Car poems
/ page 196 of 738 /
From Mythology
© Zbigniew Herbert
First there was a god of night and tempest, a black idol without eyes, before whom they leaped, naked and smeared with blood. Later on, in the times of the republic, there were many gods with wives, children, creaking beds, and harmlessly exploding thunderbolts. At the end only superstitious neurotics carried in their pockets little statues of salt, representing the god of irony. There was no greater god at that time.
Then came the barbarians. They too valued highly the little god of irony. They would crush it under their heels and add it to their dishes.
A Summer In Tuscany
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Do you remember, Lucy,
How, in the days gone by
We spent a summer together,
A summer in Tuscany,
In the chestnut woods by the river,
You and the rest and I?
A Hunting Song
© Adam Lindsay Gordon
Here's a health to every sportsman, be he stableman or lord,
If his heart be true, I care not what his pocket may afford;
And may he ever pleasantly each gallant sport pursue,
If he takes his liquor fairly, and his fences fairly, too.
A Maid Who Died Old
© Madison Julius Cawein
Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn,
That life has carved with care and doubt!
So weary waiting, night and morn,
For that which never came about!
Pale lamp, so utterly forlorn,
In which God's light at last is out.
The Homecomers Song
© Edgar Albert Guest
Then it's home once again,
Where the dear ones await,
And it's back in the land of the free;
And it's back once again
In my own native state,
This country's the country for me.
The Old Year
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
O good old Year! this night's your last.
And must you go? With you I've passed
Some days that bear revision.
For these I'd thank you, ere you make
When the Ladies Come to the Shearing Shed
© Henry Lawson
THE LADIES are coming, the super says
To the shearers sweltering there,
Examination
© Sheldon Allan Silverstein
I went to the doctor-
He reached down my throat,
He pulled out a shoe
And a little toy boat,
Isabella; Or, The Pot Of Basil: A Story From Boccaccio
© John Keats
I.
Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!
Melodrama
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Take of these elements any you care about,
Put 'em in Texas, the Bowery, or thereabout;
Put in the powder and leave out the grammar,
And the certain result is a swell melodrammer.
Upon Phillis Walking In A Morning Before Sun-rising
© John Cleveland
THE sluggish morne as yet undrest,
My Phillis brake from out her East;
Barbershop Quartet, East Village Grille by Sebastian Matthews: American Life in Poetry #207 Ted Koos
© Ted Kooser
People singing, not professionally but just singing for joy, it's a wonderful celebration of life. In this poem by Sebastian Matthews of North Carolina, a father and son happen upon a handful of men singing in a cafe, and are swept up into their pleasure and community.
Barbershop Quartet,
En La Plaza De Armas
© Ramon Lopez Velarde
¿Que se hizo, Plaza de Armas, el coro de chiquillas
que conmigo llegaban en la tarde de asueto
del sábado, a tu kiosco, y que eran actrices
de muñeca excesiva y de exiguo alfabeto?
Bride Song (From 'The Prince's Progress')
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
In Autumn
© Rubén Dario
I know there are those who ask: Why does he not
sing with the same wild harmonies as before?
But they have not seen the labors of an hour
the work of a minute, the prodigies of a year.
The Opening Run
© William Henry Ogilvie
The rain-sodden grass in the ditches is dying,
The berries are red to the crest of the thorn ;
The Ropewalk. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
In that building, long and low,
With its windows all a-row,
Like the port-holes of a hulk,
Human spiders spin and spin,
Backward down their threads so thin
Dropping, each a hempen bulk.
The Surgeon At 2 A.M.
© Sylvia Plath
The white light is artificial, and hygienic as heaven.
The microbes cannot survive it.
Jump-To-Glory Jane
© George Meredith
A revelation came on Jane,
The widow of a labouring swain:
And first her body trembled sharp,
Then all the woman was a harp
With winds along the strings; she heard,
Though there was neither tone nor word.
A Summer Mood
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
AH, me! for evermore, for evermore
These human hearts of ours must yearn and sigh,
While down the dells and up the murmurous shore
Nature renews her immortality.
