All Poems
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Shiloh
© Herman Melville
A RequiemSkimming lightly, wheeling still,
The swallows fly low
Over the fields in cloudy days,
The forest-field of Shiloh -
The Troubadour. Canto 2
© Letitia Elizabeth Landon
THE first, the very first; oh! none
Can feel again as they have done;
In love, in war, in pride, in all
The planets of life's coronal,
However beautiful or bright,--
What can be like their first sweet light?
On
© Bob Kaufman
On yardbird corners of embryonic hopes, drowned in a heroin tear.
On yardbird corners of parkerflights to sound filled pockets in space.
On neuro-corners of striped brains & desperate electro-surgeons.
On alcohol corners of pointless discussion & historical hangovers.
A Shining Ship
© Harry Kemp
Have you ever seen a shining ship
Riding the broad-backed wave,
While the sailors pull the ropes and sing
The chantey's lusty stave?
Jazz Chick
© Bob Kaufman
Music from her breast, vibrating
Soundseared into burnished velvet.
Silent hips deceiving fools.
Rivulets of trickling ecstacy
Reflections IV.
© Samuel Rogers
This Child, so lovely and so cherub-like,
(No fairer spirit in the heaven of heavens)
Say, must he know remorse? must Passion come,
Passion in all or any of its shapes,
Ode On The Death Of A Favourite Cat Drowned In A Tub Of Gold Fishes
© Thomas Gray
Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
The Poet Fears Failure
© Erica Jong
The critic is only doing his job:
keeping the poet lonely.
He barks
like a dog at the door
when the master comes home.
Three Seasons
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
'A cup for hope!' she said,
In springtime ere the bloom was old:
The crimson wine was poor and cold
By her mouth's richer red.
The End of the World
© Erica Jong
Here, at the end of the world,
the poets are bleeding.
Writing & bleeding
are thought to be the same;
singing & bleeding
are thought to be the same.
On The Same By Palladas
© William Cowper
A Spartan 'scaping from the fight,
His mother met him in his flight,
The Artist as an Old Man
© Erica Jong
He has come to like his resignation.
In his sketch books, ink-dark cossacks hear
the snorts of horses in the crunch of snow.
His pen alone recalls that years ago,
one horseman set his teeth and aimed his spear
which, poised, seemed pointed straight to pierce the sun.
"O little year, cram full of duty"
© Lesbia Harford
O little year, cram full of duty,
Rapture and sorrow, too,
Show me the way from old paths of beauty
Into the fields of dew.
Sunday Afternoons
© Erica Jong
Your sweet head would bow,
like a child somehow,
down to me -
and your hair and your eyes were wild.
