Architecture poems

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An Apology for the Revival of Christian Architecture in England

© Geoffrey Hill

And, after all, it is to them we return.
Their triumph is to rise and be our hosts:
lords of unquiet or of quiet sojourn,
those muddy-hued and midge-tormented ghosts.

Cabin

© Anne Waldman

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

The Cleaving

© Li-Young Lee

He gossips like my grandmother, this man

with my face, and I could stand

Greek Architecture

© Arvind Krishna Mehrotra

Not magnitude, not lavishness,
But Form—the Site;
Not innovating wilfulness,
But reverence for the Archetype.

Ethics without faith, excuse me,
is the butter and not the bread.
You can’t nourish them all, the dead
pile up at the hospital doors.
And even they are not so numerous
as the mothers come in maternity.

A Phonecall from Frank O’Hara

© Anne Waldman

“That all these dyings may be life in death”

I was living in San Francisco

The Bungalows

© John Ashbery

Impatient as we were for all of them to join us,
The land had not yet risen into view: gulls had swept the gray steel towers away
So that it profited less to go searching, away over the humming earth
Than to stay in immediate relation to these other things—boxes, store parts, whatever you wanted to call them—
Whose installedness was the price of further revolutions, so you knew this combat was the last.
And still the relationship waxed, billowed like scenery on the breeze.

Song of Myself

© Walt Whitman

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

The Book of the Dead Man (#3)

© Marvin Bell

When the dead man throws up, he thinks he sees his inner life.
Seeing his vomit, he thinks he sees his inner life.
Now he can pick himself apart, weigh the ingredients, research

The Rope-Maker

© Emile Verhaeren

Of old--as one in sleep, life, errant, strayed
Its wondrous morns and fabled evenings through;
When God's right hand toward far Canaan's blue
Traced golden paths, deep in the twilight shade.

The Snowmass Cycle

© Stephen Dunn

If the rich are casually cruel
perhaps its because
they can stare at the sky
and never see an indictment
in the shape of clouds.

Seals

© Gamaliel Bradford

I deliver a lecture
And pour out my soul,
Its full architecture,
All rounded and whole.

Where I've Been All My Life

© John Betjeman

The Grand Canyon

© Henry Van Dyke

How still it is! Dear God, I hardly dare
To breathe, for fear the fathomless abyss
Will draw me down into eternal sleep.

The Progress Of Refinement. Part I.

Rous'd by those honors cull'd by Glory's hand
To dress the Victor on the Olympic sand,
With active toil each ardent stripling tries
To bind his forehead with the immortal prize;
Hence strength and beauty deck the Grecian race,
And manly labor gives them manly grace.

The Purgatory Of St. Patrick - Act III

LUIS. Oh, that name
Do not mention! do not kill me
By repeating what doth thrill me
To the centre of my frame
As with lightning. Yes, I know
That at length Polonia died.