Car poems
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A Child's Christmas In Wales
© Dylan Thomas
One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound
except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember
whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve
nights when I was six.
Fern Hill
© Dylan Thomas
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Potions
© Yusef Komunyakaa
The old woman made mint
Candy for the children
Who'd bolt through her front door,
Silhouettes of the great blue
Prisoners
© Yusef Komunyakaa
Usually at the helipad
I see them stumble-dance
across the hot asphalt
with crokersacks over their heads,
My Father's Love Letters
© Yusef Komunyakaa
On Fridays he'd open a can of Jax
After coming home from the mill,
& ask me to write a letter to my mother
Who sent postcards of desert flowers
V
© Tony Harrison
Next millennium you'll have to search quite hard
to find my slab behind the family dead,
butcher, publican, and baker, now me, bard
adding poetry to their beef, beer and bread.
Long Distance I
© Tony Harrison
Them sweets you brought me, you can have 'em back.
Ah'm diabetic now. Got all the facts.
(The diabetes comes hard on the track
of two coronaries and cataracts.)
Book Ends
© Tony Harrison
Back in our silences and sullen looks,
for all the Scotch we drink, what's still between 's
not the thirty or so years, but books, books, books.
Without this -- there is nought --
© Emily Dickinson
Without this -- there is nought --
All other Riches be
As is the Twitter of a Bird --
Heard opposite the Sea --
Whose Pink career may have a close
© Emily Dickinson
Whose Pink career may have a close
Portentous as our own, who knows?
To imitate these Neighbors fleet
In awe and innocence, were meet.
Who is the East?
© Emily Dickinson
Who is the East?
The Yellow Man
Who may be Purple if He can
That carries in the Sun.
White as an Indian Pipe
© Emily Dickinson
White as an Indian Pipe
Red as a Cardinal Flower
Fabulous as a Moon at Noon
February Hour --
When we have ceased to care
© Emily Dickinson
When we have ceased to care
The Gift is given
For which we gave the Earth
And mortgaged Heaven
When Night is almost done
© Emily Dickinson
When Night is almost done --
And Sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the Spaces --
It's time to smooth the Hair --
What shall I do -- it whimpers so
© Emily Dickinson
What shall I do -- it whimpers so --
This little Hound within the Heart
All day and night with bark and start --
And yet, it will not go --
What care the Dead, for Chanticleer --
© Emily Dickinson
What care the Dead, for Chanticleer --
What care the Dead for Day?
'Tis late your Sunrise vex their face --
And Purple Ribaldry -- of Morning
We do not know the time we lose --
© Emily Dickinson
We do not know the time we lose --
The awful moment is
And takes its fundamental place
Among the certainties --
To make One's Toilette -- after Death
© Emily Dickinson
To make One's Toilette -- after Death
Has made the Toilette cool
Of only Taste we cared to please
Is difficult, and still --
To learn the Transport by the Pain
© Emily Dickinson
To learn the Transport by the Pain
As Blind Men learn the sun!
To die of thirst -- suspecting
That Brooks in Meadows run!
This is a Blossom of the Brain --
© Emily Dickinson
This is a Blossom of the Brain --
A small -- italic Seed
Lodged by Design or Happening
The Spirit fructified --
