Mom poems
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In November (2)
© Archibald Lampman
With loitering step and quiet eye,
Beneath the low November sky,
I wandered in the woods, and found
A clearing, where the broken ground
Dionysus
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
Somewhere, suspended in facetless space,
the vine is spiralling, shown in the distance, with loosened hair:
the farther the eye is, the quicker, the faster it is moving,
as if all this length is bestowing on it the result
and the encouraging memory of the way, done and forgotten for good.
First Letter
© Vlanes (Vladislav Nekliaev)
We crossed to the other side, the burgee of the boat
ceased flapping and lagged behind like a dead wing.
The visible air seemed neither cold nor hot,
the violet clouds flew past us, scurrying.
The plain was dark, and the mountain was tall,
and the echo swallowed the boatman's call.
The Mountain Splitter
© Henry Lawson
HE WORKS in the glen where the waratah grows,
And the gums and the ashes are tall,
Neath cliffs that re-echo the sound of his blows
When the wedges leap in from the mawl.
Olympus
© Richard Monckton Milnes
With no sharp--sided peak or sudden cone,
Thou risest o'er the blank Thessalian plain,
But in the semblance of a rounded throne,
Meet for a monarch and his noble train
Night-Winds In Winter
© Paul Hamilton Hayne
WINDS! are they winds?--or myriad ghosts, that shriek?
Ghosts of poor mariners, drowned in Northern seas,
Beside the surf-tormented Hebrides,
Whose voices now of tide-born terror speak
Time's Shadow
© Mathilde Blind
This hour alone Hope's broken pledges mar,
And joy now gleams before, now in our rear,
Like mirage mocking in some waste afar,
Dissolving into air as we draw near.
Beyond our steps the path is sunny-clear,
The shadow lying only where we are.
To The Poet
© Thomas William Heney
WHAT cares the rose if the buds which are its pride
Be plucked for the breast of the dead or the hands of a bride?
At Last
© James Whitcomb Riley
A dark, tempestuous night; the stars shut in
With shrouds of fog; an inky, jet-black blot
The firmament; and where the moon has been
An hour agone seems like the darkest spot.
The weird wind--furious at its demon game--
Rattles one's fancy like a window-frame.
The Woman That Lifted Up Her Voice
© George MacDonald
Filled with his words of truth and right,
Her heart will break or cry:
A woman's cry bursts forth in might
Of loving agony.
The Harp Of Hoel
© William Lisle Bowles
It was a high and holy sight,
When Baldwin and his train,
With cross and crosier gleaming bright,
Came chanting slow the solemn rite,
To Gwentland's pleasant plain.
The City Planners
© Margaret Atwood
give momentary access to
the landscape behind or under
the future cracks in the plaster
Flying Inside Your Own Body
© Margaret Atwood
Your lungs fill & spread themselves,
wings of pink blood, and your bones
empty themselves and become hollow.
When you breathe in youll lift like a balloon
The Watchman
© Ada Cambridge
To mothers and to men;
To take him for our heaven-sent guide
On seas he never voyaged-wide
And wild beyond his ken.
The Moment
© Margaret Atwood
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
Variation On The Word Sleep
© Margaret Atwood
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
The White Flag
© John Hay
I sent my love two roses, - one
As white as driven snow,
And one a blushing royal red,
A flaming Jacqueminot.
An Answer
© Frances Anne Kemble
Could I be sure that I should die
The moment you had ceased to love me,
The Four Ages of Man
© Anne Bradstreet
1.1 Lo now! four other acts upon the stage,
1.2 Childhood, and Youth, the Manly, and Old-age.
1.3 The first: son unto Phlegm, grand-child to water,
1.4 Unstable, supple, moist, and cold's his Nature.
