Death poems
/ page 275 of 560 /
one's not half two. It's two are halves of one:
© Edward Estlin Cummings
one's not half two. It's two are halves of one:
which halves reintegrating,shall occur
no death and any quantity;but than
all numerable mosts the actual more
nothing false and possible is love... (XXXIV)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
nothing false and possible is love
(who's imagined,therefore is limitless)
love's to giving as to keeping's give;
as yes is to if,love is to yes
my love is building a building... (XII)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
my love is building a building
around you, a frail slippery
house, a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginning
pity this busy monster,manunkind... (XIV)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
plays with the bigness of his littleness
-electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend
your little voice... (I)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
your little voice
Over the wires came leaping
and i felt suddenly
dizzy
i am a little church
© Edward Estlin Cummings
i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april
when what hugs stopping earth than silent is... (16)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
when what hugs stopping earth than silent is
more silent than more than much more is or
total sun oceaning than any this
tear jumping from each most least eye of star
All in green went my love riding
© Edward Estlin Cummings
All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.
Humanity i love you
© Edward Estlin Cummings
Humanity i love you
because you would rather black the boots of
success than enquire whose soul dangles from his
watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
© Edward Estlin Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
because i love you)last night
© Edward Estlin Cummings
clothed in sealace
appeared to me
your mind drifting
with chuckling rubbish
of pearl weed coral and stones;
since feeling is first... (VII)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
1954
© Sharon Olds
Then dirt scared me, because of the dirt
he had put on her face. And her training bra
scared methe newspapers, morning and evening,
kept saying it, training bra,
A Week Later
© Sharon Olds
A week later, I said to a friend: I don't
think I could ever write about it.
Maybe in a year I could write something.
There is something in me maybe someday
One Year
© Sharon Olds
When I got to his marker, I sat on it,
like sitting on the edge of someone's bed
and I rubbed the smooth, speckled granite.
I took some tears from my jaw and neck
The New Ezekiel
© Emma Lazarus
What, can these dead bones live, whose sap is dried
By twenty scorching centuries of wrong?
Is this the House of Israel, whose pride
Is as a tale that's told, an ancient song?
The Cranes of Ibicus
© Emma Lazarus
Here was a man who watched the river flow
Past the huge town, one gray November day.
Round him in narrow high-piled streets at play
The boys made merry as they saw him go,
Tomes
© Billy Collins
There is a section in my library for death
and another for Irish history,
a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan,
and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books,
