Poems begining by S
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Silent Letters
© Charles Webb
Treacherous as trap door spiders,
they ambush children's innocence.
"Why is there g h in light? It isn't fair!"
Buddha declared the world illusory
Speaking To You (From Rock Bottom)
© Michael Ondaatje
'Dancing' 'laughing' 'bad taste'
is a memory
a tableau behind trees of law
Song
© William Browne
FOR her gait, if she be walking;
Be she sitting, I desire her
For her state's sake; and admire her
For her wit if she be talking;
Gait and state and wit approve her;
For which all and each I love her.
Stay
© Ingeborg Bachmann
Now the journey is ending,
the wind is losing heart.
Into your hands it's falling,
a rickety house of cards.
Syringa
© John Ashbery
Orpheus liked the glad personal quality
Of the things beneath the sky. Of course, Eurydice was a part
Of this. Then one day, everything changed. He rends
Rocks into fissures with lament. Gullies, hummocks
Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror
© John Ashbery
As Parmigianino did it, the right hand
Bigger than the head, thrust at the viewer
And swerving easily away, as though to protect
What it advertises. A few leaded panes, old beams,
Silver Wedding
© Vernon Scannell
The party is over and I sit among
The flotsam that its passing leaves,
The dirty glasses and fag-ends:
Outside, a black wind grieves.
Schoolroom On A Wet Afternoon
© Vernon Scannell
The unrelated paragraphs of morning
Are forgotten now; the severed heads of kings
Rot by the misty Thames; the roses of York
And Lancaster are pressed between the leaves
Sapphics For Celebrity
© Jennifer Reeser
In my dream, Celebrity, four pianos
scored the room, and you -- on an antique sofa
near two dark-haired innocents -- asked that I play
something immortal.
Should You Ask At Midnight
© Jennifer Reeser
What would I do without your voice to wake me?
Cor ad cor loquitur, Im loath to know.
Kitsch operas sound, unhesitant to shake me,
The sheers undrawn, the heavens hardly showing,
Standardization
© Alec Derwent Hope
When, darkly brooding on this Modern Age,
The journalist with his marketable woes
Fills up once more the inevitable page
Of fatuous, flatulent, Sunday-paper prose;
Spring Night in Lo-yang Hearing a Flute
© Li Po
In what house, the jade flute that sends these dark notes drifting,
scattering on the spring wind that fills Lo-yang?
Tonight if we should hear the willow-breaking song,
who could help but long for the gardens of home?
