All Poems
/ page 2855 of 3210 /
Suzanne
© Leonard Cohen
Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
Bird On The Wire
© Leonard Cohen
Like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye
© Leonard Cohen
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
Waiting For The Miracle
© Leonard Cohen
(co-written by Sharon Robinson)
Baby, I've been waiting,
I've been waiting night and day.
I didn't see the time,
Dance Me To The End Of Love
© Leonard Cohen
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
A New Broom
© Witt Wittmann
I rolled that rug and cast it off
and pitched the whole mess out.
I bought a new broom today
and mucked about the house.
Market days
© Jonas Mekas
Mondays, way before dawn,
before even the first hint of blue in the windows,
we'd hear it start, off the road past our place,
over on the highway nearby,
in a clatter of market-bound traffic.
Villages and Plains the Streams Flow Through
© Jonas Mekas
to carry on the songs of washerwomen,
fishermen's nets and grey wooden bridges.
Clear blue nights, smelling warm,
streams of thin mist off the meadow drift in
with distinct hoof-stomps from a fettered horse.
From "THE TALK OF FLOWERS"
© Jonas Mekas
I do not know, whether the sun
accomplished it,
the rain or wind
but I was missing so
the whiteness and the snow.
A Catalpa Tree On West Twelfth Street
© Amy Clampitt
While the sun stops, or
seems to, to define a term
for the indeterminable,
the human aspect, here
in the West Village, spindles
to a mutilated dazzle
The Sun Underfoot Among The Sundews
© Amy Clampitt
An ingenuity too astonishing
to be quite fortuitous is
this bog full of sundews, sphagnum-
lined and shaped like a teacup.
Vacant Lot With Pokeweed
© Amy Clampitt
Tufts, follicles, grubstake
biennial rosettes, a low-
life beach-blond scruff of
couch grass: notwithstanding
the interglinting dregs
Syrinx
© Amy Clampitt
those last-chance vestiges
above the threshold, the all-
but dispossessed of breath.
Salvage
© Amy Clampitt
Daily the cortege of crumpled
defunct cars
goes by by the lasagna-
layered flatbed
truckload: hardtop
On The Disadvantages Of Central Heating
© Amy Clampitt
cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod
stove-warmed flatiron slid under
the covers, mornings a damascene-
sealed bizarrerie of fernwork
decades ago now
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
Fog
© Amy Clampitt
A vagueness comes over everything,
as though proving color and contour
alike dispensable: the lighthouse
extinct, the islands' spruce-tips
Exmoor
© Amy Clampitt
Lost aboard the roll of Kodac-
olor that was to have super-
seded all need to remember
Somerset were: a large flock
