Food poems
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I must not teaze my Mother
© Sigourney Lydia Huntley
I must not teaze my Mother; For she is very kind,And every thingshe says to me, I must directly mind:For when I was a baby
Astrophel and Stella: 88
© Sir Philip Sidney
Out traytour absence, darest thou counsell me,From my deare Captainnesse to run away?Because in braue array heere marcheth she,That to win me, oft shewes a present pay?Is faith so weake? or is such force in thee?When Sun is hid, can starres such beames display?Cannot heau'ns food once felt, keepe stomakes freeFrom base desire on earthly cates to pray
Astrophel and Stella: 87
© Sir Philip Sidney
When I was forst from Stella euer deere,Stella food of my thoughts, hart of my heart,Stella whose eyes make all my tempests cleere,By yron lawes of dutie to depart:Alas I found, that she with me did smart,I saw that teares did in her eyes appeare;I saw that sighs her sweetest lips did part,And her sad words my saddest sence did heare
Astrophel and Stella: 71
© Sir Philip Sidney
Who will in fairest booke of Nature know,How Vertue may best lodg'd in beautie be,Let him but learne of Loue to read in theeStella, those faire lines, which true goodnesse show
Astrophel and Stella: 46
© Sir Philip Sidney
I curst thee oft, I pittie now thy case,Blind-hitting boy, since she that thee and meRules with a becke, so tyrannizeth thee,That thou must want or foode, or dwelling place
Astrophel and Stella: 29
© Sir Philip Sidney
Like some weake Lords, neighbord by mighty kings,To keepe themselues and their chiefe cities free,Do easly yeeld, that all their coasts may beReady to store their campes of needfull things:So Stellas heart finding what power Loue brings,To keepe it selfe in life and liberty,Doth willing graunt, that in the frontiers heVse all to helpe his other conquerings:And thus her heart escapes, but thus her eyesSerue him with shot, her lips his heralds arre:Her breasts his tents, legs his triumphall carre:Her flesh his foode, her skin his armour braue,And I, but for because my prospect liesVpon that coast, am giu'n vp for a slaue
Shakespeare's Sonnets: So are you to my thoughts as food to life
© William Shakespeare
So are you to my thoughts as food to lifeOr as sweet season'd show'rs are to the ground;And for the peace of you I hold such strifeAs 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found,Now proud as an enjoyer, and anonDoubting the filching age will steal his treasure,Now counting best to be with you alone,Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure,Some-time all full with feasting on your sight,And by and by clean starvèd for a look,Possessing or pursuing no delightSave what is had, or must from you be took
The Mirror for Magistrates: The Induction
© Thomas Sackville
The wrathful winter, 'proaching on apace,With blustering blasts had all ybar'd the treen,And old Saturnus, with his frosty face,With chilling cold had pierc'd the tender green;The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, The tapets torn, and every bloom down blown
Flight into Reality
© Rowley Rosemarie
Dedicated to the memory of my best friend Georgina, (1942-74)and to her husband Alex Burns and their childrenNulles laides amours ne belles prison -Lord Herbert of Cherbury
Bleinheim, a Poem
© Philips John
From low and abject themes the grov'ling museNow mounts aërial, to sing of armsTriumphant, and emblaze the martial actsOf Britain's hero; may the verse not sinkBeneath his merits, but detain a whileThy ear, O Harley, (though thy country's wealDepends on thee, though mighty Anne requiresThy hourly counsels) since with ev'ry artThy self adorn'd, the mean essays of youthThou wilt not damp, but guide, wherever found,The willing genius to the muses' seat:Therefore thee first, and last, the muse shall sing
Good-bye Hello in the East Village 1993
© Peacock Molly
Three tables down from Allen Ginsberg we sitin JJ's Russian Restaurant
Quia Multum Amavit
© John Payne
Just a drowned woman, with death-draggled hair And wan eyes, all a-stare;The weary limbs composed in ghastly rest, The hands together prest,Tight holding something that the flood has spared, Nor even the rough workhouse folk have dared To separate from her wholly, but untiedGently the knotted hands and laid it by her side
What Indians?
© Ortiz Simon Joseph
The Truth Is: "No kidding?" "No." "Come on! That can't be true!" "No kidding."
Voice of the Twentieth Century
© Robert Norwood
Voice of our Century, whose heart is broken,Weeping for those who will not come again--Lord Christ! hast thou been crucified in vain?--Challenge the right of every Tyrant's token:The fist of mail; the sceptre; ancient, oakenCoffers of gold for which thy sons are slain;The pride of place, which from the days of CainHath for the empty right of Power spoken!
Be like a trumpet blown from clouds of doomAgainst whatever seeks to bind on earth;Bring from the blood of battle, from the wombOf women weeping for their dead, the birthOf better days with banishment of wrong,Love in all hearts, on every lip--a song
Business
© Moritz Albert Frank
Stiff, thick: the white hair of the broad-faced father,who leads his shambling son alongcracked sidewalks, by dusty glass half hidinggoods never sold
