Women poems

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142

Le Maudit

© William Langland

He sits alone in the firelight
And on either side drifts by
Sleep, like a torrent whirling,
Profound, wrinkled and dumb.

Parable of the Hostages

© Louise Gluck

The Greeks are sitting on the beach

wondering what to do when the war ends. No one

In Celebration of My Uterus

© Anne Sexton

Everyone in me is a bird.

I am beating all my wings.

To His Mistress Going to Bed

© John Donne

Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,

Until I labour, I in labour lie.

It was a very little while and they had gone in front of it. It was that they had liked it would it bear. It was a very much adjoined a follower. Flower of an adding where a follower.
Have I come in. Will in suggestion.
They may like hours in catching.
It is always a pleasure to remember.

Bright Leaf

© Ellen Bryant Voigt

Like words put to a song, the bunched tobacco leaves

are strung along a stick, the women

The Relic

© John Donne

When my grave is broke up again

Some second guest to entertain,

Smokers of Paper

© Cesare Pavese

He’s brought me to hear his band. He sits in a corner

mouthing his clarinet. A hellish racket begins.

Sapphics

© Algernon Charles Swinburne

All the night sleep came not upon my eyelids,
Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a feather,
Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of iron
Stood and beheld me.

The Virgin

© André Breton

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost

Dolores (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)

© Algernon Charles Swinburne

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel

Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;

Satire III

© John Donne

Kind pity chokes my spleen; brave scorn forbids

Those tears to issue which swell my eyelids;

Canary

© Rita Dove

for Michael S. Harper
Billie Holiday’s burned voice
had as many shadows as lights,
a mournful candelabra against a sleek piano,
the gardenia her signature under that ruined face.

Beowulf (modern English translation)

© Pierre Reverdy

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings

of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,

Modern Love: XLVII

Their sense is with their senses all mixed in,

Destroyed by subtleties these women are!

The Erotic Philosophers

It’s a spring morning; sun pours in the window

As I sit here drinking coffee, reading Augustine.

Nights of 1964—1966: The Old Reliable

for Lewis Ellingham
The laughing soldiers fought to their defeat . . .
James Fenton, “In a Notebook”

I Sing the Body Electric

© Walt Whitman

1
I sing the body electric,
The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.