All Poems

/ page 1761 of 3210 /

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London Crossfigured

© Gaius Valerius Catullus

and the artists on sundays
in the summer
all ‘tracking Nature’
in the suburbs

The Loser

© Hilaire Belloc

He lost his money first of all

And losing that is half the story-

And Soul

© Eavan Boland

My mother died one summer—

the wettest in the records of the state.

Great Lament Of My Obscurity Three

© Tristan Tzara

where we live the flowers of the clocks catch fire and the plumes encircle the brightness in the distant sulphur morning the cows lick the salt lilies

my son

Lincoln Is Dead

© George Moses Horton

He is gone, the strong base of the nation,

The dove to his covet has fled;

Mother. Grandmother. Wise
Snake-woman who will show the way;
Spider-woman whose black tentacles
hold him precious. Or will tear off his head,
her teeth over the little husband,
the small fist clotted in trust at her breast.

jasper texas 1998

© Paul Celan

for j. byrd
i am a man's head hunched in the road.
i was chosen to speak by the members
of my body. the arm as it pulled away
pointed toward me, the hand opened once
and was gone.

The Rape Of Aurora

© George Meredith

Never, O never,

Since dewy sweet Flora

My Son the Man

© Sharon Olds

Suddenly his shoulders get a lot wider,

the way Houdini would expand his body

The Grey Tide

© John Le Gay Brereton

The cold green rocks and lapping waves
Are all my world as here I sit
With downcast eye and heart that craves
The bush and blue sky over it.

The Prairies

© William Cullen Bryant

These are the gardens of the Desert, these

King Goodheart

© William Schwenck Gilbert

There lived a King, as I've been told

In the wonder-working days of old,

Sonnet: Grief Dies

© Henry Timrod

Grief dies like joy; the tears upon my cheek

Will disappear like dew. Dear God! I know

A Poets Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter

© Robert Burns

Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,
If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mammie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My sweet wee lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie.

Sanctuary

Here ... well, wanting solitude; and talk; friendship—
The uses of solitude. To imagine; to hear.
Learning braille. To imagine other solitudes.
But they will not be mine;
to wait, in the quiet; not to scatter the voices—

To Lady H---r,

© Mary Barber

Tell me, my Patroness, and Friend,
Can Age Parnassian Heights ascend?
Sweet Poesy's light Footsteps trace?
Ah no! I must give up the Chace:
When Time the Head hath silver'd o'er,
The dear Delusion charms no more.

1959

Uncomprising yearI see no meaning to life.
Though this abled self is here nonetheless,
either in trade gold or grammaticness,
I drop the wheelwrights simple principle
Why weave the garland? Why ring the bell?

Kissd yestreen, and kissd yestreen,

Up the Gallowgate, down the Green: