Poems begining by T
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To the Gentleman who offer'd 50 Pounds to any Person who should write the best POEM by May next on five Subjects, viz. Life, Death, Judgment, Heaven and Hell
© Brereton Jane
But fifty Pounds! -- A sorry Sum!You'd more need offer half a Plumb:Five weighty Subjects well to handle?Sir, you forget the Price of Candle;And Leather too; when late and soon,I shall be paceing o'er my Room,Bite close my Nails, and scratch my Head,When other People are in Bed
The land I came thro' last was dumb with night
© Christopher John Brennan
The land I came thro' last was dumb with night,a limbo of defeated glory, a ghost:for wreck of constellations flicker'd perishingscarce sustain'd in the mortuary air,and on the ground and out of livid poolswreck of old swords and crowns glimmer'd at whiles;I seem'd at home in some old dream of kingship:now it is clear grey day and the road is plain,I am the wanderer of many yearswho cannot tell if ever he was kingor if ever kingdoms were: I know I amthe wanderer of the ways of all the worlds,to whom the sunshine and the rain are oneand one to stay or hasten, because he knowsno ending of the way, no home, no goal,and phantom night and the grey day alikewithhold the heart where all my dreams and daysmight faint in soft fire and delicious death:and saying this to myself as a simple thingI feel a peace fall in the heart of the windsand a clear dusk settle, somewhere, far in me
thumping
© Bramer Shannon
Somewhere between Pounding and Pushingthere is Thumping. It is almost like knockingbut rounder and flatter.
The Photographer
© Bramer Shannon
What it means to carry a camerais to speak out of the emptyframe seeing God, Sky, Road, her returnand faith in the perfection of deserts
the pedestrian
© Bramer Shannon
i never cross against thesignal, can't get the knackof the green light
The Execution of Karla Faye
© Boughn Michael
Of course they've been cheering death forever, askLorca or Antigone, an execution a day in the USthey say, something to work for, that guy in the Stop 'N' Gowhen they bombed Gaddafi's kid, cheering atthe thought of pain, but that's the neighbourhood'sdark end anyway, get used to it, light your candlesmarch around the lake, don't lose sight of Amelia(how they ever could have thought that smile lessthan all their clutching--Wordsworth had that downalright--then here we are, maybe that's what they hopeto drown out cheering the news she died when the statewhatever the hell that is plunged or pulled whatever technéecstasis extension holding it to crucial distance, still somewhereflesh touches some thing, and we'd better be preparedfor the whole bloody mess because even if homeof ourselves is a rumoured infrapsychisme from whichundisputed program is accessible to, say, rejig the worksthru poem's possible modulations, there's still northof that, south, east, west and when you get homeguess who's waiting
The Digger's Song
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
Scrape the bottom of the hole: gather up the stuff! Fossick in the crannies, lest you leave a grain behind!Just another shovelful and that'll be enough-- Now we'll take it to the bank and see what we can find
The Demon Snow-shoes
© Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
The snow lies deep on hill and dale,In rocky gulch and grassy vale:The tiny, trickling, tumbling fallsAre frozen 'twixt their rocky wallsThat grey and brown look silent downUpon Kiandra's shrouded town
To One on her Birthday
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
How shall I choose to wish you happinessOn this day or another? Your life's wayHas passed already far beyond our guess,Who only watch and wait for you and pray
The Sublime
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
To stand upon a windy pinnacle,Beneath the infinite blue of the blue noon,And underfoot a valley terribleAs that dim gulf, where sense and being swoonWhen the soul parts; a giant valley strewnWith giant rocks; asleep, and vast, and still,And far away
The Mockery of Life
© Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
God! What a mockery is this life of ours!Cast forth in blood and pain from our mother's womb,Most like an excrement, and weeping showersOf senseless tears: unreasoning, naked, dumb,The symbol of all weakness and the sum:Our very life a sufferance
The eyes of toads are great
© Blodgett E. D.
The eyes of toads are great wells of sadness: wheredo they gaze but into fate to see nothing there?
The Mullein Meadow
© Jean Blewett
Down in the mullein meadow The lusty thistle springs,The butterflies go criss-cross, The lonesome catbird sings,
The Mother's Lecture
© Jean Blewett
There's nothing, did you say, Reuben? There's nothing, nothing at all,There's nothing to thank the Lord for This disappointing fall.
The Grave
© Jean Blewett
O the grave is a quiet place, my dear, So still and so quiet by night and by day,Reached by no sound either joyous or drear, But keeping its silence alway, alway.
