All Poems
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Rubber Souls
© Andrei Voznesensky
I hate you, rubber souls, you seem
to stretch to fit any regime.
They'll give a yawning smile, stretched wide,
A Ballad (thesis For A Doctor's Degree)
© Andrei Voznesensky
My doc announced yesterday :
"You may have talent, though it's hidden,
your beak, however, is frost-bitten,
so stick at home on a cold day".
Abuses And Awards
© Andrei Voznesensky
A poet can't be in disfavour,
he needs no awards, no fame.
A star has no setting whatever,
no black nor a golden frame.
Russian-american Romance
© Andrei Voznesensky
In my land and yours they do hit the hay
and sleep the whole night in a similar way.
There's the golden Moon with a double shine.
Her Story
© Andrei Voznesensky
I started up the engine and I lingered.
Where should I go? The night was fine, I figured.
The bonnet trembled like a nervous hound.
I shivered. Night lit up the houses around.
My Friend's Light
© Andrei Voznesensky
I'm waiting for my friend. The gate's unlocked.
The banisters are lit so he can walk.
I'm waiting for my friend. The times are dull and tough.
The Antiworlds
© Andrei Voznesensky
There is Bukashkin, our neighbor,
in underpants of blotting paper,
and, like balloons, the Antiworlds
hang up above him in the vaults.
The Parabolic Ballad
© Andrei Voznesensky
My life, like a rocket, makes a parabola
flying in darkness, -- no rainbow for traveler.
There once lived an artist, red-haired Gauguin,
Two Lovers
© George Eliot
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:
They leaned soft cheeks together there,
Mingled the dark and sunny hair,
And heard the wooing thrushes sing.
O budding time!
O love's blest prime!
The Choir Invisible
© George Eliot
Oh, may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
Sweet Endings Come and Go, Love
© George Eliot
"La noche buena se viene,
La noche buena se va,
Y nosotros nos iremos
Y no volveremos mas."
-- Old Villancico.
Roses
© George Eliot
You love the roses - so do I. I wish
The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
Then all the valley would be pink and white
Mid My Gold-Brown Curls
© George Eliot
'Mid my gold-brown curls
There twined a silver hair:
I plucked it idly out
And scarcely knew 'twas there.
In a London Drawingroom
© George Eliot
The sky is cloudy, yellowed by the smoke.
For view there are the houses opposite
Cutting the sky with one long line of wall
Like solid fog: far as the eye can stretch
I Grant You Ample Leave
© George Eliot
"I grant you ample leave
To use the hoary formula 'I am'
Naming the emptiness where thought is not;
But fill the void with definition, 'I'
God Needs Antonio
© George Eliot
'Tis God gives skill,
But not without men's hands: he could not make
Antonio Stradivari's violins
Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel."
Count That Day Lost
© George Eliot
If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
With a Book
© Ambrose Bierce
Words shouting, singing, smiling, frowning--
Sense lacking.
Ah, nothing, more obscure than Browning,
Save blacking.
To the Bartholdi Statue
© Ambrose Bierce
O Liberty, God-gifted--
Young and immortal maid--
In your high hand uplifted,
The torch declares your trade.
The Statesmen
© Ambrose Bierce
How blest the land that counts among
Her sons so many good and wise,
To execute great feats of tongue
When troubles rise.
