All Poems

/ page 1586 of 3210 /

Order by :

Lines

© Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

At the Portals of the Future,
Full of madness, guilt and gloom,
Stood the hateful form of Slavery,
Crying, Give, Oh! give me room

Epigrams: On my First Son

© Benjamin Jonson

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;

My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.

Burning Island

© Gary Snyder

O Wave God who broke through me today
Sea Bream
massive pink and silver
cool swimming down with me watching
staying away from the spear

Pedestrian

© Thomas Lux

Tottering and elastic, middle name of Groan,

ramfeezled after a hard night

Making Peace

© Denise Levertov

A voice from the dark called out,
“The poets must give us
imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar
imagination of disaster. Peace, not only
the absence of war.”

The Visible World

© Jorie Graham

I dig my hands into the absolute. The surface

breaks

I Shall Be Married on Monday Morning

© Pierre Reverdy

As I was walking one morning in spring,
I heard a fair maiden most charmingly sing,
All under her cow, as she sat a-milking,
Saying, I shall be married, next Monday morning.

Turtle

© Kay Ryan

Who would be a turtle who could help it?

A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,

Cabin

© Anne Waldman

eviction people arrive to haunt me
with descriptions of summer’s wildflowers
how they are carpet of fierce colors

Hush

© David St. John

for my son

The way a tired Chippewa woman

Modern Love: II

© George Meredith

It ended, and the morrow brought the task.

Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in

Granadilla

© Amy Lowell

I cut myself upon the thought of you

And yet I come back to it again and again,

Ariel

© Sylvia Plath

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.

Canary

© Rita Dove

for Michael S. Harper
Billie Holiday’s burned voice
had as many shadows as lights,
a mournful candelabra against a sleek piano,
the gardenia her signature under that ruined face.

Why do you stay up so late?

© Don Paterson

For Russ

I’ll tell you, if you really want to know:

In the Winter of My Thirty-Eighth Year

It sounds unconvincing to say When I was young
Though I have long wondered what it would be like
To be me now
No older at all it seems from here
As far from myself as ever

Upon the Hill and Grove at Bilbrough

TO THE LORD FAIRFAX

See how the archèd earth does here

On the broken stairs of a trailer
A laughing fat girl in a T-shirt is pumping
Milk from her swollen breasts, cats
Lapping at the trails. There's a sheen of rhubarb
On her dead fingernail. It's a humid morning.