enlisted in the Artists' Rifles on 21st October 1915. Drafted to France in 1917 his total war experience was short: four months, from which only five weeks in the line. On this is based all his war poetry. After battle experience, thoroughly shocked by horrors of war, he went to Craiglockhart War Hospital near Edinburgh. Owen returned to France in 1918 and just seven days before war ended on 11th November 1918 at 11 o'clock, he was killed in one of the last vain battles of the war.
   
Poem:  (Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.)


Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell,
Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me -- brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.

I tried to peg out soldierly -- no use!
One dies of war like any old disease.
This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.
I have my medals? -- Discs to make eyes close.
My glorious ribbons? -- Ripped from my own back
In scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.)

A short life and a merry one, my brick!
We used to say we'd hate to live dead old, --
Yet now . . . I'd willingly be puffy, bald,
And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys
At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose
Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting,
Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.
Well, that's what I learnt, -- that, and making money.
Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?
Tell me how long I've got? God! For one year
To help myself to nothing more than air!
One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?
Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.
My servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts!
When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that.
Here in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought
How well I might have swept his floors for ever,
I'd ask no night off when the bustle's over,
Enjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced
Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,
Less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan?
I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?

O Life, Life, let me breathe, -- a dug-out rat!
Not worse than ours the existences rats lead --
Nosing along at night down some safe vat,
They find a shell-proof home before they rot.
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,
Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,
And subdivide, and never come to death,
Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.
"I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone."
Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned;
The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.
"Pushing up daisies," is their creed, you know.
To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,
For all the usefulness there is in soap.
D'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?
Some day, no doubt, if . . .
Friend, be very sure
I shall be better off with plants that share
More peaceably the meadow and the shower.
Soft rains will touch me, -- as they could touch once,
And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.
Your guns may crash around me. I'll not hear;
Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.
Don't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest.
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,
But here the thing's best left at home with friends.

My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest,
To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased
On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.

Carry my crying spirit till it's weaned
To do without what blood remained these wounds.

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