Hope poems
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Beach Glass
© Amy Clampitt
While you walk the water's edge,
turning over concepts
I can't envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time
Mayakovsky In New York: A Found Poem
© Annie Dillard
For many hours the train flies along the banks
of the Hudson about two feet from the water. At the stops,
passengers run out, buy up bunches of celery,
and run back in, chewing the stalks as they go.
To Sapho
© Robert Herrick
Sapho, I will chuse to go
Where the northern winds do blow
Endless ice, and endless snow;
Rather than I once would see
But a winter's face in thee,--
To benumb my hopes and me.
His Age:dedicated To His Peculiar Friend,mr John Wickes, Under The Name Ofpostumus
© Robert Herrick
Ah, Posthumus! our years hence fly
And leave no sound: nor piety,
Or prayers, or vow
Can keep the wrinkle from the brow;
The Fairy Temple; Or, Oberon's Chapel
© Robert Herrick
RARE TEMPLES THOU HAST SEEN, I KNOW,
AND RICH FOR IN AND OUTWARD SHOW;
SURVEY THIS CHAPEL BUILT, ALONE,
WITHOUT OR LIME, OR WOOD, OR STONE.
THEN SAY, IF ONE THOU'ST SEEN MORE FINE
THAN THIS, THE FAIRIES' ONCE, NOW THINE.
The Primrose
© Robert Herrick
Ask me why I send you here
This sweet Infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This Primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew?
I will whisper to your ears,--
The sweets of love are mixt with tears.
Mrs Eliz: Wheeler, Under The Name Of Thelost Shepherdess
© Robert Herrick
Among the myrtles as I walk'd
Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd:
Tell me, said I, in deep distress,
Where I may find my Shepherdess?
His Meditation Upon Death
© Robert Herrick
BE those few hours, which I have yet to spend,
Blest with the meditation of my end;
Though they be few in number, I'm content;
If otherwise, I stand indifferent,
The Changes: To Corinna
© Robert Herrick
Be not proud, but now incline
Your soft ear to discipline;
You have changes in your life,
Sometimes peace, and sometimes strife;
His Litany to the Holy Spirit
© Robert Herrick
In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit comfort me!
His Poetry His Pillar
© Robert Herrick
Only a little more
I have to write:
Then I'll give o'er,
And bid the world good-night.
Impossibilities: To His Friend
© Robert Herrick
My faithful friend, if you can see
The fruit to grow up, or the tree;
If you can see the colour come
Into the blushing pear or plum;
The Argument Of His Book
© Robert Herrick
I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers.
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.
To The Dead
© Frank Bidart
What I hope (when I hope) is that we'll
see each other again,--. . . and again reach the VEINin which we loved each other . .
It existed. It existed.There is a NIGHT within the NIGHT,--. . . for, like the detectives (the Ritz Brothers)
in The Gorilla,once we'd been battered by the gorillawe searched the walls, the intricately carved
California Plush
© Frank Bidart
is the Hollywood Freeway at midnight, windows down and
radio blaring
bearing right into the center of the city, the Capitol Tower
on the right, and beyond it, Hollywood Boulevard
blazing
Herbert White
© Frank Bidart
and then I did it to her a couple of times,--
but it was funny,--afterwards,
it was as if somebody else did it ...
Civilian and Soldier
© Wole Soyinka
My apparition rose from the fall of lead,
Declared, 'I am a civilian.' It only served
To aggravate your fright. For how could I
Have risen, a being of this world, in that hour
Of impartial death! And I thought also: nor is
Your quarrel of this world.
To a Contemporary Bunkshooter
© Carl Sandburg
You come along squirting words at us, shaking your fist
and calling us all damn fools so fierce the froth slobbers
over your lips. . . always blabbing we're all
going to hell straight off and you know all about it.
The Year
© Carl Sandburg
IA STORM of white petals,
Buds throwing open baby fists
Into hands of broad flowers.
The Sins of Kalamazoo
© Carl Sandburg
THE SINS of Kalamazoo are neither scarlet nor crimson.
The sins of Kalamazoo are a convict gray, a dishwater drab.
