All Poems
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Edmonton, thy cemetery
© Stevie Smith
Edmonton, thy cemetery
In which I love to tread
Has roused in me a dreary thought
For all the countless dead,
Ah me, the countless dead.
Autumn
© Stevie Smith
He told his life story to Mrs. Courtly
Who was a widow. 'Let us get married shortly',
He said. 'I am no longer passionate,
But we can have some conversation before it is too late.'
Away, Melancholy
© Stevie Smith
Are not the trees green,
The earth as green?
Does not the wind blow,
Fire leap and the rivers flow?
Away melancholy.
Exeat
© Stevie Smith
How can a poet commit suicide
When he is still not listening properly to his Muse,
Or a lover of Virtue when
He is always putting her off until tomorrow?
I Do Not Speak
© Stevie Smith
I do not ask for mercy for understanding for peace
And in these heavy days I do not ask for release
I do not ask that suffering shall cease.
Mother, Among The Dustbins
© Stevie Smith
Mother, among the dustbins and the manure
I feel the measure of my humanity, an allure
As of the presence of God, I am sure
Drugs Made Pauline Vague
© Stevie Smith
Drugs made Pauline vague.
She sat one day at the breakfast table
Fingering in a baffled way
The fronds of the maidenhair plant.
Happiness
© Stevie Smith
Happiness is silent, or speaks equivocally for friends,
Grief is explicit and her song never ends,
Happiness is like England, and will not state a case,
Grief, like Guilt, rushes in and talks apace.
Never Again
© Stevie Smith
Never again will I weep
And wring my hands
And beat my head against the wall
Because
Alone In The Woods
© Stevie Smith
Alone in the woods I felt
The bitter hostility of the sky and the trees
Nature has taught her creatures to hate
Man that fusses and fumes
The Pleasures Of Friendship
© Stevie Smith
The pleasures of friendship are exquisite,
How pleasant to go to a friend on a visit!
I go to my friend, we walk on the grass,
And the hours and moments like minutes pass.
Catbird
© Mary Oliver
He picks his pond, and the soft thicket of his world.
He bids his lady come, and she does,
flirting with her tail.
He begins early, and makes up his song as he goes.
The Truro Bear
© Mary Oliver
Theres a bear in the Truro woods.
People have seen it - three or four,
or two, or one. I think
of the thickness of the serious woods
The Moths
© Mary Oliver
Theres a kind of white moth, I dont know
what kind, that glimmers
by mid-May
in the forest, just
as the pink mocassin flowers
are rising.
Stanley Kunitz
© Mary Oliver
I used to imagine him
coming from his house, like Merlin
strolling with important gestures
through the garden
Skunk Cabbage
© Mary Oliver
And now as the iron rinds over
the ponds start dissolving,
you come, dreaming of ferns and flowers
and new leaves unfolding,
Starlings in Winter
© Mary Oliver
Chunky and noisy,
but with stars in their black feathers,
they spring from the telephone wire
and instantly
Little Owl Who Lives in the Orchard
© Mary Oliver
His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes - when he lifts their soft lids -
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder -
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.
