Car poems
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Nightmare Number Three
© Stephen Vincent Benet
We had expected everything but revolt
And I kind of wonder myself when they started thinking--
Snip Your Hair by Regina DeSalva: American Life in Poetry #128 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2
© Ted Kooser
Our poet this week is 16-year-old Devon Regina DeSalva of Los Angeles, California, who says she wrote this poem to get back at her mother, only to find that her mother loved the poem.
Snip Your Hair
Molecular Evolution
© James Clerk Maxwell
At quite uncertain times and places,
The atoms left their heavenly path,
The Dream of Freedom
© Owen Suffolk
'Twas night, and the moonbeams palely fell
On the gloomy walls of a cheerless cell,
Torment
© Daisy Fried
“I fucked up bad”: Justin cracks his neck,
talking to nobody. Fifteen responsible children,
The Blind Slave Boy
© Anonymous
Come back to me, mother! why linger away
From thy poor little blind boy, the long weary day!
In the House of the Latin Professor
© Boris Pasternak
All things fall away: store fronts on the west,
ANGEL’S DELICATESSEN, windows boarded
and laced in day-glow, BLUE KNIGHT AUTO REPAIR
to the north with its verandah of rusted mufflers
from The Faerie Queene: Book I, Canto I
© Edmund Spenser
Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,
As time her taught in lowly Shepheards weeds,
A Poet's Room (Greenwich Village 1912)
© Harry Kemp
I have a table, cot and chair
And nothing more. The walls are bare
Yet I confess that in my room
Lie Syrian rugs rich from the loom,
Jeanes Wedden Day In Mornen
© William Barnes
At last Jeäne come down stairs, a-drest
Wi' weddèn knots upon her breast,
Lycidas
© Patrick Kavanagh
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
Tristram And Iseult
© Matthew Arnold
Tristram. Is she not come? The messenger was sure
Prop me upon the pillows once again
Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.
Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!
What lights will those out to the northward be?
Nothing New
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Oh, what am I but an engine, shod
With muscle and flesh, by the hand of God,
Speeding on through the dense, dark night,
Guided alone by the souls white light.
The Idols
© Robert Laurence Binyon
I.2
The Forests of the Night awaken blind in heat
Of black stupor; and stirring in its deep retreat,
I hear the heart of Darkness slowly beat and beat.
The Eolian Harp
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
And what if all of animated nature
Be but organic Harps diversely framed,
That tremble into thought, as o’er them sweeps
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
At once the Soul of each, and God of all?
Stanzas
© Aldous Huxley
Thought is an unseen net wherein our mind
Is taken and vainly struggles to be free:
On Summer
© George Moses Horton
Esteville begins to burn;
The auburn fields of harvest rise;
The torrid flames again return,
And thunders roll along the skies.
Lohengrin
© Emma Lazarus
THE holy bell, untouched by human hands,
Clanged suddenly, and tolled with solemn knell.
Between the massive, blazoned temple-doors,
Thrown wide, to let the summer morning in,
