does anyone know of a good poem that i can read out loud with emotion?

Question

it's for speech. i have to read a poem but i have to say it with emotion to where people know what emotions the poem is expressing. like if it's a sad peom i would have to read it in a sad tone. and if it's a funny, jumpy poem, i would have to say it all up beat ... you get the point. any help?

Answer 1

Casey at Bat. It's a great poem with different emotional changes. I used it for many a speech/theater class!

Answer 2

Stopping by Wood on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost. CHECK IT OUT. It's what you're looking for.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Answer 3

bloody heck trypanoph was that a poem or a small novel you read that from.

the best poems comes from ur own heart, make one up that way the emotion will be real and give a better performance

I made this one up the other day...

Love at first sight

I saw you on the train the other day and didn’t know what to say, even though you were four seats away from me
My heart jumped when you looked my way,

I looked out the window and wondered who you were,
That beautiful look in your eyes made me tingle
Especially when you touched your beautiful brown hair.

I wish that scene could last forever because in an instant I fell for you,
But when the train stopped at the station it was goodbye
Because I’d lost sight of you.

goodluck...........

Answer 4

POETRY OF THE PUEBLOS
Hold on to what is good, even if it is a handful of earth.
Hold on to what you believe, even if it is a tree which stands by itself.
Hold on to what you must do, even if it is a long way from here.
Hold on to life, even when it is easier letting go.
Hold on to my hand, even when I have gone away from you.

by Nancy C Wood
(from Taos Indians)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Miracle Ice Cream
by Adrienne Rich

Miracle's truck comes down the little avenue,
Scott Joplin ragtime strewn behind it like pearls,
and, yes, you can feel happy
with one piece of your heart.

Take what's still given: in a room's rich shadow
a woman's breasts swinging lightly as she bends.
Early now the pearl of dusk dissolves.
Late, you sit weighing the evening news,
fast-food miracles, ghostly revolutions,
the rest of your heart.

From Dark Fields of the Republic: Poems 1991-1995 by Adrienne Rich, by permission of the author and W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Copyright © 1995 Adrienne Rich.

Source(s):
http://poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmmid/15...

Answer 5

The Highway Man

Answer 6

Thomas Hardy's "The Missed Train." A good poem, but you'll have to pull off whistful in your presentation.

Answer 7

Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night, By Dylan Thomas. It is about his father's death and is also one of the finest examples of the poetry form, the villanelle, in modern English:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Answer 8

Maybe "Tulips" by Sylvia Plath. I could imagine someone reading it aloud with emotion.


The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.

Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.
They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff

Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water

Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage -
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.
I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat

Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.
I didn't want any flowers, I only wanted

To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.

Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their colour,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.

The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Before they came the air was calm enough,

Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.
The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.

The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

Answer 9

Try "And Death Shall Have No Dominion" by Dylan Thomas. Sad and hopeful all at once.

Answer 10

The road not taken by robert frost, there are segements of macbeth(by shakespeare) that can be recited that are emotional, ralph waldo emmerson.