For the entire poem tap here:
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What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
For the entire poem tap here: http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/supermarket-california
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Ambitions playing:
The first, inseparable From gold-edged printing On Daedalus’ table. Desire for flight: Chariot-usurping skill. The god of light Torn from the godlike will. What tears of amber, What pre-natal force From dawn’s dark chamber Fired me on my course? Three harps: one From emulation drew its strength. The rising sun: A harp at arm’s length. The second word of day; The second word: A harp a hand away Held by a human cord. By cypress taught and yew, My soul I made Write old ambition new And qualify the laurel’s shade. I set one grave apart, Gave speech to stone: “Come back to my sad heart And play this harp of bone.” Little for the sun I cared, Little for renown. I saw the unknown, unshared, True grave. So I lay down; Lay down, and closed my eyes To the end of all time, The end of birth’s enterprise And death’s small crime. Then at once the shrouded harp Was manifest. I began To touch, though pain is sharp, The ribs of the man. That is the entire poem. http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/nov/03/poem-of-the-week-three-harps-vernon-watkins They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot stalking in my chamber. I have seen them gentle tame and meek That now are wild and do not remember That sometime they put themselves in danger To take bread at my hand; and now they range Busily seeking with a continual change. Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise Twenty times better; but once in special, In thin array after a pleasant guise, When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall, And she me caught in her arms long and small; And therewithal sweetly did me kiss, And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this? It was no dream, I lay broad waking. But all is turned thorough my gentleness Into a strange fashion of forsaking; And I have leave to go of her goodness And she also to use newfangleness. But since that I so kindely am served, I would fain know what she hath deserved. That is the entire poem. http://www.famousliteraryworks.com/wyatt_they_flee_from_me.htm The still explosions on the rocks, the lichens, grow by spreading, gray, concentric shocks. They have arranged to meet the rings around the moon, although within our memories they have not changed. And since the heavens will attend as long on us, you've been, dear friend, precipitate and pragmatical; and look what happens. For Time is nothing if not amenable. The shooting stars in your black hair in bright formation are flocking where, so straight, so soon? -- Come, let me wash it in this big tin basin, battered and shiny like the moon.
That is the entire poem. http://www.ibiblio.org/cheryb/women/THE-SHAMPOO-Elizabeth-bishop "Whenever I plunge my arm, like this,
In a basin of water, I never miss The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day Fetched back from the thickening shroud of grey. Hence the only prime And real love-rhyme That I know by heart And that leaves no smart, Is the purl of a little valley fall About three spans wide and two spans tall Over a table of solid rock And into a scoop of the self-same block; The purl of a runlet that never ceases In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces; With a hollow, boiling voice it speaks And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks." "And why gives this the only prime Idea to you of a real love-rhyme? And why does plunging your arm in a bowl Full of spring water, bring throbs to your soul?" "Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone, Though where precisely none ever has known, Jammed darkly, nothing to show how prized, And by now with its smoothness opalised, Is a drinking-glass: For, down that pass, My love and I Walked under a sky Of blue with a leaf-wove awning of green, In the burn of August, to paint the scene, And we placed our basket of fruit and wine By the runlet's rim, where we sat to dine; And when we had drunk from the glass together, Arched by the oak-copse from the weather, I held the vessel to rinse in the fall, Where it slipped, and sank, and was past recall, Though we stooped and plumbed the little abyss With long bared arms. There the glass still is. And, as said, if I thrust my arm below Cold water in basin or bowl, a throe From the past awakens a sense of that time, And the glass we used, and the cascade's rhyme. The basin seems the pool, and its edge The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge, And the leafy pattern of china-ware The hanging plants that were bathing there. "By night, by day, when it shines or lours, There lies intact that chalice of ours, And its presence adds to the rhyme of love Persistently sung by the fall above. No lip has touched it since his and mine In turn therefrom sipped lovers' wine." That is the entire poem. http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2011/jun/06/poem-week-thomas-hardy What I’m saying is, this isn’t the right kind of snow.
Sure the anchors call it treacherous but I’ve met it down dark alleys all my life. No, snow should always be, as kids have it, a miracle of whiteness at the pane, flakes large enough to plink at the glass like a moth or a fingernail and dry out slow enough to watch drying out on the clothing of the one you love. Forget the ice-box favoured in the emergency room, it’s snow like this a heart comes bedded in. And forget those now useless runways; planes in mid-air grow sensitive, the riveted metal of their wings goosepimples as they go swooping through two kinds of white. The difference between snow and water is the difference between dialectic and a kiss, between a birth certificate and spare change. This much you already know. What you don’t know is snow, is slanted crystals the halo round a sodium lamp can’t bear without shuddering. While credit shifts and melts and hardens and is lost, as the great man says, as water is in water, his words are merely so many thought-bubbles made visible as we breathe in a snowy climate: white shapes of breath that want, like the smoke from a cigarette, or the super-slow-mo ripples of a cube of gelatine bounced off tile, to be the drapes and folds of statuary. The bare ruined choir, the coloured glass is stained to a white radiance and goes without remainder into water, a new beginning; yet the snow we ball and build into forts we’ll live in when all grown up wants to change, always, into a white beard. That is the entire poem. http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2014/sep/22/poem-of-the-week-snow-vidyan-ravinthiran I was leaning across your chest;
Like a marble-smith, I made pencilmarks over Its vanilla skin, its young man’s skin, Refreshing as the pleasure page in a daily newspaper. I sniffed you to quench my thirst, As one sniffs in the sky huge, damp sheets of lightning That bring down the chablis, hocks, moselles, And tear cold watery holes. Those soaking wet chords from Brahms ( … their overflow, On which you could float a canoe) Are not more refreshing! Nor is the fragrant gin-fizz From the glass joint of a rod of grass. My life cries out for water! Haughty sheets of newsprint, lightning, music, skin! Haughty bathrooms where the lukewarm swimmer In his water-colour coat of soap is king. That is the entire poem. http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/oct/27/poem-of-the-week-hydromaniac-rosemary-tonks "Farewell and good-bye to you, maiden of Teifi, Farewell and good-bye to you, dear Teifi maid !
The jolly-boat's waiting, I'm off in a jiffy, To scouting and cruising, to chase and to raid. "Ah, cariad, say, when you see in the offing. Dark on the blue waters of Cardigan Bay, Our smoke-stack just showing, then will you be doffing Your bonnet to wave us a parting ' huzzay ' ? "Once homeward I'd run, tho' the black scud was flying, And the breakers were howling like fiends on our lee, With every stitch set, ever danger defying. For, anwyl, I know that you watched on the quay, "In vain will you watch for your fisher-lad's skiff, he Is tracking the death that the foeman has laid ; If Death is the end of it, dear maid of Teifi, Farewell and good-bye to you, dear Teifi maid !" That is the entire poem. http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Page:Poems_of_the_Great_War_-_Cunliffe.djvu/222 Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence; Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. 'Fair, kind, and true,' is all my argument, 'Fair, kind, and true,' varying to other words; And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, Which three till now, never kept seat in one. That is the entire poem. http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Sonnet_105_(Shakespeare) Am ( sayes Carneades ) so unwilling to deny Eleutherius any thing, that though, before the rest of the Company I am resolv’d to make good the part I have undertaken of a Sceptick ; yet I shall readily, since you will have it so, lay aside for a while the Person of an Adversary to the Peripateticks and Chymists ; and before I acquaint you with my Objections against their Opinions, acknowledge to you what may be ( whether truly or not ) tollerably enough added, in favour of a certain number of Principles of mixt Bodies, to that grand and known Argument from the Analysis 36of compound Bodies, which I may possibly hereafter be able to confute.
For the entire poem tap here: http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Sceptical_Chymist/The_First_Part |
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September 2060
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