Car poems

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Excerpts from "Poetry"

© Michael Burch

Poetry, I found you
where at last they chained and bound you;
with devices all around you
to torture and confound you,
I found you–shivering, bare.

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At Wilfred Owen’s Grave

© Michael Burch

What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer underwater,
watching the shoreline blur,
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.

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An Early Audience at the Palace of Light. (Harmonizing a poem for Secretary Jia Zhi.)

© Wang Wei

The red-capped Cock-Man has just announced morning;
The Keeper of the Robes brings Jade-Cloud Furs;
Heaven's nine doors reveal the palace and its courtyards;
And the coats of many countries bow to the Pearl Crown.

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In My Lodge at Wang Chuan,(After a Long Rain.)

© Wang Wei

The woods have stored the rain, and slow comes the smoke
As rice is cooked on faggots and carried to the fields;
Over the quiet marsh-land flies a white egret,
And mango-birds are singing in the full summer trees....

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The Smile on the Face of a Kouros

© William Bronk

This boy, of course, was dead, whatever that
might mean. And nobly dead. I think we should feel
he was nobly dead. He fell in battle, perhaps,
and this carved stone remembers him

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Cloris Charmes Dissolved by EUDORA.

© Anne Killigrew

For there's no Light,
But all is Night,
And Darkness that you meet.

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The Discontent.

© Anne Killigrew

I.
HEre take no Care, take here no Care, my Muse,
Nor ought of Art or Labour use:
But let thy Lines rude and unpolisht go,

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The Miseries of Man

© Anne Killigrew

As a fit Place to take the sad Relief
Of Sighs and Tears, to ease oppressing Grief.
Near to the Mourning Nimph she chose a Seat,
And these Complaints did to the Shades repeat.

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An Invective against Gold

© Anne Killigrew

Again, I see, the Heavenly Fair despis'd,
A Hagg like Hell, with Gold, more highly priz'd;
Mens Faith betray'd, their Prince and Country Sold,
Their God deny'd, all for the Idol Gold.

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To my Lady Berkeley, Afflicted upon her Son, My Lord BERKELEY's Early Engaging in the Sea-Service

© Anne Killigrew

In bloody Conflicts he will Armour find,
In strongest Tempests he will rule the Wind,
He will through Thousand Dangers force a way,
And still Triumphant will his Charge convey.
And the All-ruling power that can act thus,
Will safe return your Dear Telemachus.

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THE Complaint of a Lover

© Anne Killigrew

Deep underneath a Cave does lie,
Th' entrance hid with dismal Yew,
Where Phebus never shew'd his Eye,
Or cheerful Day yet pierced through.

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On Death.

© Anne Killigrew

No subtile Serpents in the Grave betray,
Worms on the Body there, not Soul do prey;
No Vice there Tempts, no Terrors there afright,
No Coz'ning Sin affords a false delight:
No vain Contentions do that Peace annoy,
No feirce Alarms break the lasting Joy.

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A Pastoral Dialogue.

© Anne Killigrew

Dor. Would my Alexis meet my noble Flame,
In all Ausonia neither Youth nor Dame,
Should so renown'd in Deathless Numbers shine,
As thy exalted Name should do in mine.

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A Swarm Of Gnats

© Hermann Hesse

Many thousand glittering motes
Crowd forward greedily together
In trembling circles.
Extravagantly carousing away

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Gregory Corso

© Gregory Corso

Budger of history Brake of time You Bomb
Toy of universe Grandest of all snatched sky I cannot hate you
Do I hate the mischievous thunderbolt the jawbone of an ass
The bumpy club of One Million B.C. the mace the flail the axe

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The Sale of Saint Thomas

© Lascelles Abercrombie

Captain Well, I hope so.
There's threatening in the weather. Have you a mind
To hug your belly to the slanted deck,
Like a louse on a whip-top, when the boat
Spins on an axlie in the hissing gales?

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Emblems of Love

© Lascelles Abercrombie

And mine is all like one rapt faculty,
As it were listening to the love in thee,
My whole mortality trembling to take
Thy body like heard singing of thy spirit.

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The Box

© Lascelles Abercrombie

Once upon a time, in the land of Hush-A-Bye,
Around about the wondrous days of yore,
They came across a kind of box
Bound up with chains and locked with locks

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Iv

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems ! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.

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From ‘The Soul’s Travelling’

© Elizabeth Barrett Browning

God, God!
With a child’s voice I cry,
Weak, sad, confidingly—
God, God!