All Poems
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Before Sleep
© Ezra Pound
The lateral vibrations caress me,
They leap and caress me,
They work pathetically in my favour,
They seek my financial good.
An Immorality
© Ezra Pound
Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,Than do high deeds in Hungary
Song
© Ezra Pound
Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
and how the wind doth ramm,
The Garden
© Ezra Pound
Like a skien of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens,
And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anaemia.
In A Station Of The Metro
© Ezra Pound
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
A Girl
© Ezra Pound
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast-
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume 1: 1931-1934
© Anais Nin
"Am I, at bottom, that fervent little Spanish Catholic child who chastised herself for loving toys, who forbade herself the enjoyment of sweet foods, who practiced silence, who humiliated her pride, who adored symbols, statues, burning candles, incense, the caress of nuns, organ music, for whom Communion was a great event? I was so exalted by the idea of eating Jesus's flesh and drinking His blood that I couldn't swallow the host well, and I dreaded harming the it
Ontological
© Maggie Anderson
This is going to cost you.
If you really want to hear a
country fiddle, you have to listen
hard, high up in its twang and needle.
Agoraphobia
© John Burnside
My whole world is all you refuse:
a black light, angelic and cold
on the path to the orchard,
fox-runs and clouded lanes and the glitter of webbing,
Landscapes
© John Burnside
Behind faces and gestures
We remain mute
And spoken words heavy
With what we ignore or keep silent
Betray us
Snake
© John Burnside
As cats bring their smiling
mouse-kills and hypnotised birds,
slinking home under the light
of a summer's morning
to offer the gift of a corpse,
The Open Sea
© Dorothea Mackellar
From my window I can see,
Where the sandhills dip,
One far glimpse of open sea.
Just a slender slip
My Country
© Dorothea Mackellar
My Country The love of field and coppice
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
In a Southern Garden
© Dorothea Mackellar
WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze,
And bats begin their jerky skimming flight,
And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,
Grow sweeter with the coming of the night.
Fire
© Dorothea Mackellar
This life that we call our own
Is neither strong nor free;
A flame in the wind of death,
It trembles ceaselessly.
Burning Off
© Dorothea Mackellar
They're burning off at the Rampadells,
The tawny flames uprise,
With greedy licking around the trees;
The fierce breath sears our eyes.
The New Tenants
© Edwin Arlington Robinson
And there were the new tenants who had come,
By doors that were left open unawares,
Into his house, and were so much at home
There now that he would hardly have to guess,
By the slow guile of their vindictiveness,
What ultimate insolence would soon be theirs.
Leffingwell
© Edwin Arlington Robinson
I tell you, Leffingwell was more than these;
And if he prove a rather sorry knight,
What quiverings in the distance of what light
May not have lured him with high promises,
And then gone down?He may have been deceived;
He may have lied,he did; and he believed.
