Poems begining by I
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In A Southern Garden
© Dorothea Mackellar
WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze,
And bats begin their jerky skimming flight,
And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,
Grow sweeter with the coming of the night.
Insomnia by Rynn Williams: American Life in Poetry #145 Ted Kooser, U.S. Poet Laureate 2004-2006
© Ted Kooser
I try floating out along the long O of lone,
to where it flattens to loss, and just stay there
disconnecting the dots of my night sky
as one would take apart a house made of sticks,
carefully, last addition to first,
like sheep leaping backward into their pens.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright © 2007 by Rynn Williams, whose most recent book of poetry is âAdonis Garage,â? University of Nebraska Press, 2005. Poem reprinted from âColumbia Poetry Review,â? no. 20, Spring 2007, by permission of Rynn Williams. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
Idleness
© Thomas Sturge Moore
O idleness, too fond of me,
Begone, I know and hate thee!
Nothing canst thou of pleasure see
In one that so doth rate thee;
Itching Heels
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
FU' de peace o' my eachin' heels, set down;
Don' fiddle dat chune no mo'.
Is It Well?
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
Saw you the youth, with the face like the morning,
Refilling the glass, that foamed white as the sea?
In Memoriam : Francis Archibald Douglas
© Lord Alfred Douglas
Dear friend, dear brother, I have owed you this
Since many days, the tribute of a song.
Shall I cheat you who never did a wrong
To any man ? No, therefore though I miss
Inversnaid
© Govinda Krishna Chettur
This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
I Stood Tip-Toe Upon A Little Hill
© John Keats
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Italy : 46. Sorrento
© Samuel Rogers
He who sets sail from Naples, when the wind
Blows fragrance from Posilipo, may soon,
Crossing from side to side that beautiful lake,
Land underneath the cliff, where once among
It Happens In The B.R. Families
© Franklin Pierce Adams
'Twas on the shores that round our coast
From Deal to Newport lie
That I roused from sleep in a huddled heap
An elderly wealthy guy.
I cried at Pitynot at Pain
© Emily Dickinson
I cried at Pitynot at Pain
I heard a Woman say
"Poor Child"and something in her voice
Convicted meof me
I Know You Not
© Christina Georgina Rossetti
O Christ, the Vine with living Fruit,
The twelvefold-fruited Tree of Life,
I See Around Me Tombstones Grey
© Emily Jane Brontë
I see around me tombstones grey
Stretching their shadows far away.
I Love Sensual Women
© Daniil Ivanovich Kharms
I love sensual women and not passionate ones. A passionate woman closes her eyes, moans and shouts and the enjoyment of a passionate woman is blind.
A passionate woman writhes about, grabs you with her hands without looking where, clasps you, kisses you, even bites you and hurries to reach her climax as soon as she can. She has no time to display her sexual organs, no time to examine, touch with the hand and kiss your sexual organs, she is in such a hurry to slake her passion. Having slaked her passion, the passionate woman will fall asleep. The sexual organs of a passionate woman are dry. A passionate woman is always in some way or another mannish.
Indolence
© Robert Fuller Murray
Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I
Thy strong solicitations to withstand.
Plenty of work lies ready to my hand,
Which rests irresolute, and lets it lie.
Indian Summer
© Emily Dickinson
These are the days when Birds come back
A very fewa Bird or two
To take a backward look.
I Am Going To Sleep (Suicide Poem)
© Alfonsina Storni
Teeth of flowers, hairnet of dew,
hands of herbs, you, perfect wet nurse,
prepare the earthly sheets for me
and the down quilt of weeded moss.
