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In this poetry challenge, poet Roy E. Peterson challenges you to post a classic poem and a poetic response to it (of any length). See his example below. Post your choice of poem and poetic response in the comments below. Feel free to comment on others’ poems as well.

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The Brook

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
_I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
_To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
_Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
_And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow
_To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
_But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,
_In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
_I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
_By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
_With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
_To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
_But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,
_With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
_And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
_Upon me, as I travel
With many a silver water-break
_Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
_To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
_But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
_I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
_That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
_Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
_Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
_In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
_I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
_To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
_But I go on forever.

_

_

A Hundred Brooks

by Roy E. Peterson

A hundred brooks a river grow
That runneth to the sea
While time and tides affect the flow
As they have done to me.

The stirring of the heavenly winds
That mix with earthly clouds
Lifts us above our human minds
And rivers’ misty shrouds.

_

_

Post your choice of classic poem and response in the comments below.

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41 Responses

  1. Roy Eugene Peterson

    1. In 2021, there was a challenge of using the first line of another poet’s poem. This challenge is different. For example, I have been inspired by one or two words in a poem.
    2. This challenge is an opportunity for readers to learn about or remember some great poems from the past.
    3. This challenge in a sense presents an opportunity by direct comparison to equal or exceed poems from the past.
    4. There is no limit to the number of submissions in the Comments Section.

    Reply
  2. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Here is another example of a few that I will post. This one is perhaps the longest that should be posted:

    I’M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU?
    By Emily Dickinson

    I’m Nobody! Who are you?
    Are you – Nobody – too?
    Then there’s a pair of us!
    Don’t tell! they’d banish us – you know!

    How dreary – to be – Somebody!
    How public – like a Frog –
    To tell your name – the livelong June –
    To an admiring Bog!

    I’M NOT PERFECT TOO
    By Roy E. Peterson

    I’m not perfect! What are you?
    Are you imperfect, too?
    What would the world think of us?
    They’d judge us if they knew.

    How dreary to be perfect.
    To never have a sin
    To only tell to other people
    The mess that they are in.

    If the faults are all you see,
    There’s no beauty in a tree.
    You’re preaching from a steeple.
    You’re too perfect for me.

    When I say I am a Christian
    I’m not bragging I am perfect.
    I am saying, thank you Lord,
    For loving me and every defect.

    So if you’re calling me imperfect,
    You are right, I’m just like you.
    The difference is in my salvation.
    I’ll be perfect when life is through.

    Reply
  3. Roy Eugene Peterson

    In the next one, I have a Poet Note of what inspired my poem. This is another one based on an Emily Dickinson poem:

    “HOPE” IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS
    By Emily Dickinson

    “Hope” is the thing with feathers –
    That perches in the soul –
    And sings the tune without the words –
    And never stops – at all –

    And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
    And sore must be the storm –
    That could abash the little Bird
    That kept so many warm –

    I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
    And on the strangest Sea –
    Yet – never – in Extremity,
    It asked a crumb – of me.

    FAITH IS THE FEATHERED ARROW
    By Roy E. Peterson

    When we are lost and lonely
    God rosins up his bow
    To give us hope and courage
    With fitting of an arrow.

    Faith is the feathered arrow
    That strikes deep in the soul;
    That whistles in the wilderness
    And gives our lives control.

    Poet Note:
    Inspired by the words, “the thing with feathers.”

    Reply
  4. Joseph S. Salemi

    NEWS ITEM (by Dorothy Parker)

    Men seldom makes passes
    At girls who wear glasses.

    A REPLY (by Joseph S. Salemi)

    You’re wrong — we’ll make passes
    At girls who wear glasses
    As long as they’re lasses
    With cute curvy asses.

    (This is slightly longer than the original, but I think it falls within the general parameters of the challenge.)

    Reply
  5. Davis Saunders

    SWEET AND LOW by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
    Sweet and low, sweet and low,
    Wind of the western sea,
    Low, low, breathe and blow,
    Wind of the western sea!
    Over the rolling waters go,
    Come from the dying moon, and blow,
    Blow him again to me;
    While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

    Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
    Father will come to thee soon;
    Rest, rest, on mother’s breast.
    Father will come to thee soon;
    Father will come to his babe in the nest,
    Silver sails all out of the west
    Under the silver moon:
    Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

    WAKE AND RISE by Davis Saunders

    Wake and rise, wake and rise,
    Along with the morning sun;
    Rise, Rise, open thy eyes,
    Along with the morning sun;
    Father is coming, look out at the tide,
    Silver sails with father arrive,
    Now, his journey is done;
    Rise, my little one, rise my pretty one, rise.

    Reply
  6. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Davis, your poem is as inspiring as was Tennysons. It was almost like a song.

    Reply
  7. Brian Yapko

    Fascinating idea for a challenge, Roy. Here is William Blake’s “The Tyger” and my own responsive “Tyger” which was published here 5 years ago:

    The Tyger (William Blake)

    Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
    In the forests of the night;
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies.
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand, dare seize the fire?

    And what shoulder, & what art,
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? & what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain,
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp,
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

    When the stars threw down their spears
    And water’d heaven with their tears:
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

    Tyger Tyger burning bright,
    In the forests of the night:
    What immortal hand or eye,
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

    The Tyger (Response by Brian Yapko)

    Tyger burning in my heart
    Would you cleave this world apart?
    What deep need for symmetry
    Can justify such zealotry?

    In what cauldron of the soul
    Burns this angry flame of dole?
    From what cave, what deep abyss
    This urge to turn the world amiss?

    Whence your prowling in my mind?
    Friends and foes alike maligned?
    Loud of roar, sharp of claw,
    Daring hate, decrying law?

    Fierce of eye, hot of breath,
    Why should you judge life and death?
    How can I my soul restore
    When you are crouching at my door?

    Do not pounce. Let anger cease.
    Though maddened, I admire peace.
    When the grave receives this shell
    I would avoid the hate of Hell.

    Tyger burning in my heart
    Let my anger cleave apart.
    Let me answer Heaven’s call
    For He who made the lamb made all.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Brian, this poem is at least an equal to Blake’s poem in most eyes and surpasses it in mine. Blake’s was one of my old favorites! What a stirring message with captivating words. I am in awe.

      Reply
    • Cynthia L Erlandson

      This is quite a profound take on “The Tyger,” Brian. Blake’s is one of my (many!) favorite poems, and you’ve done it more than justice.

      I wonder how many people have done takes on this one. The very first poem I had published at SCP, in 2020, was modeled after Blake’s “Tyger” (“Falcon, falcon, flying high….”)

      Reply
    • Brian Yapko

      Thank you so much, Roy and Cynthia! Both are incredibly kind and encouraging comments! Roy, with Blake’s uniquely mystical bent, he was an early favorite of mine as well. I imagine The Tyger is one of those poems that elicits many a reader’s desire to respond. Cynthia, I’ve just read your own take on The Tyger and find it absolutely beautiful. So that readers can again enjoy it, I’m sharing the link here: https://classicalpoets.org/2020/08/the-falcon-a-poem-after-blakes-tyger-by-cynthia-erlandson/

      Reply
  8. Cynthia L Erlandson

    “Variations on a Time Theme” is a long, ten-part poem by Edwin Muir. I will quote the first few lines of Part III, after which (attempting to echo the sense of his whole poem), I not long ago wrote a few lines:

    “A child in Adam’s field I dreamed away
    My one eternity and hourless day,
    Ere from my wrist Time’s bird had learned to fly,
    Or I had robbed the Tree of which I die,
    Whose boughs rain still, whose fruit wave-green shall fall
    Until the last great autumn reddens all.”
    — Edwin Muir

    Until the last great autumn
    Displays its reddening sprawl —
    The leaves that drop first, blackening on the bottom —
    Family trees and people who begot them
    Continue to decay, with each life’s scroll
    Illegible, like fallen branches’ random scrawl.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Beautifully done, Cynthia, as I knew you would do. The introduction really helped, as well.

      Reply
  9. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Most of you likely initially surmised “classic” can be a bit elastic. Perhaps “memorable” might be a good descriptor. Here is one of mine with a little humor based on an Ogden Nash poem that is perhaps more memorable for its humor than classical in the strictest sense.

    WINTER MORNING POEM
    By Ogden Nash

    Winter is the king of showmen,
    Turning tree stumps into snow men
    And houses into birthday cakes
    And spreading sugar over lakes.
    Smooth and clean and frosty white,
    The world looks good enough to bite.
    That’s the season to be young,
    Catching snowflakes on your tongue!
    Snow is snowy when it’s snowing.
    I’m sorry it’s slushy when it’s going.

    AUTUMN IS RETREAT OF SUMMER
    By Roy E. Peterson

    Autumn is retreat of summer
    Turning green grass into umber
    Leaves on trees change to gold and brown
    Trembling in fear of falling down.
    The world is brown sugar frosting.
    Harvesting becomes exhausting.
    Hiking trails have fallen silent.
    Hurricanes become violent.
    The kids are dressing up for school
    Wearing jackets, since now it’s cool.
    Big flocks of birds now fill the sky.
    Now what is that which stings my eye?

    Reply
  10. Maria Panayi

    The Road Not Taken

    The conundrum is this,
    That the road not taken
    Demands for a toll to be payed,
    Whether we are on it or not,
    Here on the road we are on.

    Whether we like it or not,
    Here on the road we are on
    There’s a heavy price to pay
    For the roads taken or not
    Plus the cost of the road we are on.

    If all roads lead to Rome
    Why are they all paved with thorns,
    I yearn for the road that takes me home
    But it is narrow, winding and long,
    That’s when I find it soothing to think,
    Of course, my road is entirely unique.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Maria, well-conceived with the third verse really artfully and beautifully presented. I will add “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost as per instruction as the origin of your inspiration.

      The Road Not Taken
      By Robert Frost

      Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
      And sorry I could not travel both
      And be one traveler, long I stood
      And looked down one as far as I could
      To where it bent in the undergrowth;

      Then took the other, as just as fair,
      And having perhaps the better claim,
      Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
      Though as for that the passing there
      Had worn them really about the same,

      And both that morning equally lay
      In leaves no step had trodden black.
      Oh, I kept the first for another day!
      Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
      I doubted if I should ever come back.

      I shall be telling this with a sigh
      Somewhere ages and ages hence:
      Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
      I took the one less traveled by,
      And that has made all the difference.

      Reply
      • Maria Panayi

        Thank you, both for posting the poem and for this challenge. I think I concentrated so much on getting something done I forgot everything else. I am enjoying and learning a great deal from all the poems posted here.Thank you.

  11. M.D. Skeen

    NIGHTINGALES
    Robert Bridges

    Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
    And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
    Ye learn your song:
    Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
    Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
    Bloom the year long!

    Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
    Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
    A throe of the heart,
    Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,
    No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
    For all our art.

    Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
    We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
    As night is withdrawn
    From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
    Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
    Welcome the dawn.

    My Response:

    If that be so, then please, guide me to this bleak place
    And with parched throat I’ll scale the grim cliff’s face
    To sing like you;
    For though the sweet-life yields comfort and repose
    Tis’ adversity, strife, and hardship which bestows
    A voice that’s true.

    Reply
    • James A. Tweedie

      M.D., I join with Roy in commending your beautiful response to Nightingales. Nicely composed and both appropriate and uplifting.

      Reply
  12. Roy Eugene Peterson

    This is an inspired response poem to “Nightingales” that brings home to us a trenchant truth. I really loved your phrase “I’ll scale the grim cliff’s face.” That adds such great imagery.

    Reply
  13. Roy Eugene Peterson

    M.D. Skeen’s poem reminded me of one I wrote on Mockingbirds inspired by a poem written by Henry Van Dyke.

    THE MOCKINGBIRD
    By Henry Van Dyke

    In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
    Catching the lilt of every easy tune;
    But when the day departs, he sings of love,–
    His own wild song beneath the listening moon.

    THE SINGING OF THE MOCKINGBIRD
    By Roy E. Peterson

    The singing of the mockingbird
    That sitteth in my tree
    Cannot compare with the sweet love
    That thou hast given me.

    The shining of the morning sun
    That’s cast across the sea.
    Cannot compare with thy sweet kiss
    That thou hast given me.

    Reply
  14. James A. Tweedie

    Trees
    By Joyce Kilmer

    I think that I shall never see
    A poem lovely as a tree.

    A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
    Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

    A tree that looks at God all day,
    And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

    A tree that may in Summer wear
    A nest of robins in her hair;

    Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
    Who intimately lives with rain.

    Poems are made by fools like me,
    But only God can make a tree.

    “Poetrese”
    By James A. Tweedie

    I think that I shall never see
    A tree that equals poetry.

    For I do very much prefer
    “The Raven” to a conifer

    And “Iliad” and “Odyssey”
    To Monkey Pod or Bottle tree.

    And as for trees deciduous,
    A poem’s more mellifluous

    Except, of course, for Kilmer’s, “Trees,”
    Which ranks somewhere below my knees.

    While I’ll admit God made the tree
    God also gave us psalmody.

    And though Sequoias touch the sky
    Great poetry will never die.

    For Kilmer’s tree will pass away
    But “Kubla Khan” is here to stay.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Arresting satire, James. Thank you for a fabulous fun-filled contribution that also appeals to our intrinsic egos as poets!

      Reply
    • Cynthia L Erlandson

      Oh, my goodness, James, I laughed out loud at least four or five times reading this! The title, for a start, is very clever. I guess my favorite verse is the one about Kilmer’s trees being below your knees.

      Reply
  15. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    Sonnet 18
    ~ William Shakespeare

    Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
    Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
    And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
    Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
    And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
    And every fair from fair sometime declines,
    By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
    But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
    Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
    Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
    When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

    An Affirmative Response to Sonnet 18
    ~ Susan Jarvis Bryant

    I’ll answer from my heart and tell you – Yes!
    Compare me to the fairest summer’s day
    In floral lingo laden with finesse –
    A darling deed to ink my grey away.
    Let zesty spillings from your wizard quill
    Embellish winter cheeks with blush of peach.
    Please flatter me in imagery until
    Those olden days of gold are still in reach
    For hands now withered like an autumn leaf
    Clinging to the flimsy dreams of spring.
    As rough winds shake, I beg you quell the grief
    Of rayless days – let summer colours sing
    In rosy tones… I long to bray and boast
    Of being made immortal by your ghost.

    Reply
    • Maria Panayi

      I think you may get your wish Susan, but first here’s to many , many more years of your beautiful poems.

      Reply
    • Cynthia L Erlandson

      Wonderful, Susan! I can just imagine you sonnet-sparring with The Bard.

      Reply
  16. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Susan, Shakespeare paid me a visit from his grave and asked me how he could get in touch with you. He was taken like I was with your admirable alliteration, your remarkable answer to his sonnet, and the depth of your inimitable intimate feelings that impressed him to no end!

    Reply
  17. Paul A. Freeman

    This poem appears elsewhere on the site, following on from ‘Ozymandias’ in what the narrator says, even though it is set earlier:

    Ozymandias Begins

    I met the monarch of our ancient land,
    who said, ‘Your skill at sculpting is renowned.
    The hammer and the chisel in your hand
    will make my semblance evermore resound.’
    Upon his statue’s stone-blank face I cut
    the ruthless glare residing in his eyes,
    the frown with loathing etched in every rut—
    his scornful lip my pride would not disguise.
    Ten times the height of mortal men we raised
    his likeness with its surly visage set.
    Its autocratic mien his minions praised—
    a father reigning not by love, but threat.
    Yet unlike our immortally-sculpted king,
    of my own role, what poet voice shall sing?

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Paul, per instructions I will post the poem below. I am amazed and delighted with your wonderful poem as a shining follow up to Shelley’s poem. Beautifully conceived and executed. Your conclusion seems less resentment being felt and a simple questioning wish.

      Reply
  18. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Ozymandias
    By Percy Bysshe Shelley

    I met a traveller from an antique land,
    Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
    Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
    Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
    And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
    And on the pedestal, these words appear:
    My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
    Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
    Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
    Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
    The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

    Reply
  19. Roy Eugene Peterson

    A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
    By Edgar Allan Poe

    Take this kiss upon the brow!
    And, in parting from you now,
    Thus much let me avow:
    You are not wrong who deem
    That my days have been a dream;
    Yet if hope has flown away
    In a night, or in a day,
    In a vision, or in none,
    Is it therefore the less gone?
    All that we see or seem
    Is but a dream within a dream.

    I stand amid the roar
    Of a surf-tormented shore,
    And I hold within my hand
    Grains of the golden sand–
    How few! yet how they creep
    Through my fingers to the deep,
    While I weep–while I weep!
    O God! can I not grasp
    Them with a tighter clasp?
    O God! can I not save
    One from the pitiless wave?
    Is all that we see or seem
    But a dream within a dream?

    I STRAYED ACROSS THE UNIVERSE
    By Roy E. Peterson

    I strayed across the universe
    And saw God’s Holy See.
    I saw there the heavenly host
    And God waiting for me.

    “My child be not afraid.”
    God’s words comforted me.
    The things of earth shall pass away
    As life was meant to be.

    Reply
  20. Roy Eugene Peterson

    DEATH BE NOT PROUD
    By John Donne

    Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
    Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
    For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
    Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
    From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
    Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
    And soonest our best men with thee do go,
    Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
    Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
    And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
    And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
    And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
    One short sleep past, we wake eternally
    And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

    DEATH, I DREAD THEE NOT
    By Roy E. Peterson

    Images of Death are painted
    By bound black hearts of artists.
    Like scary devil demons who
    Surrounded Bonapartists.
    John Donne said “Death do not be proud,”
    Though some have called thee mighty.
    Some souls are saved beyond the pale
    To dwell with the Almighty.

    I dread thee not, dark dour Death
    For peace lies out beyond .
    The grip that mortals fear from you
    Is broken from thy bond.
    Just one short nap and then we all
    Shall always rest in peace.
    From pain and sorrow here on earth
    We shall have our surcease.

    Reply
  21. Paul A. Freeman

    In honour of the British weather:

    I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

    I wandered lonely as a cloud
    That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
    When all at once I saw a crowd,
    A host, of golden daffodils;
    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

    Five minutes later:

    I Ran Before a Raging Gale

    I ran before a raging gale
    that ruined the idyllic scene
    of daffodils that blessed a vale.
    Oh, Nature, why art thou so mean?
    On top of which, by abject luck,
    by lightning, I was gravely struck!

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Thank you for including the verse by William Wordsworth! The “Raging Gale” is a hilarious contribution and worthy of comedic attention. You wrote an excellent counter to Wordsworth’s words, and from what I have heard of British weather this is not an exaggeration. Most enjoyable contribution.

      Reply
  22. Carey Jobe

    Nothing Gold Can Stay
    –Robert Frost

    Nature’s first green is gold,
    Her hardest hue to hold.
    Her early leaf’s a flower;
    But only so an hour.
    Then leaf subsides to leaf.
    So Eden sank to grief,
    So dawn goes down to day.
    Nothing gold can stay.

    Gold and Gray
    –Carey Jobe

    Nature’s last gold is gray,
    her only hue to stay.
    Her bright leaves strew a shower
    that darkens every hour
    and lies a trodden death.
    So lifetime wastes with breath.
    So sunsets fail and stain.
    Only grays remain.

    Reply
    • Roy Eugene Peterson

      Carey, this is a marvelous follow-on poem to the one by Robert Frost that answers the question of what happens after the gold is gone. Most enjoyable and a wonderful contribution to the challenge.

      Reply

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