All Poems
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Urban Renewal
© Yusef Komunyakaa
The sun slides down behind brick dust,
today’s angle of life. Everything
O my pa-pa
© Richard Jones
Our fathers have formed a poetry workshop.
They sit in a circle of disappointment over our fastballs
Imaginary Suicides
© Kostas Karyotakis
They turn the key in the door, take out
their old, well-hidden letters,
read them quietly, then drag
their feet a final time.
Song for Dead Children
© Katha Pollitt
We set great wreaths of brightness on the graves of the passionate
who required tribute of hot July flowers—
for you, O brittle-hearted, we bring offering
remembering how your wrists were thin and your delicate bones
not yet braced for conquering.
The Nightingale
© Bernard de Ventadorn
When grass grows green, and fresh leaves spring,
And flowers are budding on the plain,
The Motorcyclists
© James Tate
but I still can’t eat eggplant. He says I’ll be the first
woman President, it’d be a waste since I talk so much.
Which do you think the fixtures are in the bathroom
at the White House, gold or brass? It’d be okay with me
if they were just brass. Honey, can we stop soon?
I really hate to say it but I need a lady’s room.
Damayante To Nala In The Hour Of Exile
© Sarojini Naidu
O king, thy kingdom who from thee can wrest?
What fate shall dare uncrown thee from this breast,
O god-born lover, whom my love doth gird
And armour with impregnable delight
Of Hope's triumphant keen flame-carven sword?
A Shropshire Lad XII: When I watch the living meet
© Alfred Edward Housman
When I watch the living meet,
And the moving pageant file
Warm and breathing through the street
Where I lodge a little while,
Hour-Glass And Bible
© William Lisle Bowles
Look, Christian, on thy Bible, and that glass
That sheds its sand through minutes, hours, and days,
The Change
© Leon Gellert
Last year I heard the songs of birds,
And heard the trumpets of the bees.
I caught the winding rivers words,
And clutched at leaves of trees.
A Rhapsody of a Southern Winter Night
© Henry Timrod
Oh! dost thou flatter falsely, Hope?
The day hath scarcely passed that saw thy birth,
Meeting the Mountains
© Gary Snyder
He crawls to the edge of the foaming creek
He backs up the slab ledge
VIII. To the River Itchin, near Winton.
© William Lisle Bowles
ITCHIN, when I behold thy banks again,
Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,
On the Death of Richard West
© Thomas Gray
In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine,
And reddening Phbus lifts his golden fire;
The Shepherd
© Anonymous
He wore an old blue shirt the night that first we met,
An old and tattered cabbage-tree concealed his locks of jet;
His footsteps had a languor, his voice a husky tone;
Both man and dog were spent with toil as they slowly wandered home.
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 39
© Alfred Tennyson
Old warder of these buried bones,
And answering now my random stroke
With fruitful cloud and living smoke,
Dark yew, that graspest at the stones
Christmas,1870
© Alfred Austin
Heaven strews the earth with snow,
That neither friend nor foe
May break the sleep of the fast-dying year;
A world arrayed in white,
Late dawns, and shrouded light,
Attest to us once more that Christmas-tide is here.
