Poems begining by F
/ page 86 of 107 /
"Full Well I Know . . . "
© Hartley Coleridge
FULL well I know - my friends - ye look on me
A living specter of my Father dead -
From The Frontier Of Writing
© Seamus Justin Heaney
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
Follower
© Seamus Justin Heaney
My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.
From: An Evening Revery
© William Cullen Bryant
FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM
The summer day is closed--the sun is set:
Fragment
© James Weldon Johnson
The hand of Fate cannot be stayed,
The course of Fate cannot be steered,
By all the gods that man has made,
Nor all the devils he has feared,
Not by the prayers that might be prayed
In all the temples he has reared.
From Eurpides II
© Samuel Rogers
Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees;
And all, who know it, come and come again.
The small birds build there; and, at summer-noon,
Oft have I heard a child, gay among the flowers,
As in the shining grass she sate concealed,
Sing to herself…….
Flower-De-Luce: Hawthorne
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
How beautiful it was, that one bright day
In the long week of rain!
Though all its splendor could not chase away
The omnipresent pain.
Futurelessness
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Time to count the torrid cost of careless words inflicted on
your battered dignity, time to close the ugly face that chanted
out invective foul and shattered amity, time to quell
the fervid rush of feckless wrath which weighs
against the bloodied loss this manic madness brusque
and hot has flung across the face of sanity.
Frogmouth biker
© Ivan Donn Carswell
The biker was a menace on the farm, a madman bent
on speed, intent on leaving all for dead (it was fortunate
he never left the shed). This biker was a frogmouth owl,
a petrol head who sought to ride the biggest, baddest bike
Free from intrusion
© Ivan Donn Carswell
You awaken this time with a welcoming smile, an experience
sublime, not a dream the boner from Hell
has presented itself like a prospect of fate, and reasoned
debate be damned, youll argue its merits later.
Fountain of your rise
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Michelle, the thought of you confused or under siege
bereaves us; you, the cheerful heart who waged a
silent war for lost, egregious souls whose thanks
deserted you should never be constrained, should never
need to grieve in anxious pain or ever cede to grieve alone.
Forsaken promises
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Nothing came to claim my muse, instead I dreamed
of freedoms neatly folded in a treasure chest lying in the debris
of a crater; the best were simple choices, the rest forsaken
promises bombed to shreds beside their makers.
Forever Alight
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Were meetings destined then this was one
to take a leading place, the oracle decreed it fate
in a matrix of moving matter, and the signs all clattered with
chance fêted as a sweet benefactor. When we were separate
For you secular needs
© Ivan Donn Carswell
Somebody please explain, can you help
me understand; Ive watched the weather
radar creep its colours on the screen
and watched out of the window for the band
For Siggy & Bill
© Ivan Donn Carswell
so I took him too. I flicked them through,
scanned a few pages, gazed at the ancient
pictures, yawned, left them on the bed
and rediscovered them this morning.
Now I have two books to read
For Harry (My College Room-mate who Died)
© Ivan Donn Carswell
He cut his hand and it bled, the flesh
inside was red and the hurt discounted the flood
of red and vibrant blood that pulsed
from the wound. But he was a warrior,
Faustus And Helen
© Arthur Symons
HELEN
Have I slept long? You waken me from sleep.
I have forgotten something: what is it?
Fragments from "Under The Lilacs".
© Louisa May Alcott
"So he took up his bow,
And he feathered his arrow,
And said, 'I will shoot
This little cock-sparrow.'"
Full Moon
© Victoria Mary Sackville-West
She was wearing the coral taffeta trousers
Someone had brought her from Ispahan,
And the little gold coat with pomegranate blossoms,
And the coral-hafted feather fan;
But she ran down a Kentish lane in the moonlight,
And skipped in the pool of the moon as she ran.
From the Roof
© Denise Levertov
This wild night, gathering the washing as if it were flowers animal vines twisting over the line and
slapping my face lightly, soundless merriment
in the gesticulations of shirtsleeves,
I recall out of my joy a night of misery
