History poems

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America Politica Historia, in Spontaneity

© Gregory Corso

O this political air so heavy with the bells

and motors of a slow night, and no place to rest

The Retreat From Moscow

© Victor Marie Hugo

It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red!

For once the eagle was hanging its head.

These lacustrine cities grew out of loathing
Into something forgetful, although angry with history.
They are the product of an idea: that man is horrible, for instance,
Though this is only one example.

What the End Is For

© Jorie Graham

where the heard foams up into the noise of listening,
where the listening arrives without being extinguished.
The huge hum soaks up into the dusk.
The minutes spring open. Six is too many.
From where we watch,
from where even watching is an anachronism,

from The Bridge: Atlantis

© Hart Crane

Through the bound cable strands, the arching path

Upward, veering with light, the flight of strings,—

History

© Robert Laurence Binyon

Time has stored all, but keeps his chronicle
In secret, beyond all our probe or gauge.
There flows the human story, vast and full;
And here a muddy trickle smears the page.

Golden State

© Frank Bidart

I
To see my father
lying in pink velvet, a rosary
twined around his hands, rouged,

Fanny

© John Betjeman

Part Four of “Pro Femina”

At Samoa, hardly unpacked, I commenced planting,

Retreat

© John Fuller

I should like to live in a sunny town like this
Where every afternoon is half-day closing
And I would wait at the terminal for the one train
Of the day, pacing the platform, and no one arriving.

Unknown Girl in the Maternity Ward

© Anne Sexton

Child, the current of your breath is six days long.

You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;

The Mariner's Cave

© Jean Ingelow

Once on a time there walked a mariner,
That had been shipwrecked;-on a lonely shore,
And the green water made a restless stir,
And a great flock of mews sped on before.
He had nor food nor shelter, for the tide
Rose on the one, and cliffs on the other side.

Causerie

© Allen Tate

. . . party on the stage of the Earl Carroll Theatre on
Feb. 23. At this party Joyce Hawley, a chorus-girl,
bathed in the nude in a bathtub filled with alleged
wine. New York Times.

Hotel Lautréamont

© John Ashbery

1.
Research has shown that ballads were produced by all of society
working as a team. They didn’t just happen. There was no guesswork.
The people, then, knew what they wanted and how to get it.
We see the results in works as diverse as “Windsor Forest” and “The Wife of Usher’s Well.”