Morning poems

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Thy mood with man’s is broken and blent in,
City of Stains! And ache of thought doth drown
The primitive light in which thy life began;
Great as thy dole is, smirchèd with his sin,
Greater and elder yet the love of man
Full in thy look, tho’ the dark visor’s down.

Myth

© Natasha Trethewey

I was asleep while you were dying.

It’s as if you slipped through some rift, a hollow

The Erotic Philosophers

© John Betjeman

It’s a spring morning; sun pours in the window

As I sit here drinking coffee, reading Augustine.

Incident

© Natasha Trethewey

We tell the story every year—

how we peered from the windows, shades drawn—

Alpine Wedding

© Ralph Angel

All dark morning long the clouds are rising slowly up
beneath us, and we are fast asleep.
The mountains unmove

Passing Through

© Ai

“Earth is the birth of the blues,” sang Yellow Bertha,

as she chopped cotton beside Mama Rose.

Sonnet: I Scarcely Grieve

© Henry Timrod

I scarcely grieve, O Nature! at the lot

That pent my life within a city’s bounds,

far memory

© Paul Celan

a poem in seven parts
1
convent

Reading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty, I Pause To Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles

© Billy Collins

"Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune
on a Cloudy Afternoon" is one of Sun Tung Po's.
"Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea"
is another one, or just
"On a Boat, Awake at Night."

Poem (The day gets slowly started)

© James Schuyler

The day gets slowly started.

A rap at the bedroom door,

Movement Song

© Elizabeth Daryush

I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck

moving away from me

Cheerios

© Billy Collins

One bright morning in a restaurant in Chicago
as I waited for my eggs and toast,
I opened the Tribune only to discover
that I was the same age as Cheerios.

Eagle Poem

© Joy Harjo

To pray you open your whole self

To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon

Symphony of a Mexican Garden

But all across the trudging ragged chords
That are the tangled grasses in the heat,
The mariposa lilies fluttering
Like trills upon some archangelic flute,

Song of the Open Road

© Walt Whitman

1
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Before I got my eye put out – (336)

Before I got my eye put out –
I liked as well to see
As other creatures, that have eyes –
And know no other way –

Morning of Drunkenness

O my good! O my beautiful! Atrocious fanfare where I won’t stumble! enchanted rack whereon I am stretched! Hurrah for the amazing work and the marvelous body, for the first time! It began amid the laughter of children, it will end with it. This poison will remain in all our veins even when, as the trumpets turn back, we’ll be restored to the old discord. O let us now, we who are so deserving of these torments! let us fervently gather up that superhuman promise made to our created body and soul: that promise, that madness! Elegance, knowledge, violence! They promised us to bury the tree of good and evil in the shade, to banish tyrannical honesties, so that we might bring forth our very pure love. It began with a certain disgust and ended—since we weren’t able to grasp this eternity all at once—in a panicked rout of perfumes.
Laughter of children, discretion of slaves, austerity of virgins, horror in the faces and objects of today, may you be consecrated by the memory of that wake. It began in all loutishness, now it’s ending among angels of flame and ice.
Little eve of drunkenness, holy! were it only for the mask with which you gratified us. We affirm you, method! We don’t forget that yesterday you glorified each one of our ages. We have faith in the poison. We know how to give our whole lives every day.
Behold the time of the Assassins.