Poems begining by D

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Dutch Interiors

© Jane Kenyon

Christ has been done to death
in the cold reaches of northern Europe
a thousand thousand times.
Suddenly bread
and cheese appear on a plate
beside a gleaming pewter beaker of beer.

Dreamwork Three

© Jerome Rothenberg

a trembling old man dreams of a chinese garden

a comical old man dreams of newspapers under his rabbi's hat

Daddy

© Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Dismantling the House

© Stephen Dunn

Rent a flatbed with a winch.
With the right leverage
anything can be hoisted, driven off.

[Didn’t Sappho say her guts clutched up like this?]

© Marilyn Hacker

Didn’t Sappho say her guts clutched up like this?

Before a face suddenly numinous,

Dreamwood

© Adrienne Rich

In the old, scratched, cheap wood of the typing stand

there is a landscape, veined, which only a child can see

Desdichada

© Katha Pollitt

I.

For that you never acknowledged me, I acknowledge

Daddy Longlegs

© Ted Kooser

Here, on fine long legs springy as steel,

a life rides, sealed in a small brown pill

Delia Rexroth

© Kenneth Rexroth

died June 1916

Under your illkempt yellow roses,

Dusting

© Rita Dove

Every day a wilderness—no

shade in sight. Beulah

Destitute Peru

© James Schuyler

For John Ashbery
We pullmaned to Peoria. Was
Gladys glad, Skippy missed
Sookie so. So Peru-ward, home.
“I’ll sew buttons on dresses yet.”

Don't Worry if Your Job Is Small

© Pierre Reverdy

Don't worry if your job is small,
And your rewards are few.
Remember that the mighty oak,
Was once a nut like you.

Dejection: An Ode

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.

Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel

Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;

Disregard

© Ai

Overhead, the match burns out,

but the chunk of ice in the back seat

Dank fens of cedar; hemlock-branches gray

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored
means you have no