Music poems
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Love The Wild Swan
© Robinson Jeffers
"I hate my verses, every line, every word.
Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird
That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky.
Natural Music
© Robinson Jeffers
The old voice of the ocean, the bird-chatter of little rivers,
(Winter has given them gold for silver
To stain their water and bladed green for brown to line their banks)
>From different throats intone one language.
Thoreau in Italy
© Robert Francis
Lingo of birds was easier than lingo of peasants-
they were elusive, though, the birds, for excellent reasons.
He thought of Virgil, Virgil who wasn't there to chat with.
Hymn 30
© Isaac Watts
In thine own ways, O God of love,
We wait the visits of thy grace,
Our soul's desire is to thy name,
And the remembrance of thy face.
The Sun Weilds Mercy
© Charles Bukowski
and the sun weilds mercy
but like a jet torch carried to high,
and the jets whip across its sight
and rockets leap like toads,
Mama
© Charles Bukowski
at least a drunk
in bed with a cigarette
might cause 5 fire
engines and
33 men.
Curtain
© Charles Bukowski
the final curtain on one of the longest running
musicals ever, some people claim to have
seen it over one hundred times.
I saw it on the tv news, that final curtain:
Cut While Shaving
© Charles Bukowski
I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night
Prayer In Bad Weather
© Charles Bukowski
by God, I don't know what to
do.
they're so nice to have around.
they have a way of playing with
Friends Within The Darkness
© Charles Bukowski
the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven,
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and
they were dead.
Rain
© Charles Bukowski
a symphony orchestra.
there is a thunderstorm,
they are playing a Wagner overture
and the people leave their seats under the trees
Three Oranges
© Charles Bukowski
first time my father overheard me listening to
this bit of music he asked me,
"what is it?"
"it's called Love For Three Oranges,"
A Radio With Guts
© Charles Bukowski
it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
Here I Am ...
© Charles Bukowski
drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
Girl In A Miniskirt Reading The Bible Outside My Window
© Charles Bukowski
Sunday, I am eating a
grapefruit, church is over at the Russian
Orthadox to the
west.
Let It Enfold You
© Charles Bukowski
when i was a young man
I felt these things were
dumb,unsophisticated.
I had bad blood,a twisted
mind, a pecarious
upbringing.
Nocturne III
© Jose Asuncion Silva
One night
one night all full of murmurings, of perfumes and music of wings;
one night
in which fantastic fireflies burnt in the humid nuptial shadows,
Upon A Wasp Chilled With Cold
© Edward Taylor
The bear that breathes the northern blast
Did numb, torpedo-like, a wasp
Whose stiffened limbs encramped, lay bathing
In Sol's warm breath and shine as saving,
The Poet's Calendar
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
JanuaryJanus am I; oldest of potentates;
Forward I look, and backward, and below
I count, as god of avenues and gates,
The years that through my portals come and go.
Hiawatha's Friends
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Two good friends had Hiawatha,
Singled out from all the others,
Bound to him in closest union,
And to whom he gave the right hand
