All Poems

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That pretty girl

© Kobayashi Issa

That pretty girl--
munching and rustling
the wrapped-up rice cake.

With my father

© Kobayashi Issa

With my father
I would watch dawn
over green fields.

Halloween

© Mac Hammond

The butcher knife goes in, first, at the top
And carves out the round stemmed lid,
The hole of which allows the hand to go
In to pull the gooey mess inside, out -

Thanksgiving

© Mac Hammond

The man who stands above the bird, his knife
Sharp as a Turkish scimitar, first removes
A thigh and leg, half the support
On which the turkey used to stand. This

To Jo?e Mar?a Palacio

© Antonio Machado

Palacio, good friend,
is spring there
showing itself on branches of black poplars
by the roads and river? On the steeps

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine."In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.""I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.""Well then, I'll take the withered petals

Songs of the High Country

© Antonio Machado

Soria, in blue mountains,
on the fields of violet,
how often Ive dreamed of you
on the plain of flowers,

Passageways

© Antonio Machado

Who set, between those rocks like cinder,
to show the honey of dream,
that golden broom,
those blue rosemaries?

Last Night As I Was Sleeping

© Antonio Machado

Last night as I slept,
I dreamtmarvelous error!
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

Has My Heart Gone To Sleep?

© Antonio Machado

Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?

Guadarrama

© Antonio Machado

Guadarrama, is it you, old friend,
mountains white and gray
that I used to see painted against the blue
those afternoons of the old days in Madrid?

Fields of Soria

© Antonio Machado

Hills of silver plate,
grey heights, dark red rocks
through which the Duero bends
its crossbow arc

Soap Suds

© Louis MacNeice

This brand of soap has the same smell as once in the big
House he visited when he was eight: the walls of the bathroom open
To reveal a lawn where a great yellow ball rolls back through a hoop
To rest at the head of a mallet held in the hands of a child.

House On A Cliff

© Louis MacNeice

Indoors the tang of a tiny oil lamp. Outdoors
The winking signal on the waste of sea.
Indoors the sound of the wind. Outdoors the wind.
Indoors the locked heart and the lost key.

Snow

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink rose against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

The Tourist From Syracuse

One of those men who can be a car salesman or a tourist from Syracuse or a
hired assassin.
-- John D. MacDonald

The Evening Of The Mind

Now comes the evening of the mind.
Here are the fireflies twitching in the blood;
Here is the shadow moving down the page
Where you sit reading by the garden wall.

In Bertram's Garden

Jane looks down at her organdy skirt
As if it somehow were the thing disgraced,
For being there, on the floor, in the dirt,
And she catches it up about her waist,
Smooths it out along one hip,
And pulls it over the crumpled slip.