Poets’ Corner

This is a space for all the INFJ poets who wish to get involved with out poetry project.
Please comment and tell us about yourself (as much or as little as you feel comfortable sharing, no pressure or obligation!)
I’ll be along regularly to chip in with project updates, and will hopefully be able to set up a little forum for us in the not too distant future.
J x

6 thoughts on “Poets’ Corner

  1. I’ve recently come across this wonderful poem on a website and have been absolutely captivated by it. As an INFJ, counsellor and writer, I feel a constant desire to listen for the undertones…

    The Second Music

    Now I understand that there are two melodies playing,
    one below the other, one easier to hear, the other

    lower, steady, perhaps more faithful for being less heard
    yet always present.

    When all other things seem lively and real,
    this one fades. Yet the notes of it

    touch as gently as fingertips, as the sound
    of the names laid over each child at birth.

    I want to stay in that music without striving or cover.
    If the truth of our lives is what it is playing,

    the telling is so soft
    that this mortal time, this irrevocable change,

    becomes beautiful. I stop and stop again
    to hear the second music.

    I hear the children in the yard, a train, then birds.
    All this is in it and will be gone. I set my ear to it as I would to a heart.

    Annie Lighthart


  2. One poem that stuck to my mind was “l(a” by E. E. Cummings. We read it in a literary class at college (almost ten years ago), and I still remember the feeling of being captivated by it.

    “l(a” by E. E. Cummings



  3. Hello, I’m an INFJ poetry lover, it’s hard to pick on one or two favourites, I’ll start with this one x

    A Ritual to Read to Each Other

    By William E. Stafford

    If you don’t know the kind of person I am
    and I don’t know the kind of person you are
    a pattern that others made may prevail in the
    and following the wrong god home we may miss
    our star.

    For there is many a small betrayal in the mind,
    a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break
    sending with shouts the horrible errors of
    storming out to play through the broken dike.

    And as elephants parade holding each
    elephant’s tail,
    but if one wanders the circus won’t find the
    I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty
    to know what occurs but not recognize the fact.

    And so I appeal to a voice, to something
    a remote important region in all who talk:
    though we could fool each other, we should
    lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the

    For it is important that awake people be awake,
    or a breaking line may discourage them back to
    the signals we give — yes or no, or maybe —
    should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell

    Had we but world enough and time,
    This coyness, lady, were no crime.
    We would sit down, and think which way
    To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
    Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
    Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
    Of Humber would complain. I would
    Love you ten years before the flood,
    And you should, if you please, refuse
    Till the conversion of the Jews.
    My vegetable love should grow
    Vaster than empires and more slow;
    An hundred years should go to praise
    Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
    Two hundred to adore each breast,
    But thirty thousand to the rest;
    An age at least to every part,
    And the last age should show your heart.
    For, lady, you deserve this state,
    Nor would I love at lower rate.
    But at my back I always hear
    Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
    And yonder all before us lie
    Deserts of vast eternity.
    Thy beauty shall no more be found;
    Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
    My echoing song; then worms shall try
    That long-preserved virginity,
    And your quaint honour turn to dust,
    And into ashes all my lust;
    The grave’s a fine and private place,
    But none, I think, do there embrace.
    Now therefore, while the youthful hue
    Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
    And while thy willing soul transpires
    At every pore with instant fires,
    Now let us sport us while we may,
    And now, like amorous birds of prey,
    Rather at once our time devour
    Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
    Let us roll all our strength and all
    Our sweetness up into one ball,
    And tear our pleasures with rough strife
    Through the iron gates of life:
    Thus, though we cannot make our sun
    Stand still, yet we will make him run.


  5. SONNET 116 by William Shakespeare

    Let me not to the marriage of true minds
    Admit impediments. Love is not love
    Which alters when it alteration finds,
    Or bends with the remover to remove:
    O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
    That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
    It is the star to every wandering bark,
    Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
    Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
    Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
    Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
    But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
    If this be error and upon me proved,
    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.


  6. Ok, so I’ll get the ball rolling here.

    I’ve always loved poetry, that ability that writers have to express emotions and feeling using metaphors and verse.

    My favourite ones are Sonnet 116 by Shakespeare and To His Coy Mistress by Andrew Marvell.

    I just love the passion and the way you are carried along in the poetry.

    J x


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