God poems
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Love's Progress
© John Donne
Whoever loves, if he do not proposeThe right true end of love, he's one that goesTo sea for nothing but to make him sick
That First Year
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
i wrote poems mainly that first year,picking garbage, doing dishes, humblingmyself among men who doubted me for having gottenthe world's publicity; what did i want with them, anyway?but after a year they saw my touch and needed an armaround them; men without women can use an italiannow and again to laugh christ off the cross and make him dance;make the devil look a bit foolish
God and the Fifties
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
It was shady deals andConnie Francis on jukeboxjunipers and chevy convertiblesparked outside Dino's restaurant;it was brighter skies, manageableskyscrapers, gang-fights and Kennedy;it was gambling at Atlantic City withthe Four Seasons, it was crabs andJohnny Unitas and Connie Arena whoteased my heart through ten schoolyears, her father practicing race-trackcornet every day driving us nuts onsuch bored summers of tee-shirtswith cigarette packs at the sleeve andBeachboys and weights
Brain Litany: Or, Overlooking the Existential Factor
© Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
"Can it be that any man has the skill to fabricate himself?" -- St. Augustine
Cooper's Hill (1655)
© Sir John Denham
Sure there are poets which did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, we therefore may supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
Cooper's Hill (1642)
© Sir John Denham
Sure we have poets that did never dreamUpon Parnassus, nor did taste the streamOf Helicon, and therefore I supposeThose made not poets, but the poets those
A Ballad of a Nun
© John Davidson
From Eastertide to Eastertide For ten long years her patient kneesEngraved the stones--the fittest bride Of Christ in all the diocese.
Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story
© Isabella Valancy Crawford
Part IA silver ring that he had beaten outFrom that same sacred coin--first well-priz'd wageFor boyish labour, kept thro' many years
Correspondences
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
All things in nature are beautiful types to the soul that can read them;Nothing exists upon earth, but for unspeakable ends,Every object that speaks to the senses was meant for the spirit;Nature is but a scroll; God's handwriting thereon
The Task: from Book IV: The Winter Evening
© William Cowper
Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,That with its wearisome but needful lengthBestrides the wintry flood, in which the moonSees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,He comes, the herald of a noisy world,With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;News from all nations lumb'ring at his back
The Passions
© William Taylor Collins
When Music, heav'nly maid, was young,While yet in early Greece she sung,The Passions oft, to hear her shell,Throng'd around her magic cell,Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,Possest beyond the Muse's painting;By turns they felt the glowing mindDisturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd:Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd,Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd,From the supporting myrtles roundThey snatch'd her instruments of sound;And as they oft had heard apartSweet lessons of her forceful art,Each, for madness rul'd the hour,Would prove his own expressive pow'r
Marching Men
© Coleman Helena Jane
Flaring bugle, throbbing drum,Onward, onward hear them come,Like a tide along the streetSwells the sound of martial feet;On the breeze their colors streaming,In the sun their rifles gleaming,Pride of country, pride of race
The Lament of the Forest
© Cole Thomas
In joyous Summer, when the exulting earthFlung fragrance from innumerable flowersThrough the wide wastes of heaven, as on she tookIn solitude her everlasting way,I stood among the mountain heights, alone!The beauteous mountains, which the voyagerOn Hudson's breast far in the purple westMagnificent, beholds; the abutments broadWhence springs the immeasurable dome of heaven
Watercolour for Negro Expatriates in France
© Clarke George Elliott
What are calendars to you?And, indeed, what are atlases? Time is cool jazz in Bretagne,you, hidden in berets or eccentric scarves,somewhere over the rainbow
The Assassination of Indira Gandhi
© Clarke George Elliott
In Kitchener, Hallowe'en frost chokes roses,The spruce gangrene, and haystacks flame in fieldsWhere Mennonites preach black, scorched-earth gospels
