All Poems
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I Don't Feel At Home Where I Am
© Regina Derieva
I don't feel at home where I am,
or where I spend time; only where,
beyond counting, there's freedom and calm,
that is, waves, that is, space where, when there,
All My Life
© Regina Derieva
All my life
I sought
an angel.
And he appeared
in order to say:
"I am no angel !"
A Poem
© Regina Derieva
A poem
is just one more
scrap of paper
that has sailed off the table
in a bottle
with a cry for help.
Stone Shadows
© David St. John
For an entire year she dressed in all the shades
Of ash the gray of old paper; the deeper,
Almost auburn ash of pencil boxes; the dark, nearly
Los Angeles, 1954
© David St. John
It was in the old days,
When she used to hang out at a place
Called Club Zombie,
A black cabaret that the police liked
To Amarantha, That She Would Dishevel Her Hair
© Richard Lovelace
Amarantha, sweet and fair,
Ah, braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye
Hovering round thee, let it fly!
To Lucasta, Going Beyond The Seas
© Richard Lovelace
If to be absent were to be
Away from thee;
Or that when I am gone,
You or I were alone,
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
Pity from blust'ring wind or swallowing wave.
The Scrutiny
© Richard Lovelace
Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady, it is already morn,
And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.
To Althea, From Prison
© Richard Lovelace
When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
The Grasshopper
© Richard Lovelace
O thou that swing'st upon the waving ear
Of some well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious tear
Dropped thee from heav'n, where now th' art reared,
The Rose
© Richard Lovelace
Sweet serene sky-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower;
From thy long cloudy bed
Shoot forth thy damask head!
To Lucasta, Going To The Wars
© Richard Lovelace
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breasts, and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.
Reading Moby-Dick at 30,000 Feet
© Tony Hoagland
At this height, Kansas
is just a concept,
a checkerboard design of wheat and corn
Grammar
© Tony Hoagland
Maxine, back from a weekend with her boyfriend,
smiles like a big cat and says
that she's a conjugated verb.
She's been doing the direct object
Why the Young Men Are So Ugly
© Tony Hoagland
They have little tractors in their blood
and all day the tractors climb up and down
inside their arms and legs, their
collarbones and heads.
Lucky
© Tony Hoagland
If you are lucky in this life,
you will get to help your enemy
the way I got to help my mother
when she was weakened past the point of saying no.
Jet
© Tony Hoagland
Sometimes I wish I were still out
on the back porch, drinking jet fuel
with the boys, getting louder and louder
as the empty cans drop out of our paws
like booster rockets falling back to Earth
Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow
© Robert Duncan
that is mine, it is so near to the heart,
an eternal pasture folded in all thought
so that there is a hall therein
My Mother Would Be a Falconress
© Robert Duncan
My mother would be a falconress,
And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist,
would fly to bring back
from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize,
where I dream in my little hood with many bells
jangling when I'd turn my head.
The Song of the Borderguard
© Robert Duncan
The man with his lion under the shed of wars
sheds his belief as if he shed tears.
The sound of words waits -
a barbarian host at the borderline of sense.
