Anger poems

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65

Give Me Leave to Rail at You

© John Wilmot

Give me leave to rail at you, -
I ask nothing but my due:
To call you false, and then to say
You shall not keep my heart a day.

Flare

© Mary Oliver

It is not the sunrise,
which is a red rinse,
which is flaring all over the eastern sky;

A Ballad of John Nicholson

© Sir Henry Newbolt

It fell in the year of Mutiny,
At darkest of the night,
John Nicholson by Jal?ndhar came,
On his way to Delhi fight.

Your hand, my wonder, is now icy cold.
The purest light of the celestial dome
has burned me through. And now we are
as two still plams lying in darlmess,
as two black banks of a frozen stream
in the chasm of the world.

The Tongues We Speak

© Patricia Goedicke

I have arrived here after taking many steps

Over the kitchen floors of friends and through their lives.

Closings

© Donald Hall

1

“Always Be Closing,” Liam told us—

The Rebel

© Hilaire Belloc

There is a wall of which the stones
Are lies and bribes and dead men's bones.
And wrongfully this evil wall
Denies what all men made for all,
And shamelessly this wall surrounds
Our homesteads and our native grounds.

A Motor

© Marvin Bell

The heavy, wet, guttural

small-plane engine

Toth Farry

© Sharon Olds

In the back of the charm-box, in a sack, the baby

canines and incisors are mostly chaff,

The Redshifting Web

© Wole Soyinka

5 Moored off Qingdao, before sunrise,
the pilot of a tanker is selling dismantled bicycles.
Once, a watchmaker coated numbers on the dial

Crossing 16

© Anselm Hollo

You came to my door in the dawn and sang; it angered me to be awakened from sleep, and you went away unheeded.
You came in the noon and asked for water; it vexed me in my work, and you were sent away with reproaches.
You came in the evening with your flaming torches.
You seemed to me like a terror and I shut my door.
Now in the midnight I sit alone in my lampless room and call you back whom I turned away in insult.

from The Triumph of Love

© Geoffrey Hill

Rancorous, narcissistic old sod—what
makes him go on? We thought, hoped rather,
he might be dead. Too bad. So how
much more does he have of injury time?

Ellen West

© Frank Bidart

I love sweets,—
heaven
would be dying on a bed of vanilla ice cream ...
But my true self

The Third Hour of the Night

© Frank Bidart

When the eye

Gin

There’s a mystery

By the river, in one of the cabins

Canto LXXXI

© Ezra Pound

Zeus lies in Ceres’ bosom

Taishan is attended of loves

from Mercian Hymns

I

King of the perennial holly-groves, the riven sandstone: overlord of the M5: architect of the historic rampart and ditch, the citadel at Tamworth, the summer hermitage in Holy Cross: guardian of the Welsh Bridge and the Iron Bridge: contractor to the desirable new estates: saltmaster: moneychanger: commissioner for oaths: martyrologist: the friend of Charlemagne.

from The Bridge: The Dance

© Hart Crane

The swift red flesh, a winter king
Who squired the glacier woman down the sky?
She ran the neighing canyons all the spring;
She spouted arms; she rose with maizeto die.