Weather poems

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How We Made a New Art on Old Ground

© Eavan Boland

A famous battle happened in this valley.
You never understood the nature poem.
Till now. Till this moment—if these statements
seem separate, unrelated, follow this

Poem about People

© Robert Pinsky

The jaunty crop-haired graying
Women in grocery stores,
Their clothes boyish and neat,
New mittens or clean sneakers,

Mugging (I)

© Allen Ginsberg

I

Tonite I walked out of my red apartment door on East tenth street’s dusk—

An Old Road

© Edwin Markham

A host of poppies, a flight of swallows;
A flurry of rain, and a wind that follows
Shepherds the leaves in the sheltered hollows
For the forest is shaken and thinned.

In The Tunnel

© Francis Bret Harte

Didn't know Flynn,--
Flynn of Virginia,--
Long as he's been 'yar?
Look 'ee here, stranger,
Whar HEV you been?

The Snail

© William Cowper

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Together.

A Day on the Big Branch

© Howard Nemerov

Still half drunk, after a night at cards,

with the grey dawn taking us unaware

Five Visions of Captain Cook

© Kenneth Slessor

Two chronometers the captain had,
One by Arnold that ran like mad,
One by Kendal in a walnut case,
Poor devoted creature with a hangdog face.

Vermeer

© Debora Greger

Every seaworthy vessel a woman
whose mate, eloquent of how she handled
under the worst of weathers, hailed his goddess
of wet fire, handmaid and dockside whore.

from In Lovely Blue

© Friedrich Hölderlin

Like the stamen inside a flower
The steeple stands in lovely blue
And the day unfolds around its needle;

Morituri Salutamus: Poem for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Class of 1825 in Bowdoin College

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.
Ovid, Fastorum, Lib. vi.
"O Cæsar, we who are about to die
Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry
In the arena, standing face to face
With death and with the Roman populace.

Your Shakespeare

© Marvin Bell

If I am sentenced not to talk to you,
and you are sentenced not to talk to me,
then we wear the clothes of the desert
serving that sentence, we are the leaves
trampled underfoot, not even fit to be
ground in for food, then we are the snow.

I Wasn’t One of the Six Million: And What Is My Life Span? Open Closed Open

© John Wesley

3
And what is my life span? I’m like a man gone out of Egypt:
the Red Sea parts, I cross on dry land,
two walls of water, on my right hand and on my left.
Pharaoh’s army and his horsemen behind me. Before me the desert,
perhaps the Promised Land, too. That is my life span.