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Clover
by Tennessee Williams These are fragrant acres where Evening comes long hours late And the still unmoving air Cools the fevered hands of Fate. Meadows where the afternoon Hangs suspended in a flower And the moments of our doom Drift upon a weightless hour. And we who thought that surely night Would bring us triumph or defeat Only find the stars are white Clover at our naked feet. |
When I Am Among the Trees by Mary Oliver When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often. Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, "Stay awhile." The light flows from their branches. And they call again, "It's simple," they say, "and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine." |
For the Dead
by Adrienne Rich I dreamed I called you on the telephone to say: Be kinder to yourself but you were sick and would not answer The waste of my love goes on this way trying to save you from yourself I have always wondered about the left-over energy, the way water goes rushing down a hill long after the rains have stopped or the fire you want to go to bed from but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down the red coals more extreme, more curious in their flashing and dying than you wish they were sitting long after midnight |
off to sleep with loveliness on ny mind... *s
Barter
by Sara Teasdale Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder like a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be. |
http://lettersfromalaska.files.wordp...ary-oliver.jpg
The Poet Visits the Museum of Fine Arts by Mary Oliver For a long time I was not even in this world, yet every summer every rose opened in perfect sweetness and lived in gracious repose, in its own exotic fragrance, in its huge willingness to give something, from its small self, to the entirety of the world. I think of them, thousands upon thousands, in many lands, whenever summer came to them, rising out of the patience of patience, to leaf and bud and look up into the blue sky or, with thanks, into the rain that would feed their thirsty roots latched into the earth— sandy or hard, Vermont or Arabia, what did it matter, the answer was simply to rise in joyfulness, all their days. Have I found any better teaching? Not ever, not yet. Last week I saw my first Botticelli and almost fainted, and if I could I would paint like that but am shelved somewhere below, with a few songs about roses: teachers, also, of the ways toward thanks, and praise. http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_iSObXWSI2t...ummer+1964.jpg |
Her Kind
By Anne Sexton I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: whining, rearranging the disaligned. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind. I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind. |
Solitude
Ella Wheeler Wilcox Laugh, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone. For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air. The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care. Rejoice, and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go. They want full measure of all your pleasure, But they do not need your woe. Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all. There are none to decline your nectared wine, But alone you must drink life's gall. Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by. Succeed and give, and it helps you live, But no man can help you die. There is room in the halls of pleasure For a long and lordly train, But one by one we must all file on Through the narrow aisles of pain. |
Hinterhof by James Fenton Stay near to me and I'll stay near to you — As near as you are dear to me will do, Near as the rainbow to the rain, The west wind to the windowpane, As fire to the hearth, as dawn to dew. Stay true to me and I'll stay true to you — As true as you are new to me will do, New as the rainbow in the spray, Utterly new in every way, New in the way that what you say is true. Stay near to me, stay true to me. I'll stay As near, as true to you as heart could pray. Heart never hoped that one might be Half of the things you are to me — The dawn, the fire, the rainbow and the day |
Eagle Poem
by Joy Harjo To pray you open your whole self To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon To one whole voice that is you. And know there is more That you can't see, can't hear Can't know except in moments Steadily growing, and in languages That aren't always sound but other Circles of motion. Like eagle that Sunday morning Over Salt River. Circles in blue sky In wind, swept our hearts clean With sacred wings. We see you, see ourselves and know That we must take the utmost care And kindness in all things. Breathe in, knowing we are made of All this, and breathe, knowing We are truly blessed because we Were born, and die soon, within a True circle of motion, Like eagle rounding out the morning Inside us. We pray that it will be done In beauty. In beauty. |
Death is nothing at all
I copied this from a book I just read. I thought it was pretty awesome.
" Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away to the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, That, we still are. Call me by my old familiar name. Speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without effect. Without the trace of a shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same that it ever was. There is absolute unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you. For an interval. Somewhere. Very Near. Just around the corner. All is well. " |
Allan Peterson
The Totality of Facts
The laughing gull that flew behind the fencepost and never came out was the beginning and then a hand smaller than my hand covered Wisconsin with a gesture for explanation. In the afternoon there are pauses between the words through which commas can grow like daisy fleabane. A fish with an osprey in its back emerges from the Sound and nothing can be learned by more analysis. The book of her hair opens to its binding and I leaf through the glorious pages of appreciation and that's not all. We could not have turned fast enough to catch light and leftovers from so much of what happened: the swift figures behind you like a planet's dark companion, ships entering and leaving the hall closet the real and imagined between which is no difference. |
A Thought by Benjamin S. Grossberg Like a feather descending in its back-and-forth motion, slow twirl down to one end of a balance, and that end begins to sink— but so slowly that days pass, an unscrolling of weather, the view out the same window over a series of months: trees burst in lime-green flowers so tiny that three or four buds could rest on the tip of your thumb, and then come rainy days, darker leaves, and brightness expanding like the yawning of one just woken— everything unfolding, changing. And now you find it is autumn, and somewhere inside is a difference. A quiet, monumental thing, difference. Some dream had long seemed foundation wall to a structure you’d hoped to build— a Jeffersonian grandness. You’d imagined marble, imagined columns. But now it is you who seem to find the structure more trouble than it’s worth, you who might just, you decide, be okay without so much grandiosity. You even surprise yourself with that word, grandiosity, with its undertone of mocking. What was it? A word, a look from a man that wasn’t— you realized a moment too late— directed at you. A small, casual failure that added its name like another entry on a long petition. No one, not even you heard the creaking sweep, the rusted iron gate of your will. Though afterward, at the window, you may have wondered what bird dropped that feather— though so long ago now there’s no telling what kind, or on its way to what country. |
Summer Rain by Gerald Fisher Father Sky is gray As the new light appears And the laughter of the birds is still the clouds shed their tears and the land drinks of this heavenly dew puddles replace the dust irresistible temptations for little feet Turning my face to the sky and feeling the gentleness of the mist washing away my cares filling my heart with happiness Lifting my spirits like the quenching of the crops Raising my arms I turn to the four winds and give thanks for this gentle Summer Rain. |
This is the only poem I know by heart...so it must be my favorite...I apologize in advance if anyone if offended....
There once was a hermit named Dave who kept a dead whore in his cave he must admit it smelled a bit but think of all the money he saved! |
Tonight I Can Write by Pablo Neruda
translated by WS Merwin Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Write, for example, 'The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.' The night wind revolves in the sky and sings. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too. Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky. She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her. To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture. What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me. The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her. My voice tries to find the wind to touch her hearing. Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long. Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her. Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her. · From Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair |
From the book A Rocket in my Pocket:
Ladles and Jellyspoons! I come before you, to stand behind you, to tell you something I know nothing about. Next Tuesday which is Good Friday, there'll be a mothers meeting for fathers only, Wear your good clothes if you haven't any, and if you can come, please stay at home! :seeingstars: |
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Sonnet CXVI: Let me not to marriage of true minds admit impediments Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. |
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. |
Sonnets 04: Only Until This Cigarette Is Ended
by Edna St. Vincent Millay Only until this cigarette is ended, A little moment at the end of all, While on the floor the quiet ashes fall, And in the firelight to a lance extended, Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended, The broken shadow dances on the wall, I will permit my memory to recall The vision of you, by all my dreams attended. And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done. Yours is a face of which I can forget The color and the features, every one, The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; But in your day this moment is the sun Upon a hill, after the sun has set. |
mantra
Still I Rise
by Maya Angelou You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise. |
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