All Poems
/ page 2490 of 3210 /
One Day And Another: A Lyrical Eclogue Part I
© Madison Julius Cawein
Herein the dearness of her is;
The thirty perfect days of June
Made one, in maiden loveliness
Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss,
With love not more in tune.
Lost At Sea
© Robert Fuller Murray
Lost at sea, with all on board!
No one saw their sinking sail,
No one heard their dying wail,
Heard them calling on the Lord
Lost at sea, with all on board.
In Umbria
© Jack Gilbert
Once upon a time I was sitting outside the cafe
watching twilight in Umbria when a girl came
out of the bakery with the bread her mother wanted.
She did not know what to do. Already bewildered
Divorce
© Jack Gilbert
Woke up suddenly thinking I heard crying.
Rushed through the dark house.
Stopped, remembering. Stood looking
out at bright moonlight on concrete.
Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying
© Jack Gilbert
Poetry is a kind of lying,
necessarily. To profit the poet
or beauty. But also in
that truth may be told only so.
Stern Truths Transfigured
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
THOSE mountain forms of giant girth
Are rooted deep in moveless earth;
But lo! their yearning heights withdrawn,
Are melting in soft seas of dawn.
The Great Fires
© Jack Gilbert
Love is apart from all things.
Desire and excitement are nothing beside it.
It is not the body that finds love.
What leads us there is the body.
Gathering Leaves
© Robert Frost
Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
Apparition
© Stéphane Mallarme
La lune s'attristait. Des s?raphins en pleurs
R?vant, l'archet aux doigts, dans le calme des fleurs
Vaporeuses, tiraient de mourantes violes
De blancs sanglots glissant sur l'azur des corolles.
A Terre (being the philosophy of many soldiers)
© Wilfred Owen
Sit on the bed. I'm blind, and three parts shell.
Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me,-brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.
Swing Shift Blues
© Alan Dugan
What is better than leaving a bar
in the middle of the afternoon
besides staying in it or not
having gone into it in the first place
His Mother
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
In the first dawn she lifted from her bed
The holy silver of her noble head,
And listened, listened, listened for his tread.
'Too soon, too soon!' she murmured, 'Yet I'll keep
My vigil longer thou, O tender Sleep,
Art but the joy of those who wake and weep!
Nomenclature
© Alan Dugan
My mother never heard of Freud
and she decided as a little girl
that she would call her husband Dick
no matter what his first name was
A Point Of Honour
© Alfred Austin
``Tell me again; I did not hear: It was wailing so sadly. Nay,
Hush! little one, for mother wants to know what they have to say.
There! At my breast be good and still! What quiets you calms me too.
They say that the source is poisoned; still, it seems pure enough for you!
Drunken Memories Of Anne Sexton
© Alan Dugan
The first and last time I met
my ex-lover Anne Sexton was at
a protest poetry reading against
some anti-constitutional war in Asia
The Rope-Maker
© Arthur Symons
I weave the strands of the grey rope,
I weave with sorrow, I weave with hope,
I weave in youth, love, and regret,
I weave life into the net.
On Looking for Models
© Alan Dugan
The trees in time
have something else to do
besides their treeing. What is it.
I'm a starving to death
Landscape
© Dorothy Parker
Now this must be the sweetest place
From here to heaven's end;
The field is white and flowering lace,
The birches leap and bend,
How We Heard the Name
© Alan Dugan
The river brought down
dead horses, dead men
and military debris,
indicative of war
