Poems begining by T
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To Marianne Moore
© Carlos Barbarito
If the idea of immortality is excluded,
there remains dust,
grass,
water that forms puddles,
The Treehouse
© James A. Emanuel
To every man
His treehouse,
A green splice in the humping years,
Spartan with narrow cot
And prickly door.
They Did Not Expect This
© Vernon Scannell
They did not expect this. Being neither wise nor brave
And wearing only the beauty of youth's season
They took the first turning quite unquestioningly
And walked quickly without looking back even once.
The Terrible Abstractions
© Vernon Scannell
The naked hunter's fist, bunched round his spear,
Was tight and wet inside with sweat of fear;
He heard behind him what the hunted hear.
The Men Who Wear My Clothes
© Vernon Scannell
Sleepless I lay last night and watched the slow
Procession of the men who wear my clothes:
First, the grey man with bloodshot eyes and sly
Gestures miming what he loves and loathes.
This Night Slip, In His Honor (after Komachi)
© Jennifer Reeser
This night slip, in his honor
flipped inside out of lace-
edged netting is the color
of Shaka Zulus face;
The Garden
© Alfred Tennyson
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
These Green-Going-to-Yellow
© Marvin Bell
This year,
I'm raising the emotional ante,
putting my face
in the leaves to be stepped on,
The Self and the Mulberry
© Marvin Bell
I wanted to see the self, so I looked at the mulberry.
It had no trouble accepting its limits,
yet defining and redefining a small area
so that any shape was possible, any movement.
To Dorothy
© Marvin Bell
You are not beautiful, exactly.
You are beautiful, inexactly.
You let a weed grow by the mulberry
And a mulberry grow by the house.
Tiger
© Alec Derwent Hope
The paper tigers roar at noon;
The sun is hot, the sun is high.
They roar in chorus, not in tune,
Their plaintive, savage hunting cry.
The School of Night
© Alec Derwent Hope
What did I study in your School of Night?
When your mouth's first unfathomable yes
Opened your body to be my book, I read
My answers there and learned the spell aright,
Yet, though I searched and searched, could never guess
What spirits it raised nor where their questions led.
The Return of Persephone
© Alec Derwent Hope
Gliding through the still air, he made no sound;
Wing-shod and deft, dropped almost at her feet,
And searched the ghostly regiments and found
The living eyes, the tremor of breath, the beat
Of blood in all that bodiless underground.
The Pleasure of Princes
© Alec Derwent Hope
What pleasures have great princes? These: to know
Themselves reputed mad with pride or power;
To speak few words -- few words and short bring low
This ancient house, that city with flame devour;
