All Poems
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M. Degas Teaches Art and Science At Durfee Intermediate School--Detroit, 1942
© Philip Levine
He made a line on the blackboard,
one bold stroke from right to left
The Lights of Cobb and Co
© Henry Lawson
Fire lighted; on the table a meal for sleepy men;
A lantern in the stable; a jingle now and then;
To Zo?
© Walter Savage Landor
Against the groaning mast I stand,
The Atlantic surges swell,
To bear me from my native land
And Zo?'s wild farewell.
F?sulan Idyl
© Walter Savage Landor
She drew back
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,
Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.
There is no Fatwa in this Land
© Taja Kramberger
There is no fatwa in this land –
it is divided into
thousands of small conspiracies,
tiny murders per partes,
which seem like coincidental misfortunes
and sap your blood, drop by drop.
Movimiento estudiantil
© Taja Kramberger
My dear students,
little pigeons from the Forja factory in Buenos Aires.
The institution we built together has become
a hangar for hanging pieces of discounted meat.
Every Dead One Has a Name
© Taja Kramberger
A decade ago,
a high-ranking party official warned me:
Stay a poet, as long as there’s still time.
Still time? Time for what?
The Bear
© Galway Kinnell
2
I take a wolf's rib and whittle
it sharp at both ends
and coil it up
and freeze it in blubber and place it out
on the fairway of the bears.
On Frozen Fields
© Galway Kinnell
2
You in whose ultimate madness we live,
You flinging yourself out into the emptiness,
You - like us - great an instant,
from Flying Home
© Galway Kinnell
that love is hard,
that while many good things are easy, true love is not,
because love is first of all a power,
its own power,
which continually must make its way forward, from night
into day, from transcending union always forward into difficult day.
Was lovable when little
© Amir Khosrow
Was lovable when little (or lit),
but was worthless when grown up (or extinguished)
Khusro has told you his name,
solve this riddle or get out of town.
She wears a round skirt
© Amir Khosrow
She wears a round skirt, stands on one leg,
That lady has eight legs,
Now the New Year
© Omar Khayyám
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
Irám indeed is gone
© Omar Khayyám
Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshýd’s Sev’n-ring’d Cup where no one knows:
But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
Dreaming
© Omar Khayyám
Dreaming when Dawn’s Left Hand was in the Sky,
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
“Awake, my Little ones, and fill the cup
Before Life’s Liquor in its Cup be dry.”
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
© Omar Khayyám
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to Flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultán’s Turret in a Noose of Light.
