Food poems

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Nightmare Number Three

© Stephen Vincent Benet

We had expected everything but revolt

And I kind of wonder myself when they started thinking--

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Tristram And Iseult

© Matthew Arnold

 Tristram. Is she not come? The messenger was sure—
Prop me upon the pillows once again—
Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.
—Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!
 What lights will those out to the northward be?

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The Idols

© Robert Laurence Binyon


I.2
The Forests of the Night awaken blind in heat
Of black stupor; and stirring in its deep retreat,
I hear the heart of Darkness slowly beat and beat.

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Lohengrin

© Emma Lazarus

THE holy bell, untouched by human hands,
Clanged suddenly, and tolled with solemn knell.
Between the massive, blazoned temple-doors,
Thrown wide, to let the summer morning in,

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We Eat Out Together

© Bernadette Mayer

My heart is a fancy place

Where giant reddish-purple cauliflowers

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Eden bower

© Dante Gabriel Rossetti

It was Lilith the wife of Adam:

(Sing Eden Bower!)

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Simone Weil: The Year of Factory Work (1934-1935)

© Edward Hirsch

A glass of red wine trembles on the table, 

Untouched, and lamplight falls across her shoulders.

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Division Of An Estate

© George Moses Horton

It well bespeaks a man beheaded, quite
Divested of the laurel robe of life,
When every member struggles for its base,
The head; the power of order now recedes,

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from Paragraphs from a Day-Book (section 1 only)

© Marilyn Hacker

For Hayden Carruth


Thought thrusts up, homely as a hyacinth 

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O Tan-Faced Prairie-Boy

© Walt Whitman

O tan-faced prairie-boy,
Before you came to camp came many a welcome gift,
Praises and presents came and nourishing food, till at last among the recruits,
You came, taciturn, with nothing to give – we but look’d on each other,
When lo! more than all the gifts of the world you gave me.

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When I Heard At The Close Of The Day

© Walt Whitman


For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in
  the cool night,
In the stillness, in the autumn moonbeams, his face was inclined
  toward me,
And his arm lay lightly around my breast-and that night I was happy.

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If? See No End In Is

© Frank Bidart

What none knows is when, not if.
Now that your life nears its end
when you turn back what you see
is ruin. You think, It is a prison. No,
it is a vast resonating chamber in
which each thing you say or do is

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... by an Earthquake

© John Ashbery

A, undergoing a strange experience among a people weirdly deluded, discovers the secret of the delusion from Herschel, one of the victims who has died. By means of information obtained from the notebook, A succeeds in rescuing the other victims of the delusion.
A dies of psychic shock.
Albert has a dream, or an unusual experience, psychic or otherwise, which enables him to conquer a serious character weakness and become successful in his new narrative, “Boris Karloff.”

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Phantasmagoria Canto I (The Trystyng )

© Lewis Carroll

ONE winter night, at half-past nine,
Cold, tired, and cross, and muddy,
I had come home, too late to dine,
And supper, with cigars and wine,
Was waiting in the study.

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Four Sonnets (1922)

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

I


Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,

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Five Visions of Captain Cook

© Kenneth Slessor

Two chronometers the captain had,
One by Arnold that ran like mad,
One by Kendal in a walnut case,
Poor devoted creature with a hangdog face.

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the difference between a bad poet and a good one is luck

© Charles Bukowski

I suppose so.

I was living in an attic in Philadelphia

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Ode For September

© Robert Laurence Binyon

On that long day when England held her breath,
Suddenly gripped at heart
And called to choose her part
Between her loyal soul and luring sophistries,

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Your Shakespeare

© Marvin Bell

If I am sentenced not to talk to you,
and you are sentenced not to talk to me,
then we wear the clothes of the desert 
serving that sentence, we are the leaves 
trampled underfoot, not even fit to be 
ground in for food, then we are the snow.

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Statement with Rhymes

© Weldon Kees

Plurality is all. I sympathize, but cannot grieve
too long for those who wear their dialectics on their sleeves. 
The pattern’s one I sometimes rather like; there’s really nothing wrong
with it for some. But I should add: It doesn’t wear for long, 
before I push the elevator bell and quickly leave.