Love poems

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The Story Of Our Lives

© Mark Strand

1
We are reading the story of our lives
which takes place in a room.
The room looks out on a street.

The New Poetry Handbook

© Mark Strand

21 If a man finishes a poem,
he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion
and be kissed by white paper.

The man that keeps the cutters sharp is growling in his cage,
He's always in a hurry; and he's always in a rage --
"You clumsy-fisted mutton-heads, you'd turn a fellow sick,
You pass yourselves as shearers, you were born to swing a pick.
Another broken cutter here, that's two you've broke today,
It's awful how such crawlers come to shear at Castlereagh."

With the Cattle

© Andrew Barton Paterson

The drought is down on field and flock,
The river-bed is dry;
And we must shift the starving stock
Before the cattle die.

The Matrimonial Stakes

© Andrew Barton Paterson

When I won the Flappers' Flatrace it was "all Sir Garneo",
For she praised the way I made my final run.
And she thought the riding won it -- for how could the poor girl know
That a monkey could have ridden it and won!

How The Favourite Beat Us

© Andrew Barton Paterson

"It seems old Tomato was stiff, though a starter;
They reckoned him fit for the Caulfield to keep.
The Bloke and the Donah were scratched by their owner,
He only was offered three-fourths of the sweep.

An answer to Various Bards

© Andrew Barton Paterson

Well, I've waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in,
Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin,
With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander's camp,
How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp;

Anthony Considine

© Andrew Barton Paterson

They fled together, as those must flee
Whom all men hold in blame;
Each to the other must all things be
Who cross the gulf of iniquity
And live in the land of shame.

The Last Trump

© Andrew Barton Paterson

"If you had drawn their leading spade
It meant a certain win!
But no! By Pembroke's mighty shade
The thirteenth trump you went and played
And let their diamonds in!

An Evening in Dandaloo

© Andrew Barton Paterson

It was while we held our races --
Hurdles, sprints and steplechases --
Up in Dandaloo,
That a crowd of Sydney stealers,

Tom Collins

© Andrew Barton Paterson

Who never drinks and never bets,
But loves his wife and pays his debts
And feels content with what he gets?
Tom Collins.

The Old Australian Ways

© Andrew Barton Paterson

The London lights are far abeam
Behind a bank of cloud,
Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
The gale is piping loud;

Song of the Future

"I care for nothing, good nor bad,
My hopes are gone, my pleasures fled,
I am but sifting sand," he said:
What wonder Gordon's songs were sad!

Over The Range

Little bush maiden, wondering-eyed,
Playing alone in the creek-bed dry,
In the small green flat on every side
Walled in by the Moonbi ranges high;

The Mylora Elopement

Pondering o'er his predilection, Jimmy watched McGrath, the boss,
Riding past his lone selection, looking for a station 'oss
That was running in the ranges with a mob of outlaws wild.
Mac the time of day exchanges -- off goes Jim to see his child;

The Fitzroy Blacksmith

The Australian going "home" for loans
Looks in at the open door;
He loves to see the imported plant,
And to hear the furnace roar,
And to watch the private firms smash up
Like chaff on the threshing-floor.

The Deficit Demon

One day as Dibbs bragged of his prowess in daylight the Deficit met him,
Settled his hash in one act and made him to all man a byword,
Sent hin, a raving ex-Premier, to dwell in the shades of oblivion,
And the people put forward a champion known as Sir Patrick the Portly.