All Poems
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The Waiting
© Belinda Subraman
Silence has no zen today.
Ambient freeway noise
from ? mile away,
the occasional Friday nighter
Yin Yang
© Belinda Subraman
At the edge of winter
in crisp early March
a dull thud of numbness
delays joy and sadness
They have a little Odorthat to me
© Emily Dickinson
They have a little Odorthat to me
Is metrenay'tis melody
And spiciest at fadingindicate
A Habitof a Laureate
Wayward Wind
© Belinda Subraman
My patient, Paul, wrote in a poem
that he belongs to the wayward wind,
a restless breed,
a strange and hardy class.
My Indian In-laws
© Belinda Subraman
I remember India:
palm trees, monkey families,
fresh lime juice in the streets,
the sensual inundation
Classical Indian Explanation: Music
© Belinda Subraman
past the hippies
past Ravi Shankar
eons before
when the first Asian snake
Book Passion
© Belinda Subraman
I dreamed I was eating
a book.
It was made from 8 by 12 slabs
one inch deep.
Beauty.
© Robert Crawford
He came upon her with a soul athirst
For Beauty, and she unveiled all to him,
As if in an imaginary light
Revealing all her wondrous rarity,
Approaching The Veil, Scientifically
© Belinda Subraman
Eyes like stars sparkle and die
and cycle into new stars, new eyes.
The answer is outside our window.
Aethra
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
It is a sweet tradition, with a soul
Of tenderest pathos! Hearken, love!-for all
Remembrance
© Amelia Opie
How dear to me the twilight hour!
It breathes, it speaks of pleasures past;
When Laura sought this humble bower,
And o'er it courtly splendours cast.
Sordello: Book the Third
© Robert Browning
Whereat he rose.
The level wind carried above the firs
Clouds, the irrevocable travellers,
Onward.
Metropolitan Nightmare
© Stephen Vincent Benet
Until, one day, a somnolent city-editor
Gave a new cub the termite yarn to break his teeth on.
The cub was just down from Vermont, so he took the time.
He was serious about it. He went around.
He read all about termites in the Public Library
And it made him sore when they fired him.
portland views
© Rg Gregory
wherever there's a tear in the fabric
around weymouth - portland appearsfrom abbotsbury hill it's just a long
thin line humped at one endcloser (from chesil beach) a head-on
massive lump of rock gnashed by the seaif you stand at sandsfoot castle
I Saw, Or Dreamed I Saw
© Henry Timrod
I saw, or dreamed I saw, her sitting lone,
Her neck bent like a swan's, her brown eyes thrown
