Poems begining by O
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Oration: Half-Moon in Vermont
© Norman Dubie
On the broken stairs of a trailer
A laughing fat girl in a T-shirt is pumping
Milk from her swollen breasts, cats
Lapping at the trails. There's a sheen of rhubarb
On her dead fingernail. It's a humid morning.
On the Funeral of Charles the First at Night, in St. Georges Chapel, Windsor
© William Lisle Bowles
The castle clock had tolled midnight:
With mattock and with spade,
And silent, by the torches light,
His corse in earth we laid.
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College
© Thomas Gray
Ye distant spires, ye antique tow'rs,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes
© Charlotte Turner Smith
Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes!
How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn!
Old Folks at Home
© Stephen C. Foster
All de world am sad and dreary,
Ebry where I roam,
Oh! darkeys how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home.
On The Reverend Sir James Stonhouse, Bart. M.D., In The Chapel At The Hotwells, Bristol
© Hannah More
Here rests awhile, in happier climes to shine,
The Orator, Physician, and Divine:
Omar Khayyam
© Christopher Pearse Cranch
READING in Omar till the thoughts that burned
Upon his pages seemed to be inurned
Within me in a silent fire, my pen
By instinct to his flowing metre turned.
O-Jazz-O War Memoir: Jazz, Don’t Listen To It At Your Own Risk
© Bob Kaufman
In the beginning, in the wet
Warm dark place,
On Mr. G. Herbert's Book
© Richard Crashaw
Know you fair, on what you look;
Divinest love lies in this book,
On the Lawn at the Villa
© Louis Simpson
On the lawn at the villa—
That’s the way to start, eh, reader?
We know where we stand—somewhere expensive—
You and I imperturbes, as Walt would say,
Before the diversions of wealth, you and I engagés.
Old Couple
© Charles Simic
They’re waiting to be murdered,
Or evicted. Soon
They expect to have nothing to eat.
In the meantime, they sit.
On Being Asked To Write In Miss Westwood's Album
© Charles Lamb
My feeble Muse, that fain her best would
Write, at command of Frances Westwood,
On the Death of Anne Brontë
© Octavio Paz
THERE 's little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave;
I 've lived the parting hour to see
Of one I would have died to save.
On Seeing A Piece Of Our Artillery Brought Into Action
© Wilfred Owen
Be slowly lifted up, thou long black arm,
Great gun towering towards Heaven, about to curse;
On A Diet
© William Matthews
to the heaven of revisions. Why be
adipose: an expense, etc.,
in a waste, etc.? Something like
the body of the poet’s work, with its
pale shadows, begins to pare and replace
the poet’s body, and isn’t it time?
