Poetry poems

/ page 2 of 55 /

Order by :

1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
. . .
55

Gwen

© Souster Raymond

At the poetry readingin Croft House, she wrote downher phone-number on a piece of paper,said, give me a call some time.

Flight into Reality

© Rowley Rosemarie

Dedicated to the memory of my best friend Georgina, (1942-74)and to her husband Alex Burns and their childrenNulles laides amours ne belles prison -Lord Herbert of Cherbury

White Flock

© Anna Akhmatova

Copyright Anna Akhmatova
Copyright English translation by Ilya Shambat (ilya_shambat@yahoo.com)
Origin: http://www.geocities.com/ilya_shambat/akhmatova.html

Notes on the Steps of the San Diego Bus Depot

© Ortiz Simon Joseph

Across the streetAmerica is putting togetheranother Federal Building.The Wisconsin Horselooks through the chainlink fence.He turns and tells me with his eyes.

The Doctor Readies The Breathing Tube

© Neilson Shane

Centimetred grace: coiled like a whip,entering a place where one can sing,or choke a note. Jiggly jangly, the tripdown the throat a long tunnel, no light

Reunion

© McGimpsey David

What is my news? Well, since graduating,I've raked it in and I've tossed it off,I've plucked the green peach and sodded the pitch

Rejection

© McGimpsey David

Thank you for sending your work to Tearsea

Power

© Audre Lorde

The difference between poetry and rhetoricis being ready to killyourselfinstead of your children.

Our Photographs

© Frederick Locker Lampson

She play'd me false, but that's not whyI haven't quite forgiven Di, Although I've tried:This curl was hers, so brown, so bright,She gave it me one blissful night, And -- more beside!

A Shropshire Lad LXII: "Terence, this is stupid stuff

© Alfred Edward Housman

"Terence, this is stupid stuff:You eat your victuals fast enough;There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,To see the rate you drink your beer

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paus'd on every charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;And still, as each repeated pleasure tir'd,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspir'd;The dancing pair that simply sought renownBy holding out to tire each other down:The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove:These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like theseWith sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled

Oak and Olive

I And bred in Gloucestershire,I walked in Hellas years ago With friends in white attire:And I remember how my soul Drank wine as pure as fire.

To Mr. S. B.

© John Donne

O thou which to search out the secret parts Of the India, or rather Paradise Of knowledge, hast with courage and adviceLately launch'd into the vast sea of arts,Disdain not in thy constant travelling To do as other voyagers, and make Some turns into less creeks, and wisely takeFresh water at the Heliconian spring;I sing not, siren-like, to tempt; for I Am harsh; nor as those schismatics with you, Which draw all wits of good hope to their crew;But seeing in you bright sparks of poetry, I, though I brought no fuel, had desire With these articulate blasts to blow the fire