Time poems
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Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight
© Roald Dahl
(In Springfield, Illinois)
It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old court-house pacing up and down.
The Ballad Of The Taylor Pup
© Eugene Field
Now lithe and listen, gentles all,
Now lithe ye all and hark
Unto a ballad I shall sing
About Buena Park.
Grace
© Joy Harjo
Like Coyote, like Rabbit, we could not contain our terror and clowned our way through a season of false midnights. We had to swallow that town with laughter, so it would go down easy as honey. And one morning as the sun struggled to break ice, and our dreams had found us with coffee and pancakes in a truck stop along Highway 80, we found grace.
I could say grace was a woman with time on her hands, or a white buffalo escaped from memory. But in that dingy light it was a promise of balance. We once again understood the talk of animals, and spring was lean and hungry with the hope of children and corn.
I would like to say, with grace, we picked ourselves up and walked into the spring thaw. We didn’t; the next season was worse. You went home to Leech Lake to work with the tribe and I went south. And, Wind, I am still crazy. I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it.
Tarantulas on the Lifebuoy
© Thomas Lux
For some semitropical reason
when the rains fall
relentlessly they fall
Their Bodies
© David Wagoner
They gave away the gift of those useful bodies
Against his wish. (They had their own ways
Of doing everything, always.) If you’re not certain
Which ones are theirs, be gentle to everybody.
North Labrador
© Hart Crane
A land of leaning ice
Hugged by plaster-grey arches of sky,
Flings itself silently
Into eternity.
Sonnet LXXX. To The Invisible Moon
© Charlotte Turner Smith
DARK and conceal'd art thou, soft Evening's queen,
And Melancholy's votaries that delight
To watch thee, gliding through the blue serene,
Now vainly seek thee on the brow of night--
The Stringy-Bark Cockatoo
© Anonymous
I'm a broken-hearted miner, who loves his cup to drain,
Which often-times has caused me to lie in frost and rain.
Roaming about the country, looking for some work to do,
I got a job of reaping off a stringy-bark cockatoo.
Michael: A Pastoral Poem
© William Wordsworth
Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up:
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.
If You Said You Would Come With Me
© John Ashbery
In town it was very urban but in the country cows were covering the hills. The clouds were near and very moist. I was walking along the pavement with Anna, enjoying the scattered scenery. Suddenly a sound like a deep bell came from behind us. We both turned to look. “It’s the words you spoke in the past, coming back to haunt you,” Anna explained. “They always do, you know.”
Indeed I did. Many times this deep bell-like tone had intruded itself on my thoughts, scrambling them at first, then rearranging them in apple-pie order. “Two crows,” the voice seemed to say, “were sitting on a sundial in the God-given sunlight. Then one flew away.”
“Yes . . . and then?” I wanted to ask, but I kept silent. We turned into a courtyard and walked up several flights of stairs to the roof, where a party was in progress. “This is my friend Hans,” Anna said by way of introduction. No one paid much attention and several guests moved away to the balustrade to admire the view of orchards and vineyards, approaching their autumn glory. One of the women however came to greet us in a friendly manner. I was wondering if this was a “harvest home,” a phrase I had often heard but never understood.
“Welcome to my home . . . well, to our home,” the woman said gaily. “As you can see, the grapes are being harvested.” It seemed she could read my mind. “They say this year’s vintage will be a mediocre one, but the sight is lovely, nonetheless. Don’t you agree, Mr. . . .”
To an Echo on the Banks of the Hunter [Early Version]
© Charles Harpur
I hear thee, echo! And I start to hear thee
With a strange shock, as from among the hills
Feel Me
© May Swenson
“Feel me to do right,” our father said on his deathbed.
We did not quite know—in fact, not at all—what he meant.
Thanksgiving
© Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
When first in ancient time, from Jubal's tongue
The tuneful anthem filled the morning air,
He Sees Through Stone
© Etheridge Knight
the years fall
like overripe plums
bursting red flesh
on the dark earth
Living in the Body
© Joyce Sutphen
Body is something you need in order to stay
on this planet and you only get one.
Ballad of the Salvation Army
© Kenneth Fearing
On Fourteenth street the bugles blow,
Bugles blow, bugles blow.
The red, red, red, red banner floats
Where sweating angels split their throats,
Marching in burlap petticoats,
Blow, bugles, blow.
Dat Ol' Mare O' Mine
© Paul Laurence Dunbar
Want to trade me, do you, mistah? Oh, well, now, I reckon not,
W'y you could n't buy my Sukey fu' a thousan' on de spot.
