that is the entire poem.
http://es.wikisource.org/wiki/Cinco_metros_de_poemas
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I was afraid I went back and Madness I was afraid of being a wheel color a step BECAUSE MY EYES WERE CHILDREN And my heart a button more of my straitjacket But today my eyes wear long pants I see the street that is begging steps.
that is the entire poem. http://es.wikisource.org/wiki/Cinco_metros_de_poemas
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Marxist writing, Marxist writing, woman’s work is never done. My view of reality is vague if I’m vague. Why can’t scientific research ever reach a perfect truth? The purest moment of perversion and its clandestine sites. Tranquil moment in the life of a northern town. I look at the page and I start writing. Dog drives car—breaks the rules—wrinkle, Volvo, sniff. I loved you in the middle of the afternoon. Carey’s 6-word poem: “Oh Mom, it is so beautiful.” That is the entire poem. http://poemsandpoetics.blogspot.com/2011/12/anne-tardos-seventeen-poems-from-nine-1.html 13 “There’s no way to peace—peace is the way.” Miles Davis says play what you don’t know. Everything we seek is guided by what is sought. Sources of my knowledge are sensation, memory, introspection, reason. Every thought is first thought, and also best thought. I feel obligated to live as excellently as possible. A phony Somali passport and a screechy mythological gargoyle. This elasticity is overrated, so don’t mention it again. Dripping with compassion, oh honey, I love you, too. That is the entire poem. http://poemsandpoetics.blogspot.com/2011/12/anne-tardos-seventeen-poems-from-nine-1.html 11
We try subdividing space and time into infinite segments. Our apparently random behavior fits within a deterministic system. We run around like titillated and tantalized windup toys. “We feel and we know that we are eternal.” If we understood infinity, suicide would have to fail. We know nothing as uncertain as a sure thing. Feeling happy can be as gentle as sipping water. Even a hedonist must have some concern for others. How they managed to dirty the very word “liberal.” That is the entire poem. http://poemsandpoetics.blogspot.com/2011/12/anne-tardos-seventeen-poems-from-nine-1.html 10
First you practice nonviolence on yourself then on others. All events that occur are caused by earlier events. An idea for a form originates from another form. You could say, “being alive means defending a form.” These phone calls are strong enthusiastic and uniquely restrictive. Anguish chagrin discomfort despair grief depression guilt and remorse. A group of gentle friends and their mixed emotions. Is Nothing the inertia of Something, asks a friend. I’m confessing that I love you, now, this minute. That is the entire poem http://poemsandpoetics.blogspot.com/2011/12/anne-tardos-seventeen-poems-from-nine-1.html So rough the goat will scratch, it cannot sleep. So often goes the pot to the well that it breaks. So long you heat iron, it will glow; so heavily you hammer it, it shatters. So good is the man as his praise; so far he will go, and he's forgotten; so bad he behaves, and he's despised. So loud you cry Christmas, it comes. So glib you talk, you end up in contradictions. So good is your credit as the favors you got. So much you promise that you will back out. So doggedly you beg that your wish is granted; so high climbs the price when you want a thing; so much you want it that you pay the price; so familiar it gets to you, you want it no more. So loud you cry Christmas, it comes. So, you love a dog. Then feed it! So long a song will run that people learn it. So long you keep the fruit, it will rot. So hot the struggle for a spot that it is won; so cool you keep your act that your spirit freezes; so hurriedly you act that you run into bad luck; so tight you embrace that your catch slips away. So loud you cry Christmas, it comes. So you scoff and laugh, and the fun is gone. So you crave and spend, and lose your shirt. So candid you are, no blow can be too low. So good as a gift should a promise be. So, if you love God, you obey the Church. So, when you give much, you borrow much. So, shifting winds turn to storm. So loud you cry Christmas, it comes. Prince, so long as a fool persists, he grows wiser; so, round the world he goes, but return he will, so humbled and beaten back into servility. So loud you cry Christmas, it is here.
That is the entire poem. http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/Francois_Villon/2083 How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day?
A northern Christmas, such as painters love, And kinsfolk, shaking hands but once a year, And dames who tell old legends by the fire? 5Red sun, blue sky, white snow, and pearled ice, Keen ringing air, which sets the blood on fire, And makes the old man merry with the young, Through the short sunshine, through the longer night? Or southern Christmas, dark and dank with mist, 10And heavy with the scent of steaming leaves, And rosebuds mouldering on the dripping porch; One twilight, without rise or set of sun, Till beetles drone along the hollow lane, And round the leafless hawthorns, flitting bats 15Hawk the pale moths of winter? Welcome then At best, the flying gleam, the flying shower, The rain-pools glittering on the long white roads, And shadows sweeping on from down to down Before the salt Atlantic gale: yet come 20In whatsoever garb, or gay, or sad, Come fair, come foul, 'twill still be Christmas Day. How will it dawn, the coming Christmas Day? To sailors lounging on the lonely deck Beneath the rushing trade-wind? Or to him, 25Who by some noisome harbour of the East, Watches swart arms roll down the precious bales, Spoils of the tropic forests; year by year Amid the din of heathen voices, groaning Himself half heathen? How to those—brave hearts! 30Who toil with laden loins and sinking stride Beside the bitter wells of treeless sands Toward the peaks which flood the ancient Nile, To free a tyrant's captives? How to those-- New patriarchs of the new-found underworld-- 35Who stand, like Jacob, on the virgin lawns, And count their flocks' increase? To them that day Shall dawn in glory, and solstitial blaze Of full midsummer sun: to thern that morn, Gay flowers beneath their feet, gay birds aloft, 40Shall tell of nought but summer: but to them, Ere yet, unwarned by carol or by chime, They spring into the saddle, thrills may come From that great heart of Christendom which beats Round all the worlds; and gracious thoughts of youth; 45Of steadfast folk, who worship God at home; Of wise words, learnt beside their mothers' knee; Of innocent faces upturned once again In awe and joy to listen to the tale Of God made man, and in a manger laid-- 50May soften, purify, and raise the soul From selfish cares, and growing lust of gain, And phantoms of this dream which some call life, Toward the eternal facts; for here or there, Summer or winter, 'twill be Christmas Day 55 Blest day, which aye reminds us, year by year, What 'tis to be a man: to curb and spurn The tyrant in us; that ignobler self Which boasts, not loathes, its likeness to the brute, And owns no good save ease, no ill save pain, 60No purpose, save its share in that wild war In which, through countless ages, living things Compete in internecine greed—Ah God! Are we as creeping things, which have no Lord? That we are brutes, great God, we know too well: 65Apes daintier-featured; silly birds who flaunt Their plumes unheeding of the fowler's step; Spiders, who catch with paper, not with webs; Tigers, who slay with cannon and sharp steel, Instead of teeth and claws;—all these we are. 70Are we no more than these, save in degree? No more than these; and born but to compete-- To envy and devour, like beast or herb; Mere fools of nature; puppets of strong lusts, Taking the sword, to perish with the sword 75Upon the universal battle-field, Even as the things upon the moor outside? The heath eats up green grass and delicate flowers, The pine eats up the heath, the grub the pine, The finch the grub, the hawk the silly finch; 80And man, the mightiest of all beasts of prey, Eats what he lists; the strong eat up the weak, The many eat the few; great nations, small; And he who cometh in the name of all-- He, greediest, triumphs by the greed of all; 85And, armed by his own victims, eats up all: While ever out of the eternal heavens Looks patient down the great magnanimous God, Who, Maker of all worlds, did sacrifice All to Himself Nay, but Himself to one; 90Who taught mankind on that first Christmas Day, What 'twas to be a man; to give, not take; To serve, not rule; to nourish, not devour; To help, not crush; if need, to die, not live. Oh blessed day, which givest the eternal lie 95To self, and sense, and all the brute within; Ob, come to us, amid this war of life; To hall and hovel, come; to all who toil In senate, shop, or study; and to those Who, sundered by the wastes of half a world, 100Ill-warned, and sorely tempted, ever face Nature's brute powers, and men unmanned to brutes-- Come to them, blest and blessing, Christmas Day Tell them once more the tale of Bethlehem; The kneeling shepherds, and the Babe Divine: 105And keep them men indeed, fair Christmas Day. That is the entire poem. http://www.columbiagrangers.org/poem/00000147863/00000147863/00000147863P01/ The blue-black mountains are etched
with ice. I drive south in fading light. The lights of my car set out before me and disappear before my very eyes. And as I approach thirty, the distances are shorter than I guess? The mind travels at the speed of light. But for how many people are the passions ironwood, ironwood that hardens and hardens? Take the ex-musician, insurance salesman, who sells himself a policy on his own life; or the magician who has himself locked in a chest and thrown into the sea, only to discover he is caught in his own chains. I want a passion that grows and grows. To feel, think, act, and be defined by your actions, thoughts, feelings. As in the bones of a hand in an X-ray, I want the clear white light to work against the fuzzy blurred edges of the darkness: even if the darkness precedes and follows us, we have a chance, briefly, to shine. That is the entire poem. http://www.festivaldepoesiademedellin.org/en/Festival/XIX_Festival/sze.html When I fall into the abyss, I go straight into it, head down and heels up, and I'm even pleased that I'm falling in just such a humiliating position, and for me I find it beautiful. And so in that very shame I suddenly begin a hymn.
—Fyodor Dostoevsky I traveled to the page where scripture meets fiction. The paper slept but the night in me woke up. Black letters were now alive and collectible in a material crawl. I could not decipher their intentions anymore. To what end did their shapes come forth? To seduce or speak truth? For the entire poem tap here. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/238412 i.m. Joshua Shackleton
When the collie saw the child break from the crowd, he gave chase, and since they both were border-crossers, they left this world. We were then made of-- affronted by—silence. The train passed Poste 5, Paris, late arrival, no luck, no enlarging commentary magnified in any glass. “The ineffable is everywhere in language,” the speaker had said in the huge hall where I sat amongst coughers, students, in the late February of that year, at the end of a sinuous inquiry on sense and sound-- “and very close to the ground,” he’s said. Like mist risen above the feet of animals in a far field north of here. That is the entire poem.. http://www.pbs.org/newshour/poetry/weekly-poem-saskia-hamilton-wants-dream-work/ |
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