Does anyone know a poem that has to do with the celebration of the common man?

Question

i just asked a question about a book with a theme of the celebration of the common man, does anyone know a good poem about the common man?

Answer 1

"If" by R. Kipling
http://www.swarthmore.edu/~apreset1/docs/if.html

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
(etc. etc.- entire poem at the link)

Answer 2

a few selections

The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
http://www.hwlongfellow.org/poems_poem.php?pid=38

The Wound-Dresser by Walt Whitman
http://www.bartleby.com/42/818.html

The Sun Bathers by William Carlos Williams
http://xroads.virginia.edu/~MA05/dulis/poetry/Williams/williams2.html
there is an interesting discussion here
http://everything2.com/index.pl?node_id=1770070

Answer 3

Robert Burns:
A Man's a Man For A' That

Answer 4

Read Michael Leunig's poems

Answer 5

I just answered your other question ... Patrick Henry was an American revolutionary poet who helped create our country and end the idea of aristocracy.

Democracy ... the common man rules ... we didn't believe in kings anymore.

Jonnie

Answer 6

Check out my poems on my 360

Answer 7

we are the hollow adult adult males we are the filled adult adult males Leaning together Headpiece full of straw. unfortunately! Our dried voices, as quickly as we whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats’ ft over broken glass In our dry cellar shape without form, coloration without shade, Paralysed stress, gesture without action; people who've crossed With direct eyes, to dying’s different Kingdom endure in innovations us—if in any respect—no longer as lost Violent souls, yet only via fact the hollow adult adult males The filled adult adult males. II Eyes I dare no longer meet in aims In dying’s dream kingdom those do no longer look: There, the eyes are photograph voltaic on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are in the wind’s making a song greater distant and greater solemn Than a fading celebrity. enable me be no closer In dying’s dream kingdom enable me additionally positioned on Such planned disguises Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving via fact the wind behaves No closer— no longer that very final assembly in the twilight kingdom III it is the ineffective land it is cactus land right here the stone photographs Are raised, right here they obtain The supplication of a ineffective guy’s hand decrease than the twinkle of a fading celebrity. Is it like this In dying’s different kingdom Waking on my own on the hour as quickly as we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that ought to kiss form prayers to broken stone. IV The eyes are no longer right here There are not any eyes right here in this valley of demise stars in this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms in this final of assembly places We grope together And sidestep speech accrued in this coastline of the tumid river Sightless, except The eyes reappear via fact the perpetual celebrity Multifoliate rose Of dying’s twilight kingdom The wish only Of empty adult adult males. V right here we circulate around the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear right here we circulate around the prickly pear At 5 o’clock in the morning. between the assumption And the certainty between the action And the act Falls the Shadow For Thine is the dominion between the theory And the creation between the emotion And the reaction Falls the Shadow existence is extremely long between the will And the spasm between the performance And the existence between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow For Thine is the dominion For Thine is existence is For Thine is the it is the way the international ends it is the way the international ends it is the way the international ends no longer with a bang yet a whimper.

Answer 8

Whitman's stuff is right up that alley.

Answer 9

Emily Dickiinson's "I am Nobody".