Time poems
/ page 375 of 792 /
M'Fingal - Canto IV
© John Trumbull
"For me, before that fatal time,
I mean to fly th' accursed clime,
And follow omens, which of late
Have warn'd me of impending fate.
M'Fingal - Canto III
© John Trumbull
By this, M'Fingal with his train
Advanced upon th' adjacent plain,
And full with loyalty possest,
Pour'd forth the zeal, that fired his breast.
M'Fingal - Canto II
© John Trumbull
"T' evade these crimes of blackest grain
You prate of liberty in vain,
And strive to hide your vile designs
In terms abstruse, like school-divines.
This
© Ralph Angel
Today, my love,
leaves are thrashing the wind
just as pedestrians are erecting again the buildings of this drab
forbidding city,
Breaking and Entering
© Ralph Angel
Many setups. At least as many falls.
Winter is paralyzing the country, but not here.
Here, the boys are impersonating songs of indigenous
wildlife. Mockingbird on the roof of the Gun Shop,
Where's Madge then,
© Edward Estlin Cummings
Where's Madge then,
Madge and her men?
buried with
Alice in her hair,
(but if you ask the rain
he'll not tell where.)
this(let's remember)day died again and...
© Edward Estlin Cummings
this(let's remember)day died again and
again;whose golden,crimson dooms conceive
an oceaning abyss of orange dream
yonder deadfromtheneckup graduate... (V)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
yonder deadfromtheneckup graduate of a
somewhat obscure to be sure university spends
her time looking picturesque under
there are so many tictoc...
© Edward Estlin Cummings
there are so many tictoc
clocks everywhere telling people
what toctic time it is for
tictic instance five toc minutes toc
FOREWARD, is 5
© Edward Estlin Cummings
F O R E W A R DOn the assumption that my technique is either complicated or original
or both, the publishers have politely requested me to write an intro-
duction to this book.
At least my theory of technique, if I have one, is very far from
now does our world descend...
© Edward Estlin Cummings
now does our world descend
the path to nothingness
(cruel now cancels kind;
friends turn to enemies)
therefore lament,my dream
and don a doer's doom
this is the garden: colours come and go,... (IX)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
what if a much of a which of a wind... (XX)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
what if a much of a which of a wind
gives the truth to summer's lie;
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun
and yanks immortal stars awry?
ecco a letter starting"dearest we"
© Edward Estlin Cummings
ecco a letter starting"dearest we"
unsigned:remarkably brief but covering
one complete miracle of nearest far
Epithalamion
© Edward Estlin Cummings
I.Thou aged unreluctant earth who dost
with quivering continual thighs invite
the thrilling rain the slender paramour
to toy with thy extraordinary lust,
dead every enourmous piece
© Edward Estlin Cummings
dead every enourmous piece
of nonsense which itself must call
a state submicroscopic is-
compared with pitying terrible
some alive individual
the boys i mean are not refined
© Edward Estlin Cummings
the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night
gee i like to think of dead
© Edward Estlin Cummings
gee i like to think of dead it means nearer because deeper firmer
since darker than little round water at one end of the well it's
too cool to be crooked and it's too firm to be hard but it's sharp
and thick and it loves, every old thing falls in rosebugs and
jackknives and kittens and pennies they all sit there looking at
each other having the fastest time because they've never met before
you shall above all things... (22)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're young,whatever life you wear
it will become you;and if you are glad
nobody loses all the time (X)
© Edward Estlin Cummings
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
