Poems begining by D

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Does your semen smell like camembert?

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Does your semen smell like camembert? Its just
a thought I had today at lunch, I must have had
the hunch before, perhaps reversed, and then
forgot. Its not the sort of thought youd have a lot

Let them declare Jihad then, let them despair that I
will speak the truth as I see it, and where that truth bears
brutally on their lies I will have applied my brand of terrorism as
desperately as they do theirs. Abu Bakar Bashir,

Do you know who is thinking of you?

© Ivan Donn Carswell

If you start out every day in the same old gloomy way
its little wonder what other people think of you, but
the ones who matter most are the ones who hold you close
in their hearts, whore always thinking of you;

Dead thoughts of corpses

© Ivan Donn Carswell

The symbols that we use are T shirts of the dead
thoughts of corpses without heads, a rictus
without sound open-mouthed, empty, unbound.
And if you ever write those clichés which incite
my approbation, fuck you, I am not amused.
And if I ever do, then fuck me too.

Dead poet

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Im sure it would be easier to survive as a dead poet,
I mean it in the surmise that I wont be tempted
to revise or rewrite the poem I wrote last night, or the
poems I wrote last week (which make me cringe when I

Dead mans clothes

© Ivan Donn Carswell

Growing up, I propose,
is like wearing a dead mans clothes.
Death has a way of levelling the ground.
I have found the closer your relationship

Days of the slow roll

© Ivan Donn Carswell

It was the days of the slow roll,
times when we dextrously dressed
our hand-rolled cigarettes
with a dearth of fine-cut tobacco,

Death

© George Herbert

Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,
Nothing but bones,
The sad effect of sadder grones:
Thy mouth was open, but thou couldst not sing.

Ditty

© Allen Tate

The moon will run all consciences to cover,

Night is now the easy peer of day;

De Little Pickaninny's Gone to Sleep

© James Weldon Johnson

Cuddle down, ma honey, in yo' bed,
Go to sleep an' res' yo' little head,
Been a-kind o' ailin' all de day?
Didn't have no sperit fu' to play?

Death

© Thomas Hood

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;

Dream Song 136: While his wife earned the living, Rabbi Henry

While his wife earned the living, Rabbi Henry
studied the Torah, writing commentaries
more likely to be burnt than printed.
It was rumoured that they needed revision.
Smiling, kissing, he bent his head not with 'Please'
but with austere requests barely hinted,

Discordants

© Conrad Aiken

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.