Teacher poems

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The Bounty

© Derek Walcott

Between the vision of the Tourist Board and the true
Paradise lies the desert where Isaiah’s elations
force a rose from the sand. The thirty-third canto

Prince Athanase

© Percy Bysshe Shelley

There was a youth, who, as with toil and travel,
Had grown quite weak and gray before his time;
Nor any could the restless griefs unravel

A Soul in Prison

© Augusta Davies Webster

"They," you'd answer me,
if you owned my instance, "sorrowed in their doubt,
and did not wholly doubt, and loved."

Paradise Regain'd: Book IV (1671)

© Patrick Kavanagh

PErplex'd and troubl'd at his bad success

The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,

Within and Without: Part IV: A Dramatic Poem

© George MacDonald

SCENE I.-Summer. Julian's room. JULIAN is reading out of a book of
poems.

Paradise Regain'd: Book I (1671)

© Patrick Kavanagh

I Who e're while the happy Garden sung,

By one mans disobedience lost, now sing

A Death in the Desert

© Robert Browning

Then Xanthus said a prayer, but still he slept:
It is the Xanthus that escaped to Rome,
Was burned, and could not write the chronicle.

Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder.
In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.
Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore
Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity—
Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death
This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms!

Three Women

© Wilcox Ella Wheeler

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

Turning Forty

© Jonathan Galassi

The barroom mirror lit up with our wives
has faded to a loaded-to-the-gills
Japanese subcompact, little lives
asleep behind us, heading for the hills

Aspasia

© John Kenyon

TO ------.

An Essay on Man: Epistle I

© Alexander Pope

To Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things

Seeing the Eclipse in Maine

© Robert Bly

It started about noon. On top of Mount Batte,
We were all exclaiming. Someone had a cardboard
And a pin, and we all cried out when the sun
Appeared in tiny form on the notebook cover.

The Owl And The Lark

A grizzled owl at midnight moped
Where thick the ivy glistened;
So I, who long have vainly groped
For wisdom, leaned and listened.

The Gallows

I.
THE suns of eighteen centuries have shone
Since the Redeemer walked with man, and made
The fisher's boat, the cavern's floor of stone,

A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.