Pet poems

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Keen, Fitful Gusts are Whisp'ring Here and There

© John Keats

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.

Stanzas

© John Keats

IN a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:

Endymion: Book II

© John Keats

He heard but the last words, nor could contend
One moment in reflection: for he fled
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.

Endymion: Book I

© John Keats

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star
Through autumn mists, and took Peona's hand:
They stept into the boat, and launch'd from land.

In Drear-Nighted December

© John Keats

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:

The Bombay Train Song

© John Matthew

He hangs on dangling handholds
As the train sways and careens
Endless nondescript buildings unfold
Their secrets as the tired warrior returns.

The Church On Comiaken Hill

© Richard Hugo

for Sydney PettitThe lines are keen against today's bad sky
about to rain. We're white and understand
why Indians sold butter for the funds
to build this church. Four hens and a rooster

Lo, I have loved thee long, long have I yearned and entreated!
Tell me how I may win thee, tell me how I must woo.
Shall I creep to thy white feet, in guise of a humble lover ?
Shall I croon in mild petition, murmuring vows anew ?

Nothing Stays Put

© Amy Clampitt

In memory of Father Flye, 1884-1985
The strange and wonderful are too much with us.
The protea of the antipodesa great,
globed, blazing honeybee of a bloom

Cock-crow

© Robert Herrick

Bell-man of night, if I about shall go
For to deny my Master, do thou crow!
Thou stop'st Saint Peter in the midst of sin;
Stay me, by crowing, ere I do begin;
Better it is, premonish'd, for to shun
A sin, than fall to weeping when 'tis done.

Delight In Disorder

© Robert Herrick

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;

Thin Strips

© Carl Sandburg

IN a jewelers shop I saw a man beating
out thin sheets of gold. I heard a woman
laugh many years ago.

The Year

© Carl Sandburg

IA STORM of white petals,
Buds throwing open baby fists
Into hands of broad flowers.

Poems Done on a Late Night Car

© Carl Sandburg

Lines based on certain regrets that come with rumination
upon the painted faces of women on
North Clark Street, Chicago

Mohammed Bek Hadjetlache

THIS Mohammedan colonel from the Caucasus yells with his voice and wigwags with his arms.
The interpreter translates, I was a friend of Kornilov, he asks me what to do and I tell him.
A stub of a man, this Mohammedan colonel a projectile shape a bald head hammered
Does he fight or do they put him in a cannon and shoot him at the enemy?

Mammy Hums

THIS is the song I rested with:
The right shoulder of a strong man I leaned on.
The face of the rain that drizzled on the short neck of a canal boat.
The eyes of a child who slept while death went over and under.

June

Paula is digging and shaping the loam of a salvia,
Scarlet Chinese talker of summer.
Two petals of crabapple blossom blow fallen in Paula's
hair,
And fluff of white from a cottonwood.

Hydrangeas

Dragoons, I tell you the white hydrangeas
turn rust and go soon.
Already mid September a line of brown runs
over them.

Graves

I dreamed one man stood against a thousand,
One man damned as a wrongheaded fool.
One year and another he walked the streets,
And a thousand shrugs and hoots
Met him in the shoulders and mouths he passed.