Poems begining by T
/ page 773 of 916 /
To Spend Uncounted Years Of Pain
© Arthur Hugh Clough
To spend uncounted years of pain
Again, again, and yet again
In working out in heart and brain
The problem of our being here,
The Last Decalogue
© Arthur Hugh Clough
Thou shalt have one God only;who
Would be at the expense of two?
No graven images may be
Worshipped, except the currency:
There Is No God, the Wicked Sayeth
© Arthur Hugh Clough
"There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing."
The Cat in the Kitchen
© Robert Bly
Have you heard about the boy who walked by
The black water? I won't say much more.
Let's wait a few years. It wanted to be entered.
Sometimes a man walks by a pond, and a hand
Reaches out and pulls him in.
The Buried Train
© Robert Bly
Tell me about the train that people say got buried
By the avalanche--was it snow?--It was
In Colorado, and no one saw it happen.
There was smoke from the engine curling up
Trouv?e
© Elizabeth Bishop
Oh, why should a hen
have been run over
on West 4th Street
in the middle of summer?
The Burglar Of Babylon
© Elizabeth Bishop
On the fair green hills of Rio
There grows a fearful stain:
The poor who come to Rio
And can't go home again.
To Be Written On The Mirror In Whitewash
© Elizabeth Bishop
I live only here, between your eyes and you,
But I live in your world. What do I do?
--Collect no interest--otherwise what I can;
Above all I am not that staring man.
The Monument
© Elizabeth Bishop
Now can you see the monument? It is of wood
built somewhat like a box. No. Built
like several boxes in descending sizes
one above the other.
The Imaginary Iceberg
© Elizabeth Bishop
We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship,
although it meant the end of travel.
Although it stood stock-still like cloudy rock
and all the sea were moving marble.
The End Of March
© Elizabeth Bishop
For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury
It was cold and windy, scarcely the day
The Man-Moth
© Elizabeth Bishop
Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for "mammoth."
Here, above,
cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight.
The Armadillo
© Elizabeth Bishop
This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,
The Unbeliever
© Elizabeth Bishop
He sleeps on the top of a mast
with his eyes fast closed.
The sails fall away below him
like the sheets of his bed,
leaving out in the air of the night the sleeper's head.
The Shampoo
© Elizabeth Bishop
The still explosions on the rocks,
the lichens, grow
by spreading, gray, concentric shocks.
They have arranged
to meet the rings around the moon, although
within our memories they have not changed.
The Map
© Elizabeth Bishop
Land lies in water; it is shadowed green.
Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges
showing the line of long sea-weeded ledges
where weeds hang to the simple blue from green.
The Weed
© Elizabeth Bishop
I dreamed that dead, and meditating,
I lay upon a grave, or bed,
(at least, some cold and close-built bower).
In the cold heart, its final thought
The Moose
© Elizabeth Bishop
From narrow provinces
of fish and bread and tea,
home of the long tides
where the bay leaves the sea
twice a day and takes
the herrings long rides,
The Fish
© Elizabeth Bishop
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
