All Poems
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The Spell
© Peacock Molly
The job in certain lives has been to find Away to live with feeling -- for just to Bthe selves they are requires them to Cthings they were forbidden to
My God Why Are You Crying?
© Peacock Molly
When someone cries, after making love spillsa pail of tears inside, it is the acheof years, all the early years' emptinesshollowed into a pail-like form which fillswith feeling now felt aloud, that resounds
I Must Have Learned This Somewhere
© Peacock Molly
I loved an old doll made of bleachedwooden beads strung into a stick figure
Have You Ever Faked an Orgasm?
© Peacock Molly
When you get nervous, it's so hard not to.When you're expected to come in somethingother than your ordinary way, totake pleasure in the new way, lost, not knowing
Good-bye Hello in the East Village 1993
© Peacock Molly
Three tables down from Allen Ginsberg we sitin JJ's Russian Restaurant
A Favor of Love
© Peacock Molly
"Thank you for making this sacrifice," I say to my husband as I run to Kim's market
The Cliffs of Mistake
© Peacock Molly
To know you're making a mistake asyou make it, yet not be able to stop,is to step off a cliff, expecting to scramblebackward and up through the air to standon the outcrop you stepped from,even though it can't unhappen as youbackpeddle wildly with the second step,looking far, far below onto the moraineof pain you anticipate later, which is nowonly the shock of recognizing the resultthere's no leaping back from
Altruism
© Peacock Molly
What if we got outside ourselves and therereally was an outside out there, not justour insides turned inside out? What if therereally were a you beyond me, not justthe waves off my own fire, like those waves offthe backyard grill you can see the next yard through,though not well -- just enough to know that offto the right belongs to someone else, not you
Song
© John Howard Payne
'Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home
To the Hawthorn-tree
© John Payne
Hail, bright blossoming hawthorn-tree, This fair leaFilling thus with leaves a-throng!Foot and crownal, stem and bough, Clad art thouWith a wild vine's tendrils long.
The Smoker
© John Payne
Upon a faggot set, with pipe in hand and pot.Loins 'gainst a chimney-back disconsolately leant,Soul in revolt and eyes to earth in sadness bent,I chew the cruel cud of my inhuman lot.
The Rose
© John Payne
Let us go see, dear, if the rose,Which but this morning did uncloseHer crown of crimson in the sun,Have not this eventide laid downThe glories of her purple gownAnd colour peered (save thine) of none.
Rondeau Redoublé
© John Payne
My day and night are in my lady's hand; I have none other sunrise than her sight:For me her favour glorifies the land, Her anger darkens all the cheerful light
Quia Multum Amavit
© John Payne
Just a drowned woman, with death-draggled hair And wan eyes, all a-stare;The weary limbs composed in ghastly rest, The hands together prest,Tight holding something that the flood has spared, Nor even the rough workhouse folk have dared To separate from her wholly, but untiedGently the knotted hands and laid it by her side
In Memoriam "Rover", Ob. July 2, 1902
© John Payne
My little gentle cat, whose eyes no doveMight ever match for truth and tenderness,Whose life was one long effort to express,In thy mute speech, an overflowing love,The wavering love of women far above,I cannot think that death thy gentilesseHath ended all or that thy fond excessIn this thy ten years' span found scope enough
Hélène
© John Payne
When you're grown old and sit before the fire at night,Devising, as you spin by candle-shine, you'll singThe rhymes I made of old and "Ronsard", marvelling
Come, Let Us Die Like Men
© Patten George Washington
Roll out the banner on the air, And draw your swords of flame,The gathering squadrons fast prepare To take the field of fame!In serried ranks, your columns dun Close up along the glen;If we must die ere set of sun, Come, let us die like men
