Poems begining by F
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from Beachy Head
© Charlotte Turner Smith
On thy stupendous summit, rock sublime!
That o’er the channel reared, half way at sea
Finding the Space in the Heart
© Gary Snyder
I first saw it in the sixties,
driving a Volkswagen camper
Forty Little Polliwogs
© Pierre Reverdy
Forty little polliwogs
Swimming in a ditch,
Each so near alike,
They don't know which is which.
February
© Margaret Atwood
Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
from Hero and Leander: "It lies not in our power to love or hate"
© Christopher Marlowe
It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overruled by fate.
February Evening in New York
© Denise Levertov
As the stores close, a winter light
opens air to iris blue,
Fiat
© Boris Pasternak
Dawn will set candles guttering.
It will light up and loose the swifts.
With this reminder I'll burst in:
Let life be just as fresh as this!
Full Moon
© Elinor Wylie
My bands of silk and miniver
Momently grew heavier;
The black gauze was beggarly thin;
The ermine muffled mouth and chin;
I could not suck the moonlight in.
Fears In Solitude. Written In April, 1798, During The Alarm Of An Invasion
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
A green and silent spot, amid the hills,
A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself.
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,
from Stanzas in Meditation: Stanza XIII
© Gertrude Stein
There may be pink with white or white with rose
Or there may be white with rose and pink with mauve
Or even there may be white with yellow and yellow with blue
Or even if even it is rose with white and blue
And so there is no yellow there but by accident.
From Violence to Peace
© James Russell Lowell
Twenty-eight shotgun pellets
crater my thighs, belly and groin.
I gently thumb each burnt bead,
fingering scabbed stubs with ointment.
From Catullus V
© Sir Walter Raleigh
The sun may set and rise,
But we, contrariwise,
Sleep, after our short light,
One everlasting night.
Foreign Parts
© James Schuyler
the dirty photographs apostrophize mon-
soons. Swimming snakes shake the lake.
from The Bridge: Atlantis
© Hart Crane
Through the bound cable strands, the arching path
Upward, veering with light, the flight of strings,—
Fie, Pleasure, Fie!
© George Gascoigne
Fie pleasure, fie! thou cloyest me with delight,
Thou fill’st my mouth with sweetmeats overmuch;
I wallow still in joy both day and night:
I deem, I dream, I do, I taste, I touch,
No thing but all that smells of perfect bliss;
Fie pleasure, fie! I cannot like of this.
from Ajax: Dirge
© James Shirley
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
from “Poems for Moscow”
© Marina Tsvetaeva
From my hands—take this city not made by hands,
my strange, my beautiful brother.
