Poems begining by S
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suppose... (VIII)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
young death sits in a cafe
smiling, a pierce of money held between
his thumb and first finger
Skating (4)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
Spring is past, and Summer's past,
Autumn's come, and going;
Weather seems as though at last
We might get some snowing.
Spring is like a perhaps hand
© Edward Estlin Cummings
IIISpring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
supposing i dreamed this)... (IX)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
supposing i dreamed this)
only imagine,when day has thrilled
you are a house around which
i am a wind-
speaking of love(of... (LV)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
speaking of love(of
which Who knows the
meaning;or how dreaming
becomes
Sometimes I Am Alive Because With
© Edward Estlin Cummings
when, her mouth suddenly rising, wholly
begins with mine fiercely to fool
(and from my thighs which shrug and pant
a murdering rain leapingly reaches the upward singular deepest flower which she
carries in a gesture of her hips)
she being Brand... (XIX)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
© Edward Estlin Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
since feeling is first... (VII)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
Sex Without Love
© Sharon Olds
How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
Success
© Emma Lazarus
Oft have I brooded on defeat and pain,
The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.
These I ignore to-day and only long
To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain,
St Michael's Chapel
© Emma Lazarus
When the vexed hubbub of our world of gain
Roars round about me as I walk the street,
The myriad noise of Traffic, and the beat
Of Toil's incessant hammer, the fierce strain
Shoveling Snow With Buddha
© Billy Collins
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sonnet On The Death Of Mr Richard West
© Thomas Gray
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join;
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:
September
© Ted Hughes
We sit late, watching the dark slowly unfold:
No clock counts this.
When kisses are repeated and the arms hold
There is no telling where time is.
Small Frogs Killed On The Highway
© James Wright
Across the road, tadpoles are dancing
On the quarter thumbnail
Of the moon. They can't see,
Not yet.
Song from Aella
© Thomas Chatterton
O SING unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holyday,
Like a running river be:
