Poems begining by C
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Cradle-Song For My Son Carl
© Carl Michael Bellman
Little Carl, sleep soft and sweet:
Thou'lt soon enough be waking;
Car Showroom by Jonathan Holden: American Life in Poetry #161 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-20
© Ted Kooser
I may be a little sappy, but I think that almost everyone is doing the best he or she can, despite all sorts of obstacles. This poem by Jonathan Holden introduces us to a young car salesman, who is trying hard, perhaps too hard. Holden is the past poet laureate of Kansas and poet in residence at Kansas State University in Manhattan.
Car Showroom
Christmas Eve 1914
© Eugene Field
Silent, to-night, o'er Judah's hills
Bend low the angel throng,
No heavenly music fills the air
Exultantly with song;
Crumbs Or The Loaf
© Robinson Jeffers
If one should tell them what's clearly seen
They'd not understand; if they understood they would not believe;
Casey's Table D'Hote
© Eugene Field
Oh, them days on Red Hoss Mountain, when the skies wuz fair 'nd blue,
When the money flowed like likker, 'nd the folks wuz brave 'nd true!
Coronation Ode
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
O Thou enfolded in grief,
Man, with thy mantle of scorn!
Arise and warn!
Unloved prophet of ill
Child Ballad
© Charles Kingsley
Jesus, He loves one and all,
Jesus, He loves children small,
Their souls are waiting round His feet
On high, before His mercy-seat.
Chamber Music
© John Jay Chapman
SILENCE: the sunset gilds the frozen ground,
But here within all's curtained; stands are set
In the wide salon where gilt chairs abound,
And eager listeners wait. The band is met
Whose tuning sheds a cheerful hum around:
Prophetic notes! The tapers brighten at the sound.
Clean by Jeff Vande Zande: American Life in Poetry #82 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
Many poems celebrate the joys of having children. Michigan poet Jeff Vande Zande reminds us that adults make mistakes, even with children they love, and that parenting is about fear as well as joy.
Crows
© Padraic Colum
THEN, suddenly, I was aware indeed
Of what he said, and was revolving it:
How, in the night, crows often take to wing,
Rising from off the tree-tops in Drumbarr,
And flying on: I pictured what he told.
Celebration Of Peace
© Friedrich Hölderlin
The holy, familiar hall, built long ago,
Is aired, and filled with heavenly,
Chanson pour faire danser en rond les petits enfants
© Victor Marie Hugo
Grand bal sous le tamarin.
On danse et l'on tambourine.
Tout bas parlent, sans chagrin,
Mathurin à Mathurine,
Mathurine à Mathurin.
Count Gismond--Aix in Provence
© Robert Browning
I thought they loved me, did me grace
To please themselves; 't was all their deed;
God makes, or fair or foul, our face;
If showing mine so caused to bleed
My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped
A word, and straight the play had stopped.
Cul-De-Sac
© Edith Nesbit
COULD I hope that when the brain,
Tired of questions answerless,
Shall slip off the bonds of pain
That enslave it and possess,
I should know how little worth
Were the little things of earth.
Critique
© Kostas Karyotakis
This is no longer a song, no human
hum. It can be heard reaching
as a last cry, in the depths of night,
of someone who has died.
