Men poems
/ page 102 of 131 /
Waking in the Blue
© Robert Lowell
In between the limits of day,
hours and hours go by under the crew haircuts
and slightly too little nonsensical bachelor twinkle
of the Roman Catholic attendants.
(There are no Mayflower
screwballs in the Catholic Church.)
The Leader and the Bad Girl
© Henry Lawson
BECAUSE HE had sinned and suffered, because he loved the land,
And because of his wonderful sympathy, he held mens hearts in his hand.
Born and bred of the people, he knew their every whim,
And because he had struggled through poverty he could draw the poor to him:
Speaker and leader and poet, tall and handsome and strong,
With the eyes of a dog for faith and truth that blazed at the thought of a wrong.
Wild May
© Claude McKay
Aleta mentions in her tender letters,
Among a chain of quaint and touching things,
That you are feeble, weighted down with fetters,
And given to strange deeds and mutterings.
Rest in Peace
© Claude McKay
No more for you the city's thorny ways,
The ugly corners of the Negro belt;
The miseries and pains of these harsh days
By you will never, never again be felt.
Outcast
© Claude McKay
For the dim regions whence my fathers came
My spirit, bondaged by the body, longs.
Words felt, but never heard, my lips would frame;
My soul would sing forgotten jungle songs.
Tinker Jack And The Tidy Wives
© Sylvia Plath
Come lady, bring that pot
Gone black of polish
And whatever pan this mending master
The Duellist - Book III
© Charles Churchill
Ah me! what mighty perils wait
The man who meddles with a state,
Absence
© Claude McKay
Your words dropped into my heart like pebbles into a pool,
Rippling around my breast and leaving it melting cool. Your kisses fell sharp on my flesh like dawn-dews from the limb,
Of a fruit-filled lemon tree when the day is young and dim. But a silence vasty-deep, oh deeper than all these ties
Now, through the menacing miles, brooding between us lies. And more than the songs I sing, I await your written word,
The Bachelor's Soliloquy
© Edgar Albert Guest
To wed, or not to wed; that is the question;Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to sufferThe bills and house rent of a wedded fortune,Or to say "nit" when she proposes,And by declining cut her
Father
© Edgar Albert Guest
My father knows the proper way
The nation should be run;
He tells us children every day
Just what should now be done.
A qui donc sommes-nous?
© Victor Marie Hugo
A qui donc sommes-nous ? Qui nous a ? qui nous mène ?
Vautour fatalité, tiens-tu la race humaine ?
Oh ! parlez, cieux vermeils,
L'âme sans fond tient-elle aux étoiles sans nombre ?
Chaque rayon d'en haut est-il un fil de l'ombre
Liant l'homme aux soleils ?
Two Visions
© Alfred Austin
The curtains of the Night were folded
Over suspended sense;
So that the things I saw were moulded
I know not how nor whence.
How Rumplestilz Held Out In Vain For A Bonus
© Guy Wetmore Carryl
The Moral is: All said and done,
There's nothing new beneath the sun,
And many times before, a title
Was incapacity's requital!
Fears In Solitude
© Samuel Taylor Coleridge
[Image][Image][Image][Image][Image] May my fears,
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away
In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.
The Laverock
© George MacDonald
Laverock i' the lift,
Hae ye nae sang-thrift,
'At ye scatter 't sae heigh, and lat it a' drift?
Wasterfu laverock!
Dream Song 108: Sixteen below. Our care like stranded hulls
© John Berryman
Sixteen below. Our care like stranded hulls
litter all day our little Avenues.
It was 28 below.
No one goes anywhere. Fabulous calls
to duty clank. Icy dungeons, though,
have much to mention to you.
To The Poet On The Subject Of Flowers
© Arthur Rimbaud
Thus continually towards the dark azure,
Where the sea of topazes shimmers,
Will function in your evening
The Lilies, those pessaries of ectasy!
Dream Song 103: I consider a song will be as humming-bird
© John Berryman
I consider a song will be as humming-bird
swift, down-light, missile-metal-hard, & strange
as the world of anti-matter
where they are wondering: does time run backwardâ
which the poet thought was true; Scarlatti-supple;
but can Henry write it?
Dream Song 32: And where, friend Quo, lay you hiding
© John Berryman
And where, friend Quo, lay you hiding
across malignant half my years or so?
One evil faery
it was workt night, with amoroso pleasing
menace, the panes shake
where Lie-by-the-fire is waiting for his cream.
