All Poems

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3210

To Stretcher Bearers

© Studdert Kennedy Geoffrey Anketell

Easy does it -- bit o' trench 'ere,Mind that blinkin' bit o' wire,There's a shell 'ole on your left there,Lift 'im up a little 'igher

The Author to Her Book

© Anne Bradstreet

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth didst by my side remain,

The Spirit

© Studdert Kennedy Geoffrey Anketell

When there ain't no gal to kiss you,And the postman seems to miss you,And the fags have skipped an issue, Carry on.

The Secret

© Studdert Kennedy Geoffrey Anketell

You were askin' 'ow we sticks it, Sticks this blarsted rain and mud,'Ow it is we keeps on smilin' When the place runs red wi' blood

A Scrap of Paper

© Studdert Kennedy Geoffrey Anketell

Just a little scrap of paper In a yellow envelope,And the whole world is a ruin, Even Hope.

Missing -- Believed Killed: On reading a Mother's letter

© Studdert Kennedy Geoffrey Anketell

'Twere heaven enough to fill my heart If only one would stay,Just one of all the million joys God gives to take away.

When Jesus came to Golgotha they hanged Him on a tree,They drave great nails through hands and feet, and made a Calvary;They crowned Him with a crown of thorns, red were His wounds and deep,For those were crude and cruel days, and human flesh was cheap

The Untelling

© Mark Strand

He leaned forward over the paperand for a long time saw nothing

Two de Chiricos

© Mark Strand

for Harry Ford

Nameless Pain

© Stoddard Elizabeth

I should be happy with my lot:A wife and mother -- is it notEnough for me to be content?What other blessing could be sent?

Of F. W. H. M.: 1. To One that Smokes

© James Kenneth Stephen

Spare us the hint of slightest desecration, Spotless preserve us an untainted shrine;Not for thy sake, oh goddess of creation, Not for thy sake, oh woman, but for mine.

Pan in Wall Street

© Stedman Edmund Clarence

Just where the Treasury's marble front Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations;Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations;Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people,The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity's undaunted steeple,--

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor,Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auction's hammer;And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions,To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians

Mors Benefica

© Stedman Edmund Clarence

Give me to die unwitting of the day, And stricken in Life's brave heat, with senses clear: Not swathed and couched until the lines appearOf Death's wan mask upon this withering clay,But as that old man eloquent made way From Earth, a nation's conclave hushed anear; Or as the chief whose fates, that he may hearThe victory, one glorious moment stay

The True Story of My Father

© Starnino Carmine

There were days when I'd catch himalone at the kitchen table, lostinside some regret, his headcradled in his hands like the part

The Suitcase

was steerage-bound and unliftablewith stowed hope

Pugnax Gives Notice

He’s done with it, the tridents and tigers,the manager’s greed, the sumptuous bedsof noble women who please their own moods

Our Butcher

I could bone up, be the right man for that one-man job,hang by its hocks a rabbit shucked from the jacketof its black-bristled fur and still talking in twitches

On the Obsolescence of Caphone

Last heard—with a lovely hiss on the "ph"—August 1982 during an afternoon game of scopaturned nasty. And now, missing alongside it,are hundreds of slogans, shibboleths, small