Poems begining by T
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To Jo?e Mar?a Palacio
© Antonio Machado
Palacio, good friend,
is spring there
showing itself on branches of black poplars
by the roads and river? On the steeps
The Wind, One Brilliant Day
© Antonio Machado
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine."In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses.""I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead.""Well then, I'll take the withered petals
The Tourist From Syracuse
© Donald Justice
One of those men who can be a car salesman or a tourist from Syracuse or a
hired assassin.
-- John D. MacDonald
The Evening Of The Mind
© Donald Justice
Now comes the evening of the mind.
Here are the fireflies twitching in the blood;
Here is the shadow moving down the page
Where you sit reading by the garden wall.
To A Ten-Months' Child
© Donald Justice
Late arrival, no
One would think of blaming you
For hesitating so.
The Assassination
© Donald Justice
It begins again, the nocturnal pulse.
It courses through the cables laid for it.
It mounts to the chandeliers and beats there, hotly.
We are too close. Too late, we would move back.
We are involved with the surge.
The Neighbor
© Marge Piercy
Man stomping over my bed in boots
carrying a large bronze church bell
which you occasionally drop:
gross man with iron heels
Toad Dreams
© Marge Piercy
That afternoon the dream of the toads
rang through the elms by Little River
and affected the thoughts of men,
though they were not conscious that
they heard it.--Henry Thoreau
The Princess (The Conclusion)
© Alfred Tennyson
Last little Lilia, rising quietly,
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph
From those rich silks, and home well-pleased we went.
The Douglas Tragedy
© Andrew Lang
"Rise up, rise up now, Lord Douglas," she says,
"And put on your armour so bright;
Let it never be said that a daughter of thine
Was married to a lord under night.
The Cloister
© William Matthews
The last light of a July evening drained
into the streets below: My love and I had hard
things to say and hear, and we sat over
wine, faltering, picking our words carefully.
To An Aged Cut-Up, II
© Franklin Pierce Adams
Chloris lay off the flapper stuff;
What's fit for Pholoë, a fluff,
Is not for Ibycus's wife-
A woman at your time of life!
The Dead Woman
© Pablo Neruda
If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you no longer live,
I shall live on.
The Ah Goo Tongue
© Wilcox Ella Wheeler
The queerest languages known to man,
Sanscrit, Hebrew, Hindoostan,
Are all translated and made as free
And comprehensive as A B C.
The Transfiguration
© Edwin Muir
So from the ground we felt that virtue branch
Through all our veins till we were whole, our wrists
The Morning Half-Life Blues
© Marge Piercy
Girls buck the wind in the grooves toward work
in fuzzy coats promised to be warm as fur.
The shop windows snicker
flashing them hurrying over dresses they cannot afford:
you are not pretty enough, not pretty enough.
The Seven Of Pentacles
© Marge Piercy
Weave real connections, create real nodes, build real houses.
Live a life you can endure: Make love that is loving.
Keep tangling and interweaving and taking more in,
a thicket and bramble wilderness to the outside but to us
interconnected with rabbit runs and burrows and lairs.
Traveling Dream
© Marge Piercy
I am packing to go to the airport
but somehow I am never packed.
I keep remembering more things
I keep forgetting.
To the Pay Toilet
© Marge Piercy
You strop my anger, especially
when I find you in restaurant or bar
and pay for the same liquid, coming and going.
In bus depots and airports and turnpike plazas
The Cat's Song
© Marge Piercy
Mine, says the cat, putting out his paw of darkness.
My lover, my friend, my slave, my toy, says
the cat making on your chest his gesture of drawing
milk from his mother's forgotten breasts.
