Poems begining by H
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Happiness
© Jane Kenyon
There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
His death in Benares
© Kabir
his front yard
is the true Benares
— Devara Dasimayya,
tr. A.K. Ramanujan
His death in Benares
Won’t save the assassin
From certain hell,
How to Get There
© Philip Levine
Turn left off Henry onto Middagh Street
to see our famous firehouse, home
of Engine 205 and
Herbert Glerbett
© Jack Prelutsky
Herbert Glerbett, rather round,
swallow sherbet by the pound,
fifty pounds of lemon sherbet
went inside of Herbert Glerbett.
"Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,"
© Pierre Reverdy
Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall;
Down will come baby, cradle and all.
Helen: A Revision
© Jack Spicer
And if he dies on this road throw wild blackberries at his ghost
And if he doesn't, and he won't, hope the cost
Hope the cost.
Huswifery
© Edward Taylor
Make me, O Lord, thy Spining Wheele compleate.
Thy Holy Worde my Distaff make for mee.
Make mine Affections thy Swift Flyers neate
And make my Soule thy holy Spoole to bee.
My Conversation make to be thy Reele
And reele the yarn thereon spun of thy Wheele.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)
© Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
Hands
© Robinson Jeffers
Inside a cave in a narrow canyon near Tassajara
The vault of rock is painted with hands,
How We Were Introduced
© Zbigniew Herbert
—for perfidious protectors
I was playing in the street
no one paid attention to me
as I made forms out of sand
mumbling Rimbaud under my breath
Harvest Song
© Jean Toomer
My eyes are caked with dust of oat-fields at harvest-time.
I am a blind man who stares across the hills, seeking stack’d fields
of other harvesters.
His Suicide
© May Swenson
He looked down at his withering body and saw a hair
near his navel, swaying.
How Things Work
© Gary Soto
Today it’s going to cost us twenty dollars
To live. Five for a softball. Four for a book,
Hollywood Elegies
© Bertolt Brecht
Under the long green hair of pepper trees,
The writers and composers work the street.
Bach’s new score is crumpled in his pocket,
Dante sways his ass-cheeks to the beat.
