All Poems

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[the Night That Lorca Comes]

© Bob Kaufman

THE NIGHT THAT LORCA COMES

SHALL BE A STRANGE NIGHT IN THE

The House of Rest

© Julia Ward Howe

I will build a house of rest,
Square the corners every one:
At each angle on his breast
Shall a cherub take the sun;
Rising, risen, sinking, down,
Weaving day’s unequal crown.

Nights, by the light of whatever would burn:
tallow, tinder and the silken rope
of wick that burns slow, slow
we wove the baskets from the long gold strands
of wheat that were another silk: worm soul
spun the one, yellow seed in the dark soil, the other.

The Lie

© Anne Waldman

Art begins with a lie
The separation is you plus me plus what we make
Look into lightbulb, blink, sun’s in your eye

Credo

© Robinson Jeffers

My friend from Asia has powers and magic, he plucks a blue leaf from the young blue-gum

And gazing upon it, gathering and quieting

The Chimney Sweeper: A little black thing among the snow

© William Blake

A little black thing among the snow,
Crying "weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe!
"Where are thy father and mother? say?"
"They are both gone up to the church to pray.

It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free

© André Breton

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

The holy time is quiet as a Nun

The Amen Stone

© John Wesley

On my desk there is a stone with the word “Amen” on it,

a triangular fragment of stone from a Jewish graveyard destroyed

Sonnet: I Thank You

© Henry Timrod

I thank you, kind and best beloved friend,

With the same thanks one murmurs to a sister,

Spring

© William Shakespeare

When daisies pied and violets blue

And lady-smocks all silver-white

A Noiseless Patient Spider

© Walt Whitman

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

Let Evening Come

© Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

The Lie

© Don Paterson

As was my custom, I’d risen a full hour
before the house had woken to make sure
that everything was in order with The Lie,
his drip changed and his shackles all secure.

Photo of Miles Davis at Lennies-on-the-Turnpike, 1968

© Cornelius Eady

New York grows
Slimmer
In his absence.
I suppose

Ornithogalum Dubium

Lame again, I limp home along Lawn Terrace

with a flowering sun star in a paper wrap

Shapes

© Ruth Stone

In the longer view it doesnt matter.

However, its that having lived, it matters.

Light Night

Stoop, dove, horrid maid,
spread your chiffon on our
wood rot breeding the
Destroying Angel, white,
lathe-shapely, trout-lily
lovely. Taste, and have it.

Burning

He lives, who last night flopped from a log
Into the creek, and all night by an ankle
Lay pinned to the flood, dead as a nail
But for the skin of the teeth of his dog.

The Asians Dying

Rain falls into the open eyes of the dead
Again again with its pointless sound
When the moon finds them they are the color of everything

At the Grave of My Guardian Angel: St. Louis Cemetery, New Orleans

© Larry Levis

I should rush out to my office & eat a small, freckled apple leftover
From 1970 & entirely wizened & rotted by sunlight now,
Then lay my head on my desk & dream again of horses grazing, riderless & still saddled,
Under the smog of the freeway cloverleaf & within earshot of the music waltzing with itself out
Of the topless bars & laundromats of East L.A.