======================================== SAMPLE 1 ======================================== "An Culmination", by William Collins [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women] There is no word to look at. The paper levels: on and on the clock jerks its handwith sixty sizes of striking clauses in time. Or: Reaching, it aggravated: the one by calling, will throw a lifetime, then bleed if the blow could bring that person. <|endoftext|> "The New York Movie", by William Collins [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Indoor Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] for Billie Holiday Billie Holiday is dead. I am unhappy, standing there like a gray stone, standing there in my sweater, thinking I can’t kill you: I would like to be a big, red dog with snow. I wish you a good night with your face, your cheek and your legs, your legs. I want to throw away this falling Sunday with your face, my ugly body, my ugly body. Nothing to give my body to, nothing to give my heart to. <|endoftext|> "The Great Form", by William Collins [Living, Death, Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] When the viola droops, I'll not be surprised to say Hey the grinning glass ball. Laughing and cooing, I won’t be the one To tell the tragic scene. My young friends are both men and women. They joke and sneer, Just like lovers. They both think it prudent Just to bathe in red bruises. They hate at recesses While I’m eating my collars. <|endoftext|> "On Beholding the Poet", by Wallace Stevens [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] But be you the poet And I the last poet.Be you the perfect poem.Be you meer of the man and woman And I the superior poem.Be you meer of the endless poem And I the perishable’s real writing.Be you meer of the unfathom ======================================== SAMPLE 2 ======================================== "The Night Piece", by Lynn Emanuel [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] A local anaesthetic was calling one day, Tottering the country pavement, ticking like The clattering, high-crested cars going down, Marching, stumbling, Marching men with their wives. The psychotherapy, April 9, 1930 The night drive you to the BrooklynBridge And find yourself weeping, The night land lost in the west, The theft of the town, the hell-sick lives, The boy with the baby, The idiot with the woman. You remember the church, Almost empty, almost empty? There’s nothing to newly deliver. The drunk hardly remembers. The cars so full they go galloping by There’s nothing to do. You give them your moment To come and continue, If you still hear there’s not there for you The singular fog of a season, the exquisite, The scent of life in the heart of the town. The men standing galloping to the railroad bridge Murmuring of miles of happiness, walking, Step-dance, blow a trumpet, or keep the form. The woman seizes her arms. She’s sick Running down the road and coughing glass, Her eyes. The cars are emptied of light. Behind the truck there’s nothing to do, Except for the man holding watch. You can’t wait Till the news arrives, to let it go. You can wait till the train arrives. You can wait until the train arrives. You can wait till the train arrives. The train breaks. The women have arms about children. The trains fall. The shadow of the dark clouds Gave way to a sky. The man standing next to them Saw the long wake beyond the valley, the train Of cars speeding faster and faster in the ground. The train stopped at its stop there, turning, And the man paused. He called for help. They called. And the train stopped in at the station, Beyond the truck, far up the road. The man was exhausted. He called for help. All the ======================================== SAMPLE 3 ======================================== "Autumn Shade, American", by Geoffrey Chaucer [Living, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Winter] 1. Half that I would be a segmented universe on a paper airplane, and my mind is accidental. And the first time I play possible, my mind’s a vacuum, and mind is eternal. 2. It’s autumn again, yes, but the end of it’s blinding, and theircatuana of lack. 3. There’s enoughTavern in the world to eat the slop of Ca Pais or curdle the Kalmose Tea. The one electron penis will bring years to my head in shrug. Car-voo to the Daughters I recently learned to Write the poem that teaches Nikki Giovanni how to re-create the realm of grace. Car-voo After he exploded with a few kips, I was undone. Car-u-de I also wrote the poem. 4. It does not have to be wondered At breakfast, at wrestling, in three- Polishingemies. Pygmalion Or remarkable Jew. He has gone into the absolute and whelmed the difficult cupboard, where he can find the soul- labour it should be difficult to obtain the understanding. There’s no dissolutions. The sweat and sweat intoxicate the leather-soured bones. There are no crowns but one strophe. I lie down on my back and sing a song about wallpaper. I just drink from my cup and sing to myself about paradoxically I have some work to do. 5. A migration at Sardinia. Micah Romeo. Car-mâch, car-limb. Car-limb. Eloh. Gallipseo. Eloh. Eloh. Tsuji. Eloh. Gallipseo. Tsuji. Justine. Gallipseo. Tiro. Justine. Poppy. Gallipseo. Tiro. Poppy-to-get. Tiro. Just ======================================== SAMPLE 4 ======================================== "Lives of the Playwright’s Birthday, 1685", by David Yezzi [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Social Commentaries, Class] Never yet was whole world designed But that which now is dust and mind— That deathless spirit whose high design Had made earth’s dust the worlds of human kind; Whose highest thought, creating mind, and eye, Might fashion any man his epitaph. We build within ourselves, we nurse, we strive, Our little cells of learning-craft and mind Are compass'd by a heaven-appointed eye To measure blessings; working souls advance Like cockle taps against the evening sky; We know how human life depends. I see The root of husbandry; the sturdy germ Of manhood in the ground, and thrives at large— Mere ditties and plain brown earth of early manhood. A spring there is that slim prefer, whose air Is life and motion; not the old Earth’s breath, But the new Adamantine tree, whose boughs, Majestic as yon blade of ocean, show At last their promise of fresh fruit. The sum Of Earth's good gifts send raptures never near. O Earth! wide spaces, hear me where I pace! The voices of the storm come thin and clear About me; distant ripples come and stay The pines that shake the valleys. I must pass All scenes; I pass, and vanish without any cheer. I yearn to breathe the airs that stir the grass All round me; to feel fresh, undimmed the sun Among the meadows purple, and am won To share the pleasures that no change can bring. I still am strong and resolute; the wind Is up and rushing—till I seem content With nothing in it, and I cease to be. A little space beyond the prison bars I hold my little captive in my chain, And there is free access unto the stars. There is no room for any fear or pain In all the city, distant, deep, and vast, To breathe in on itself and me. For sum, (If grisps, I hold these corners wronged and tight) Whether the happenings of two men, apart, Had bound us betw ======================================== SAMPLE 5 ======================================== "Heads Scribbt", by Pope Knart [Religion, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] Seems just some sleep was broken by the wakeful fact, There are hints between the folds of holy meaning and of faith. . . . What we hold as proselype for the bodily dazzle of the eye, We cannot reconcile the mental yes, but it is certain, Those saints who are only real enough to understand, The devout, fervent, medullious Bible --that they have also done well enough, their liberalgiving, --shaking the keys for centuries and years, talking in tongues that can but fall into eternal calm, --shaking the chair for the bosom- garden of the soul, --shaking the valleys with the silver crown of the cloisters,--shaking the silence of the waters with the silver crown of the sea. <|endoftext|> "Dear Sirs, oh, dear cousin", by William Shorel Knapport [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Life] I've been at the door all day. How long I've stayed in ash or on the stair? How long I've waited, hunched before and since, on fancy's pin-a-t-e no bars have been en-spilled down the wall. Dear cousin mine, come hither; break it across the years that my house you built, and your house you will never again make a foot into, while I have a word to say. Dear cousin kitten, come and light your heart's wound. Dear cousin kitten, though it is long, I must go on my way. I must find word around that healing store. I must press the balm of its honey from the wound that you gave me before I passed that door, and it's enough for me now, too. But the good brown baby, you're not permitted to come back to me. I must work out my mind's not the thing that you did, but whatever place you keep; it's a pleasure to work. <|endoftext|> "Love's Alchemy", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Relationships, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics ======================================== SAMPLE 6 ======================================== "Shore Lounge", by Elizabeth Arnold [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Men & Women] For once, the pain seems sleeping, and anon the sharp olections check the lung. We can’t be sure how things will be becoming, or the changes of the body. But this I know, an Aeolian island adds to the body’s controulus to the body. Later, toward the beginning of the body, there is a painful gust. The gum now has to be made, the peach skinny. The frame, unconscious. Sugar, terrible. The world has a yellow zone for some, some for some.Magic zone, panther, panther. The uncertain uncertain rumor, the curious gasp for which you pose, the perturbative chore. The illusions of the brain. Delirium's unwavering sky reflecting phantom stars. These objects later: postage before the onion; suburb of the weak sex. These objects, once common to most, at their edges. Instead of the stifling, not essential to the present day, not to the past, gargoyles, not people, persons, people, empires. Where are you? You never returned, you shining thing. <|endoftext|> "To a History Store", by Yehuda Amichai [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall] How hard it is for the living to die holding only memory, and then to study the minutes how like a trumpet of the future it sounds. Gentlest of birds, patient as a body, cautious, clear as the tongues of previous vervain birds. Perhaps you are close to it, beautiful world. <|endoftext|> "Lines", by Eugénio Amichai [Living, Death, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated] Those whom you like, your own blood, how you go. Scared, you cannot describe the dead’s amazement or weigh the earth with gore, in terrible turns from itself, compared to that living, how you freeze in renthe wood, then how I cling to your body and find you different. When our bodies meet, the boy in the face is still but a boy. How much ======================================== SAMPLE 7 ======================================== "Before the Mirror", by Joseph Tybris Were there a bottom, or a bottom, or a bottom? You all have got to stand in the corner And throw a towel back there on your lap. But it won't help. There's someone Standing in the corner, trying to say That his script is good, careless, serious, And that hispolitical position Is not the right thing, even a trifle. This is not the part I like But it's my affection that keeps you with me For my sake. You all love poetry, even I. I let you know that I am affectionate. Does this want to be a goddess, Or does it cost me a cast of paper? I only asked the minor half What it is, and I wanted it to be What.... And it's finally. You all get to be Modest, or only solemn. Says anybody? That's what the mean. —I never understood, nobody understood. You can tell by yourindependent and ultrasound route, You can buy what you want, But not what you want. Something, you know. And it's your own Last Birth. And I'm only holding up my collection In a perfect piece, before it is too late. No, it's too late for me, Because you get so close. My final letter back to your co-author, is pissed. It's time now, and I can be safe. I can buy a couple of new lambs And eat stacks of them, while you have the asylum Of one last survivor whom you can remember Half through each night, And half during the month. And if you were here Because you have here the asylum for your own gender, And have the practice of tender children, Do try to smother them in their gizzard By telling them they cry, Being so very careful, even they are blamied For making them ashamed of other girls. But they don't see why it is that we can talk, And we can't hear what is happening to us. You told them, though, that it had come to be a lie, And you had said shame to them, I know what, And got the lie to bed, being as half your ======================================== SAMPLE 8 ======================================== "Kate Miró", by Aphra Behn [Living, Disappointment & Failure, The Body, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, War & Conflict] “It can’t be told,” Sarah said, “in our family, not even me, That we, her mother, need to cut a cord to draw it to the woman’s blood, Because with us It is decided we are wedded.” It may be said that Anti-Aeolian folk were pioneers for the career of our nation through the drumming of the drumming drumming drumming enemy in Germany’s southern end, “Breathe your cones on Belgium’s mountains,” which is, “Breathe your . . . Your . . .” It may be said that after the sigil years fought over, the High Sex Forces, “Breathe your . . .” This was one of the great lamentations for Anti-Aeolian folk, as the years passed through, Censorious for their dying. It may be said that bad women perished in war, probably produced the semen of an ancient race, lived also with the word august, that they were timorous, and put them off, in the civil war of their kind. This may be perhaps the sum of their minor adjustments. But it may be certain, and may be easily told by many others, the personal occasion of choice and abjection of choice to one of these game-laws is determined by Electric mutations. Exercive not only per se’pa with the Brahm monks, but also voraciously acquire the severness of suffering and ague. Take care of all experienced folk, who look not back, perhaps on all indifferent men, Who look not back to their faults in helping you. The Bráhmans, Saint, are those who tend your bodies, the pious and the fearful, for whom we groan, Or tear their hearts to sympathize with yours, But who look back? All men bend homeless to their brags, But those who war with your fundive stuff Look on, and if you let it from their memories Know that you were born to give them up. This too is all. But still there lies Precise, who seeks the ======================================== SAMPLE 9 ======================================== "The Taxis", by Amy Lowell [Living, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Is to be useful looking at? How did you get here in the show? Fig, I know. <|endoftext|> "My First Best About Everyone", by Amy Lowell [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The rib-chain in my head? That bald belt around my finger proves a prize. How can I tell you my new shoes are my toes. I want to step my feet, to taste the biscuit-bruises all around you. The floor is Turkish lacquered with lacquered grapes, from my old rock-hoary leg-banded lap, the farthest front of it of all the girls I have ever seen. The glint from my shoe, a sunbeam borrowed from my eye, seems that they are the vanishing points of the bewildered twilights of my tZ-T, L —d—torying over with love.It's a sin to see clear water, from the pool of your eye, and to smell the curl of your yielding sand. The day is my own. From afar does my glances wander, as from the house of my dream. Each morning, for you I break up the perfect gift you had, when I had said good-bye. <|endoftext|> "Grove", by David Purcell [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Gardening, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Dramatic news — it fades like a lastExercive of late April fading with the quick fall, while everything is blinkingor busy with its latest prints. By the time you get the breakfast table it is soggyand misplac'd by some old literaryist. It is useless to fantasize of the late flabby picturesque abandon, where everything nibs, and everything nibs, and everything nibs, and everything, flecks, and blades of grass. But these are writing, and though they are not magazine, gaping at the new made contact I still want to ======================================== SAMPLE 10 ======================================== "From “Canyted”", by Nousavik [Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Animals] The Arab Gaze Like a monstrous jungle from whence rushes grow tall the naked ramparts of the desert turn away from the Gaze and the water resembles a bath with all the new words sculpted in the marble of a house in the Getch water the taxonomy is where it has to lave itself among sunplastered flowers under glass and in water— the G'mhis G'mhis G'm’s name resembles an O for size like Pforcha’s honeycomb in my juice my hair became the O for size in my eyes, jewels, seas, the stone an amethystine under glass I am the South Pacific where the dollar-poms go to heat the air rising from the sea where as trees fertilise as they’ve put off the bullg provoke from the paddock the katy-fuin and the paddock backside the swimmina backside the dog irons baref and a goat fire from the gunner the G'm landing from the net the K16 air-front named the K16 air-front named the steam in front of India pulling the tree-foot logs into the boil I am borne by the wind carrying the others in a temple of my people under the olive trees facing the image of our island under the hollowed voice of a hostess head to the wind burns the trees and the shrubs and the beech leaves stacks the ashes burn all their wood and the light barks the fire now we are borne by the wind the lake by the wind the trees sway and the slow water in its heavy folds cutting up the roots of the roof above the roof the clouds which are falling on that tower cry converge and interweave together from cloud knots as clouds do back through the wind le dissolving mella on the earth regardless of its structure The wind awhile I waited the student came late with his garment jitter adrift down to the shore lost in the rigging up the ======================================== SAMPLE 11 ======================================== "Mirror", by Zack Strait [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] He opened the door: Like a screen of live oaks in the public road He swept the ruins. A hachaak blazed, a dyed canopy roasted the moon. He shouted, “Oblis, Oblis.” A wild lamb stepped into the desolate leaflets, It vanished and stayed. A humming owl hopped into the bougainville singing. <|endoftext|> "Snake", by Todd Boss [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] The empty cage is not an old room, Filled with sand and hues, Its roof is a somber house Where owls and I can see One’s voice putting a button by. The others listen only to the wind, But I will not, I do not think so loud Should I be told what is behind. How patiently I have to wait! I have a date to go, a date to not, If it shall be that I forgot. <|endoftext|> "Bacalao Go", by Todd Boss [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, The Spiritual] A bacalao bends above the rice fields As if alive. Where the cottonwoods Had earlier stirred the weight of liquid flame The object was the object of a crowd. The sun had long been let down When at his setting, some angel, bright, Had chosen his noon’s work at the water’s edge, The other three following after me Along the sandy road to Peoria— Any pathway that even a downfall can know. The morningMeanwhile had beenenta- Solitary angel dismounting the speed Of his bright, joyful back. Now here, now there, On the last morn of the long day, the hawk Stood pointing toward him from the high cliff, Where the ridge line stood clear. He gazed intent On the horizon before him, and saw, Far off, the constellation constellation, The axes of flashing wood. He saw the glow Of the pine-trees beyond the tamarind, The tiniest trillium of the cloven soil. ======================================== SAMPLE 12 ======================================== "Passingaway", by Max Mendelsohn [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] “The longing for the Lost Land immediately awakened me in the dream I had left behind. A sound I cannot do without ears to hear; it is too much. The piers have chosen for the melody.”Albert Strick Mensay is about the salt Atlantic and a part of America. She asked me to tell her about my father. He was on the expedition and had a price.He paid it in advance. I was on the boat with the blind.He was playing “There’s something you can’t bring back.”Optilessness a conflict in water currents.Beautifulness meas where you are winding your way.Meaning So long without you coming back. <|endoftext|> "Binking", by Nina Julia [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers] Two young beets fed from the black earth and they ate of them. One of them borrowed his mouth and soon taken it away.Was an old man not too old to say “I told you. I said it is you who buy bread for it.”How is he a young person being told that not to be ashamed is not concerned at all. Nobody has no ambition but you for one job and you for another.3 Then she told me that in your youth, in your longer life you saw the greens on the wall.I was amazed to see what she had to tell. It was strange how you could wait longer together longer alone. It was strange how you could wait longer together longer alone.4 Then you felt like leaving a body whose panther and its cold, hungry air that cannot stay.5 Then you left the room. It was strange how you could not stand with your body when you felt it. But strange how strange. With four young beeches you entered the forest and were walking hand in hand after they saw you.But you thought to yourself, “Have I seen its power?” geometricize on that, in that.I had come slowly and still through time, and have seen it. But you still have your image.6 Then you turn your back to find it. ======================================== SAMPLE 13 ======================================== "A Graveyard", by William Poe [Living, Death, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets] The great answer is: Pieri di Caspero press Capacius Civi’s pose an ape <|endoftext|> "Whitehair", by William Poe [Living, Life Choices, Midlife, The Body, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets] After the storia When a man comes from the Pyrenz into Italy He’s a novice operating in an inner panel he’s a one-man He’s a loose man in a church and God knows (with humid civility) whom He especially wants to be popular. He drives his horses through the gate- Closed peaks door-opened which way he drives. How converse with those whom he calls out with: the lily and the cup of life which gives. <|endoftext|> "Snake Villanue", by Fatimah Asghar [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Youth, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] I was—though I will not decline with. The cruellest bides you devise in lisping like the hooks of their hooks, touch lightly as they threaten with the clutch of their hearts. A world of nights at the dore and the comrade whom I remember as I write about it, the moonlight blown abroad by curbs of sunlight on the comer hanging the neck in the new world. <|endoftext|> "The Lake Has You In Your Name", by Khaled Mattawa [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, The Body, Love, Desire, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] You were the same as me. The daily attic on the ======================================== SAMPLE 14 ======================================== "The Palestinianpha", by Tony Hoagland [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] in my dream those flowers blossomed into my dreams it is so set and rinsed and pale the place glittered and glittered this is the day of the starshower whose dog trimmed the bay in patent leather every time a happy tinge glowed from my dusty dreams of starshine forgetting the toil I had for stewing so I kissed a nigger set free and bid the dog eat his stew if he slept he would not hunger more smoke is an old woman with one leg barely clutching knobbed new flowers from a dead man's hand buried her last tomatoes the maze all self-slabbing and giving her a rose and wreath this is the day of the starshine the day of the pollination. and said a servant: I took out my fan from a hollow tree and blew by its air—a starving flower take out this bellied bee in the white of New York’sKnowings— take my hand and sink to the sea there is no one to tell me about roses what an arm, what a mind, what company it is we will say: we will drink nothing but Popsies we will speak of the flowers so you reed out to the lake’s blue margin then you will see forests, your fields, your ceilings filled with herbs and parsley and parsley and parsley I will give you this song at the time in the morning and you will have to leap to the floor of the village and bed in a man-o-my-room for you will become—slick schemes we will be—stunned by the monoclast consolations of other men-folk drowning in white water, in their true white water, in their tried sea joys beside each other we will tighten our arms out of vote: we will fight in the darkness between banks and shoals and men in blind houses, tied to things over their hot tides, will beat back the blood and strike new men, shoot to the rock, break your creeds with the precision of dissolving chemicals iron, grind soap, and grind time into lines over and ======================================== SAMPLE 15 ======================================== "Teetum luctant", by Natasha Trethewey [Religion, Christianity, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] There’s teeter-wine on yer see-through sweeth(“we mickle” polypylos”) and teeter-wine(“Odiousis,” says Telemachus) “Aunt Vidal.” The liquid flavor girds Thee and the vines and Bacchus round, And makes a pretty serpent of “To taste the rose”. Trippandros in Arachne’s coat and orange stockings. There kneeled Adam, Eve, and prayed For Isid all the riverside, Cooed with Bacchus at his side And fish’s countess, grass, and vine (tis true), And grapes, and ivy, and the rest, And all white figs in summer-time, And post-hogs happy with our rhymes, And all the painted rose in love And time—and all the grape-garland Frost-awfle with the jimmines, And lady-smocks and hollyhocks Go round the world in white arrayed, There wedding bands on high repair, And then there wedding-nightingales And then and then the kindling tent All as of old are made for man, Plants bud, or white buds sets him up, And he sings the song with which the god Has led his lips, and hearkens dumb: Some nymph, chorister of the din, To whom he prays as if her eyes Were made to weep, a virgin-pin For Pan himself and for his sain, Although at last they take no pain For anything at all. But when He pipes to flutes (this fine thing!) he Taps horizontal, pipes to thee. And for the burden: though he flits Back with the Pan, he’ll not go home To dance with learned rooks on his hands The peril, and to make his prayer Only a passing flute and flute Sings to the hither end of the woods ’Neath shady trees. Or when he pours The fluted wine among the b ======================================== SAMPLE 16 ======================================== "[Sonnets]", by Lorine Niedecker A man may find his own ways chattering, “The light and darkness gone again so far that it will turn night into day.” Cold weather rising in the Dead Sea, lonely, as is your source. What shall I tell you when the Yours and Griefs will turn your days to come, those silver mornings, golden days, when all the world will be a story? pulses the air. A boy may hear the surf on the shore, your hand on my book, your breath in a chain for I love you, and I have a blessing for you. <|endoftext|> " — Lying Dream", by Lorine Niedecker [Love, Desire] soon, at last, when I think in the night he will come, following Egyptian night and will watch from the wood, nothing I have to say, not will he say. And when he calls for me, I give him a strand of my hair and a boat to take him to the sea, and he will tell you I am really a place to sail on a watery loch, and marry a man on the same snow as I'm now. <|endoftext|> "The Notary", by Lorine Niedecker [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity] I do not know. It seems to me as well, far as I, as I, and you, it seems, that we, or some other place, were hidden beneath that mist, and we, and then, suddenly, suddenly, our eyes did close, and we were alone, and, suddenly, we knew not why, the world seemed bread and wine, but, suddenly, we knew no more where we were led. In that other place we lost the beloved way we lost, simplicity and grace, and some rose-fed apple on the apple-trees returning again to the land. <|endoftext|> "boundary", by Lorine Niedecker [Activities, Jobs & Working, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] down in the valley ======================================== SAMPLE 17 ======================================== "Dark flour", by Karen J. Ford [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers] We were once hurt in the beginning before this amber weather stirring the rose petals from the white dusty floor on our feet. The sky today was vistaed with azalea and the hydrangeas. It came in like the wind or like blossoming of a May morning late, when rubies on our footsteps were trimm'd obsom and frail as may suit pinkiness into a tulip. Or like a screen of violets, or like the sound of raindrops on my tongue, or like our names bonding ourselves to listen. Or like a dish of porcelain, or like the heart-in-the-dust of lunch, or like a flower drunk by a tongu-hyring rind. Or like a ribald youth distrusting the form of his own speech, which should rise like the tripe, or one of saints circling the throne. Or like a mother laughing at her students, or like a friend of wrangling schools, or like a botanist whose voice is an old god, or like an instrument lifeline fawning beside the window. Or like a self-appointed household life, wherein the ghost of her whom sits pale at night with a curse, or like an exile's wandering life, but like a little stair, robe that dreams the lightest while she lies there. So wept the Princess. So wept the Princess. And wept the Princess. Now at midnight, troubled by a new disaster, we lie and let us lie alone. Our blood once warm'd my blood, all life long, and there's nothing left of the fragrant touch. The heat rises slowly in the arms of some of the flowers. We sleep together in our mouths, unfolding each a tiny moment. None are like this. But they watch each with different eyes and different minds. You two drank tulips. I will not speak of one till this sudden intimate place where everything is turn'd into solid earth ======================================== SAMPLE 18 ======================================== "My Love Sent Me a List", by Gerrit Lansing [Living, Coming of Age, Philosophy] for Gerrit Lansing Romans’ “A Regina is not missing” Romans“An Regina is not missing” Romans use the word “so fucking” Romans, so beauty's something That just short distance a minute If, while re-affers-goating, They discharge their hearts at last A moment more will get across them, So, more, more I pine for you, most people <|endoftext|> "Don’t Seem School Teacher", by Gerrit Lansing [Living, Youth, Philosophy] A little girl, with a fresh, fresh voice And a tiny, fresh-cut face, asks one question: Why are you running outside? Three of us wish To tell her that you’re a pretty baby She keeps on asking through the high and low voices Of the world with her. We’re just ordinary, But we don’t pop and we don’t pop and we sneak. We have just a notion: we look like children, We’re young, we’re happy, but we don’t pop and we sneak. All day we’re running, nor yet a bit happens. We’re going to sell our pockets and so buy a book With all the public charity and a wine-crazy, And in it come the poor mother sorrowing, with That place in her hand and look how it trembled! Poor thing, she’s given in another man’s hand, But when the years decide to die she’s only from him She’s taken in her hand and given him hers And will again be happy. No matter where they go, In the next room they’re dancing. Then, when the children’s chorus Has a last lingering in it, Back to the dolls, all three, They take up keys and, shepherding them And tell them to a garden; And some go home to bed, to light them fires In the new minuet, their hearts afraid of The goat-bear and the camomot, The zebrunt and the kettle; Others ======================================== SAMPLE 19 ======================================== "Culture Class: An Appeal to States", by John Logan [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Popular Culture] The country they call August….Wast thou not, kind, Grass-briikin?A grim-visaged business would decline,With a placid and soothing surpriseAs of one that has sinned--or has blundered awayTo a sweet submission, unsmoothed, unmissed regret;Summer passes, autumn comes on.Yet for thee, neither flower nor fruitIn garden nor garden shall pass;Red spotblank of your agédes,And fallen fruit-gardens ofOctober.It shall keep the Winter's self in their scowling,In bloom and in fruit when the season shall glowThen, with the gourds and the swill and the wild-breathing Rose,White and humid and wet, shall endureTill the mournful tale be told, in the height of their wandering.Then, with the gourds and the swains, With the leaves of the scented Mignonette!The time that they lived in a place half desolate,They drained the cup that made the sweet airSo silence and glory, so joy and mirth. <|endoftext|> "Dream", by John Logan [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Love, Desire] The ghost, that is younger than he,Has heard the songs that I made from him;And mine, too, the claim to beStruck up by the magical arrow he drank from the crystal sea;And mine, by the years that have glided and glumSince heaving and wandering and aching and sick of the past,Hath called to a dreaming of days that are over at last. <|endoftext|> "The Lovely", by John Logan [Living, Separation & Divorce, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Activities, Jobs & Working] Oh, are you coming, Author of this great scene?Proufore you have vainly striven to move me.I here once walked; I now am queen of shadows.But oh, the dusky nights! My spirit struck with poetic patterns!Not always pallid as the blood was flung From the pierced marble as I looked on it,Nor ever fading from the toil's persistence; Alas, the melancholy days! Yet love may change this prison, change this prison.As in a foreign ======================================== SAMPLE 20 ======================================== "Book 1, Epigram 34: In the print remaining", by William Cullen Bryant [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] In the print remaining, the signature is not apparent. In the print-marked beginning, a partial accposition is required. These letters still flow along the space left by the creatures. In the print-marked beginning the response is required. Those letters still go by. The words still go by. The words still go by. The words still go by. <|endoftext|> "Preface", by Mary Morning Hamilton [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] for Hugh FitzKaman I take my pen from the writing table, I tap hard the window, whatever it is, anything off. You don’t have to put off writing, however, my privacy could distract any man from posterity. I would learn to let you finish the business, and the words you understand are not only relevant, but succored in execution.Okay, March 7, 2012, New Year, Oak, Ghostpan, bran (wolf) Pill. All these books are bullets, these rancorous tales of gore, of death, or even black; but what’s more, you tell me. I leave you to your own music and its vibrations. You do not wish to go into the principal angel-bodies of mistresses and copperbats. You are right, you do not want to search the world through, but do. You do not want to return to the media life you went to, but the streets do not follow it, they lead you back to the local life, so you are through. You do not want to walk through New Year’s verandah. You want to walk through New Hope in the morning, the daily bread and butter and pie. When sorrow comes, you’ll walk alone into the day. I don’t want to go so far from home, though I have nothing to lose. You want to lose your pen, so you are through. <|endoftext|> "Send Hannah to the world", by Mina Loy [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, ======================================== SAMPLE 21 ======================================== "Prayer", by Hilda N. Elk [Living, Life Choices, The Body, Love, Relationships, Nature] for Patience Since we need your hand, although we need your eye, your eye, We need you who have the inside of your hand, We need you who have the outside of your shoulder— We need you who have the outside of your back where We need the white of your arm— We need your softness and a warm caress That presses over us, where we have loss and gain. Where we need you who else is yours and who you have— Is yours and yours and mine and the community ofWhatever man desires, The insubstantial image of your light— Here in a crowded room, Free from the tattered thought of care And withering. Let us be splendid. Here where you stand on your knee There where you worship a friend who is your enemy always The out of the beautiful, Here in the tattered tent Whose blue is the cloudy blue of the surface of troubled thought And woe. Come to the tattered tent And there the dead that you've loved shall be eased. Here for your gravity. Here for your purity. <|endoftext|> "Lose Gone", by Hilda Raz [Living, The Body, The Mind, Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] For Susan and me and for Tom and Anne Ghühmans The night before I came in my sleep a lure Fell off the eyes. I remember midnight midnight, The pitch, the time so loudly, the hour so suddenly I could hear the midnight sound, the clock before it, And all the sleepy clock, and all the chestnut leaves. That night I dreamed of an old man I stooped to kiss, Who said, like a man, I saw my love fly from his body To fly to you, and then I sure was still unconcerned Because he didn't want to come, but lay awake, And it was not until he waked up, wakened, and woke I waited, eyeing creatures that must be careful, Not because we would sleep, but because I guessed Something from amongst the stars, the one just sprung From the sea, in the silence of the night. The man was trembling ======================================== SAMPLE 22 ======================================== "Dioration", by Anne Winters [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women] After the funeral I would never forget these tying me up to an hour as my mother, having time, said to me As long as I stayed in Paris, Connecticut, that town of ourowned hunters rising up this summer that could have been. I meant to call her down if I would. But never forget the fiftieth year her sweet adonis beckoned me out of the house as walking, beyond her window, through the room, beyond, where light was never like the light of the moon, to suchlike power. Being small, she made the little place which was not mine to see. Showing her smile to me, then smiling down from heaven, she told me what she had been. I could have a sacrifice—one tree, in virtue, two, and if the pile was off one longer month, of my wedlock, I’d take home, leave over its little prudence, the place of birth might serve me for another tree. <|endoftext|> "Ars Poet", by Elizabeth Winters [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The hardest of all are met in his justice as in the best: not even him to move a hand, and yet to let the edge gallop because he was the only freeman in the crowd. I have a pain I wish— go on being called liberate, that another intervention, of whose heart I may take an oath— the only light God grants you is his. The heart that fails sure grows o’er a sign for injuries but I can see there the beam of your flint, my own shadow. <|endoftext|> "Agony", by Bruce Weigl [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] That is my brother, that is my baby brother; we and the company of the immortal, we ======================================== SAMPLE 23 ======================================== "Last Wish", by Emmy Pérez [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] I wish to give him back my hair. I'd like to be the man I'm now. I'd like to be the German who wouldn’t give a nickel, if it hadn’t. No: I won’t let him come again. I’ve lost my hair, anyway, that wouldn’t have a lot of hair again. A lot of hair, anyway, perhaps. I don’t know. I’m a partook of God & man, and man, and woman. I’d like to be the man who wouldn’t know me. I rarely go to mass or serve in schools for hair today. I gethered, grasp it, think about. I want to be the woman I made from earth. I move in unrest around the little white bed that cradle this new world where my breasts will rest. I need the patience of the trees so I can walk and stand. I need the heart to be so blind and so sorry sometimes. I need them, yes, who took this world away completely. I need them to be so wise and so proud of it. I need them to be so proud of things they carried by the large, stupendous sails but always when they broke. I need them to be so proud of these. I need them to be so proud of these. I need them to be so proud of this. I need them to eat and drink, and recline, and say to my friends, “It’s just this, really. We’re the epoch” of this song. I need them I need them to be so proud of this. I need them to die so body food, in a carpenter’s care, that it be verse. A month later I feel as if I’m just like thet tomorrow, jest as I recall. ======================================== SAMPLE 24 ======================================== "The Conduct of the Poem", by James Shirley [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I am a poet myself, and I willingly partake. The one thing is, I haven’t read Marx: No matter what the poem said. Just believe while it lives, and while it lives, you’ll understand your ignorance is one thing, too, of how it sees the world, the world of weeds. Just believe, while it sees the world, its children, its dirt, the world of weeds. Not that those things do you mind— not that these things have made a right kind. When the poet illustrates, on what one day, the string of the poem, you can’t begin anew, "Let there be light!"...definitely so the way always. I have the gift. It gets me. It crosses. It crosses. It regales. The song, to seize and uniting, requires both grates and claws. A gift's value is something I have done, though done by accidents. A gift's value escapes like that. I’m ruined through all the years, mostly alone. I’m the ruined but still it, the way that does. <|endoftext|> "Bride", by Alicia Ostriker [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Men & Women] A grateful little daughter covers my arms. Her father laughed and threw his hands into the bed. Her mother laughed and threw the bed, while she carried the screaming lamp, the strange oiled bed, into the room, the strange witch’s dower, the strange, witch’s parlor tower. She took the bed, and while the bed was so bright and dark, she threw back the door, and she wrapped the window in a cloud of tiny bees, seated at her wheel and closed the door. <|endoftext|> "On Removing the Wedding Band", by thousandsonse Kain [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Social Commentaries, Class] The first seven rules were Elsa and Odette. Zeno and discreet, then almost nothing to eat. It was a fine way, at which ponies feel proud of the new kind. The first rules were Elsa and Odette and plum blossoms that their ======================================== SAMPLE 25 ======================================== "Bean Spasms", by Linda Lin [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets] If I were to tell a story I’d return to Ca’enOnce-In-One & none the Tellenone she’ll be a little one, & one—to run from Cabé & Didn’t Cantasmata awake & blink awake.I knew the way ageean as this Oak-heavy man. What’s this that’s left? Why? Beat I ain’t lung as this minstrel & john ut avowed a man lif in the limn alibi as every cent to man. A prior everywhere in a plum be cannin what? They don’t let me in of these things I craved to keep a way away. And so I did. <|endoftext|> "A Hymn to God the Father (2)", by Vachel Lindsay [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, God & the Divine, Judaism, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, War & Conflict] There’s a babe in our house the night. The Earth is emptied of the Manger. There’s a grey mantis in the kitchen, plump as crows. Both night and day we watch them safe by. (My sister’s alive on the living room.) There’s one to the holy sprinkling, one to the coffee markets, one to the flowers. We’re glad to have our parasol around the world. The earth has fallen beneath our horses, you see, a sow and its dregs. (My sister’s birthday, be the day or the night, I have to be either.) One of my legs in the basket. The earth has ======================================== SAMPLE 26 ======================================== "Father’s Day", by Jamaal Raza Raza Raza Partyea, New Jersey I tell the tale I watched him stumble through the murky night of smelly years of wire, night of promises, aloft in fire, of memories expectant amens, aged in the Ghetto to celebrate his evening— as an ice god’s own angel spoke in the familiar voice of his victorious audience. There we stay—and so it is that in the heart of man his dreams are as dead as the wounds we breed board or flood, so our dreams no new stars can or the dead rise to guide. Always between night and night the world is the same, the same wrenched faiths of old or new as the eternal poem I say, floating here on forgotten filth with the grass and bitter tears of yesterday, but now it is all in vain. O fools, have you seen the light? Is there no perfect peace in the dark that silvers and swells, now no more as a knife on my hand that glares and glows, sending nets, to mislead me like the rasping of the shore. O Sorrow of Woe, we have set thee in Thorns and in Thorns a child, in Thorns a foolish thing and wild. Hence are we fleeing, fledged Ashes because of the urge to pray, hurried To Awe, to shun our play; so we seek to thread the night of Thorns and Isl, tortured with Light. We implore the darkness to dispense as we seek some strange place to share with the one at the bottom of Slane; we implore to abide at the Beauty’s call, to hear, to shine, to be free, to wait. There are shadows between the sun and sea, thorns tangled in jewels, light-forsaken, hiding Thee; and light, Her face thrust in the close of night, travers my soul over the stars. <|endoftext|> "The Years", by Robert Haight [Living, Growing Old, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind] I am stung, you are venomously ======================================== SAMPLE 27 ======================================== "Reminding the Virtues of Lovelock", by James K. Baxter [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Animals] Reminding the Virtues of groves, Of the merest butterfly’s belles and ides In the enticement of this light, Of this my fairest and best thoughts, that spot Which I, with pain and travail and despite, Have watchfully set down to write. I conjure all morning mid my flowers, And dream of heaven’s immortall anthers, That nowhere I can hear th’expressing hours As here together I rejoice. To live and lack not aught else that’s fair In this immortallest meditations, In the access of kisses and air. To be forgiven and confess Such Loveliness is sometimes just a sign Of Loveliness, which blooms sometimes: But I shall send her forth once more. Swallow, that plucks me unaware, Behovel, wind me from thine hair, Bewhixt thy opened-ben and handmaid And those two sun-qualified hillside breasts Where Love laid down his awe-less stains To render me all lilies native, I will not think that women are So dignified by their pureness; I will not think those roses red More sweet than thou, beneath whose bed The earth is steeped in thorny tear-lees, Those frontlets in whose dark no footing shines Of thorn-bed purpling. O'er the brims of rue The stars sweat in a morn of wind. Yet am I sullen: because the Sun Beams not upon me with a saving light, I will throw off my swathing hood of spines, And all for that which is not black. How do the birds in the branch and bough Sneak a day-dream when they still can sing? I will come back from sea-marsh, and I will tell the secret to you now. <|endoftext|> "The Hesperian Gardens", by George Eliot [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] From my window I watch the night pass And the slow faint ======================================== SAMPLE 28 ======================================== "The reckon of the Robbers", by William Matthews [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] I’ve known the crimson anemone that lives And ripples on the thinning bone Of those that like rough seed are themselves, And all most beautifully carved and fast About the flesh of purple-eyed Elizabeth. I know The inexplicable sweetness of their going on The shore to take the island and the sea. I kneel beside their beauty and their beauty, And crave that by a hundred and two ways I should achieve the same success, And then come down and sometimes get the air, As from a tree. Day after day, one by one, The feeble thought of them with its excess And want of courage sinking back again Into a late strong sleep through lively days And dreams at night, then sleepily, with a will As bright as if it were the body of Ves Ovid, and the presence of those Muse-like flowers judging The hidden essence of the quiet sleep Whereby those blossom day-born birds had come To sing out sweetness, and give thanks Home in his own strange shipwreck. <|endoftext|> "Northern Clotho", by Robert Lowell [Religion, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] I have sat by myself upon the dragon mast, And slid the anchor down across the gust, And lapped my shirt in brimming eucalyptus fast; And while the friar shouted, “Banish the nation lest the storm come on;”Wrinkled his beaks and spread his grinning teeth, And listened at the shore to all the din, And all the echoes cried, “We will escape no more— We must away. He has come back, lad! Why should we stay?” And as they shouted to him, “Stay or be taken, King and Lord!” Lightly he answered, “Stay or be taken! Hush!” The moors came after and the knights flocked home; From field and castle rang his clanging knells— Now order was the cry, “We will escape no more— We will escape no more!” Then I, “O caitiff, why reply not you?” “Why, sir, but you should quiet me, Because my blood runs hot. Your wrath is on your shoulders ======================================== SAMPLE 29 ======================================== "from Ephemera: On fire and wine", by Rodrigo Toscano [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Race & Ethnicity] 1 he never asked us if we'd have to talk with him. 2 anything he craved was his concern to see what urchins gave. I am his daughter, He held her and himself is sweeter than his voice. 3 he never asked us if we'd have to talk with him. He never asked us if we'd have to talk with him. His ring would soften better than his voice. 4 he never called us if we'd have to talk with him. We would not have him ride that night. And we'd not be his wife we'd have him break off suddenly, forget all about the money he made. 5 he never called us in the best way to be a attendant. 6 he never called us from behind or through his presence. 7 he never called us from behind until there was the bluest air and music rare. 8 he never called us from behind until there were birds in tree woods or somewhere bright. 9 he never called us from that land. 10 he never asked us if we'd have to talk with him. 11 he never called us from that land until there were flowers in his mouth or somewhere in my head. 12 he never called us from that land until there were birds in his mouth or somewhere in his head and roses in his mouth. <|endoftext|> "cavatree, nightingale", by Bellina Gretton [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Men & Women] by the ash-green foam of my words by the parts flute-like and transparent lips by the acrid, the quivering, white hands by the acrid, the kisses and caresses by the cold, rough, poisonous fingers by the salt, wrinkled, saccharine tongues by the grime of my hair ======================================== SAMPLE 30 ======================================== "Unrest", by Kay Ryan [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] I could wake my father sitting at the area store among his own words and do not dream that if his heart were only just a trifle r taller, he'd make it perfect. I could be happy now, as tonight they all go to watter house, the men practiced, two on a level in catision, fearing to throw something that wants only itself. Thinking so the next time he'd let his fingers wander in his right hand and over the left there'd be something that would become him i am not the first from the threshold of my head, pausing in its own way with the wind and are one direction only; it's not my feeling bare, just a man in bed with my father standing, right there at the window, right on behind him at the ending of the snow-shraped pane opening the pigmy. <|endoftext|> "Reason Song", by James Tate [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] Reason song. The obstinate silence of the soliloquy. The beautiful,unknowable; the overfucker who cries in logic to his own Olympus. Reason song. The old, old minds inRocky Chameleon. The young, the modest, and the middle class, who will step out in soft beds to mark us, their incant furniture and god. The new discoverer of dreams. The cerulean, the owl, the wolf. The new musician with his shell and drum. The dreamer who shakes the tune into his flesh and palm, mumbling to himself that he is dead, the one condemned to the ugly fishes. The new muse again used to personate this song. The voice of the goldfish. A half-story. The night wolves. III Dear America, make your hills beautifully brick, brick the ways where it is that you can see with. I'm not sensible. Do not run for cover in front of the wars. I want to run away from the fields because everything is there As you are. I'd not afraid of being caught in this America. I want to run away from ======================================== SAMPLE 31 ======================================== From Pang’s Provision: My Bath in San Germentor. The Bulfordshire, Gray Cloud Disputes. The ten-cented nightshade, my Bath! The Thud and the spillum, my Tumpkins, my Tumpkins, the Paunch! The Puffer of Fortune, the Fuffer of Flattery. A feathery explosion in Breccan’s Alley. Noir I no hand-wills unless I watch. The Firebrank of D crush the dust! The Baffil-brews! The flour and the bag:—all's right. Its G at the mouth— It spoils the soup. Its chills. Mud rolls. Its chills. The bread it fills. It spoils. The coals. Now smells of blacker hizziness. It fills the throat. Flashed into the fat. The K of notices Rector, his mother, has gone. The brother sits at the fire-place in his chair at the window. The rain slates, the brother’s feet. The rain is dark. It makes unreadable sounds. <|endoftext|> "At Tulpit", by Mary Margaret Fisna vocateto [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] 1 1 An English translation: “The Wreath” (Gibbert) “In hearing of the Wreath” 2 My house must have sought my bread 2 Tulpit: A Paws two more cups, and she pours and pours a P Anna Ca’ the Flats and Pineballs 3 In speaking of the Wreath My statue of Pessynge, Vienna’s surrender she waves to the A dogged, and her Œs twins to the Flattening Herd 4 The orphan whose verse shows Wit gets Death’s a-grin 5 ======================================== SAMPLE 32 ======================================== "As", by John Henry Boker [Living, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Religion, God & the Divine] . . . I remember how one day it happens with all those years, one girl, a face of a mother's wanting to be born. Every day is the same faces. Every day is the same hanker for apples. Each has her own particular employments, his own hanks and his own face. Every day is the same faces, almost always. The hanks to the hanks, olives to the elbows. Everything, where the hanks are, must be a dream. Sometimes I am sometimes an eagle, almost a hawk, and hover close enough to see through the target. And before I know the point, my name spreads out over all. It’s a game. And already, I note in my life whether I’m hounded, drowned, or mistaken. I am a turtle, but who can tell? Why are you doing what you’re talking, jack? A cry came on the waking from the turtle: I awoke because you lay awake, or waking up. Tell me, trout people, what you’ve been doing at this time, why will you turn all your attention into the cold water that comes from them? I don’t know. I was the first time taken in for a flight of ducks over a rotten harvest field. Every day I’ve been wrapping two of my feathers in a fridge of egg so you don’t want to see them. I threw off the rags of my body over the leaves and left it for another world. Our rain makes a lot of armpit. Each pull over the other alphabet but let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me arise above the trees, that I might hold my breath till morning, rising from bed, when you were gone. Your wife, too, is someone gone up into life, then pulling a tight slash through her hair, an ambuscade, a slash through blood, pulling away from her eyes. You are someone already, who survived you, an interlocutor, pulling far from her, leaving her side on the private path to her body, pulling the world. I am taking off my own ======================================== SAMPLE 33 ======================================== "The Crowd Isassembling the Lost Born", by Richard Emil Braun [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Winter] 1. From the enormous mountain crested with mountains resting, the giant has spent great pain, having walked on the earth and believed he is but one better presence, seeing the rain pour over him like glass, and his face shin with beauty, his mouth with flame, his blue eyes glistening with labor. 2. In the field between the mountains shines the bronze moon over the whole city in slow motion. With cunning passes her mouth curls beneath the stone of the olive trees. There the olive trees are motionless; their branches sheetted with glass. 3. Mid-torches, with the citron and urn cup, the slender palings of this deity appear; wreathed with vines of marvellous Maenology— like the leaves on the tree— are flung on the earth undecorated by the centuries. The divine image has passed from earth to heaven, leaving only the seven of thy number, into the ocean called “mythology,” in accordance with the earthquake — the seven in the motionless dark surround of ocean, that could produce a faery rumor, caught, but the goat showed a humanusa, a human maiden, a man, and a young earthquake, but only a beautiful woman, her belly a weapon and she a weapon. 5. The famed crocodile really received a fiery kernel in high season, in the hot fall of its face. Its head is turned backwards, its tail extended sweeping; its little body wounded, and mangled by too great weight of all that seems to fill it, the navel of this eye with the shining waters wet with drips of dew. This is my son who lives at the table; I look down from the celestial to God’s throne. <|endoftext|> "The Late Blessed", by Patrizia Borghese [Living, Growing Old, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, Philosophy] ======================================== SAMPLE 34 ======================================== "The Infant", by Eleanor Wilner [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Trees & Flowers] 1. THE Chamber of Jay.* The laws of the King’s liege, fingers and nails, Of the learned and invisible, Of the President and the pity of those Whom their folly has tempted To betray their general sin. Look, when we looked up at the cloudshadowed moon, Over which the wide-yawning of clouds Sprang like ravenlight and fell From the clouds, and the wind stole Through him pallid and cold, Then was not the silver of silver for dross To the heart of the lake; So when love was not with us, and in our dreams We served the unforgetters, I trembled And was fearful of wiles I snared in the cloisters. When the gray rats swept the walls My slippers and shirt took a ting To get off the nails, And my slippers and shavings, Just as the eavesdroppers sing The requiems of the king. When the grey rats swept the walls My slippers and shavings were broken, And my shavings and shavings turned to birds. Now the gray rats reel Round and round as the worms. When the gray rats crawl In a hole, to their feet, And the old folks grin, They will stretch their clawed backs And will claw their soft skin To get into the safe air. My heart laughed as the house ached. A man’s voice simply entered: “God, old witch! Hither they come, these dwarfed dogs, To their meat like a show.” The wind shook the curtains, and the moonlight Grew bright in the distance. A postulat murmurs: “No, my friends, not one feature of pig, or decorative hat; But a whole wig hardly worth aroll of American art: Ovid, the parson, threw by in scorn two black shavings Last night, when they lifted the lid to the right, And asked “What this fuss about?” My heart laughed as loud as it liked him— I could never make one of it,— But I found myself against their tune. <|end ======================================== SAMPLE 35 ======================================== "Of the Lakesaught", by William Meredith [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Of the Lakesaught is the great, save for what leaves of fighting grow, The glory that is greater, the dethroneless blow; And less than water is the glory that is more than sea, And earth is more than man, and heaven than sands counted o’er and o’er. <|endoftext|> "Waste Imbecile", by William Meredith [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] Waste Imbecile,Waste Imbecile,Waste Unbecoming,Waste Italia’s every springFlower of the Thamesis like a vineGathering Water from recent showers.It is a sovereign blissTo live, twice squandered, twice exchanged—both what makes life,Two only, and but each:Whose double fruits are ripened.Who can count the worst,Whose cruel pleasure strays.Who cannot name the sadness of a wishFrom mouldy springs or flowers?Such is the BondLove threw, which never shall forgetLate must have lost its power.Yet fortune smilesNor time can change it;Women lose their leaven;And minds cannot make oursGave it to hearts esteem’dSuch as from hers retire.Such fate’s decrees approve;We cannot blame, whilst bright,Our bright and brilliant heads descryThe low sun’s sink or rise. <|endoftext|> "Days", by William Meredith [Living, Time & Brevity] Days! when my life was in the womb and life of men, When in my womb the manlyakespeare’s lay rang and cribbed Unwonted clings were wont to coo across my breast; And yet the times have changed since first my flesh began, And still the clings are withering, and the streams are dumb. And yet it is a prophecy. A fallen prey is still the same; A straggling leopard clinging round the beast to hide his shame. And yet to-day my heart grows young again and fills; Again I gasp upon the plain—a weird convulsion fills The full, warm blood, and coldens heart and face; and yet again ======================================== SAMPLE 36 ======================================== "Van Gogh's Prayer", by C. K. Chesterton [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine] For some minutes we want to ask if there are no answers for our answers, it’s only for us from our bedrooms, candles that we no longer need, our bedrooms in temporary trailers that we no longer need, our bedrooms of a twelve-hour rate, small rectangular declivity that we are missing, expectance we are the one who will sell our souls in some other restaurant, the one who bought our souls, the one who bought our souls, the one who drove our husbands out of their mothers to be serious, the chief of us, in the middle of the Roundel castle, the only room to be featured on the face of God in every life crossing our hearts but ours on the one instead of the lordup vinyl perched in the corner of the loft for us to stare at the impersonal pageant of the saint and Christian without a nose. The committee at the northern edge of 
cloaked bedrooms and lawns, the hundredants in the corner who are either deficient or resolve, are either degraded or mistaken and forbidden, their miseries are destroyed or improvised for evil only by eating too much, which is important to the twelve children. The children want to be pursued and hunted and hunted and shot. That is, the lesson of the saint who taught these children the laws to be Godlike and innocently amused, a story of an offended woman hurt by a wild animal or a murdered child. Litheless, all unrequited, torn and disheartened, we submit. Halberg's authority, not the majestic city and its hieroglyphics, abridgment of nameless crimes. <|endoftext|> "American Roots for a Grave", by C. K. Chesterton [Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries] Give us a pronoun If “Peace, peace,” O pirate lad Give us a sword, give us the kingdom Give us a sword “Over” bed’s smovel kites Give us a craven sword, give us A sword, a sword “Over this wide shield” “To our King and Queen” “To our daughter” “Yes,” “Your wife’s white soul� ======================================== SAMPLE 37 ======================================== "After the Happiness of the Protestants", by John Fuller [Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Obstinately held his purple thrones in imitation of the broken? And where would we begin?—no golden cities, no melting stars. No beauty trees, no melody. No people killed in one of those. No innocence: the guns say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the tell the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the tell the say the kal, no taku a ======================================== SAMPLE 38 ======================================== IN LITTLE ROADEDEN, 4 vol. 16moons THREE Pines cling to their sides. I hanker to smell their perfume in my soul’s pure taint. The smell of their fragrance lures me back to the room where my spirit’s lassitude sippes, a cadger’s song in the gloom. <|endoftext|> "Hafitt", by Leactiv Bird [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity] Forsythia, Virginia: I collect extra bucksitza, store them on The Shard. Bitch’s work has its lamb. Finke’s dogcartwheels have made a mistake. Finke, by sienna, has carved, marks for your friends. Strab, look. Your cat has been snoring in the orchard. Garb these morning. Garb these morning. Not for me. I have left a second chance. I love you. Razzle of color. Set your yellow teeth a-rank in my cup. Have done with your nothing. I resisted thirst. Finke was the cauldron. Razzle and squalor cried out against you. I resisted thirst until I was shamed, tried to stay the first time. If you had stopped, I would still have the itch itch itch. Set your pink teeth tight up so you’d let me in. Somewhere, yes.3, there is no use in asking, it must be an exception. If you had stayed, that would have proved a very pleasant one. Let’s drink to the Queen. It’s all over now. WELL, what use is this drink? Goddamn you. Drink it up. <|endoftext|> "From “The Galley”", by Katia Kapovich [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Romantic Love, Nature, Animals] I I was pointing at a low door of a Kyoto shop in Breda, where ======================================== SAMPLE 39 ======================================== "Dora Their Swagmen and Private", by Linda Pastan [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] "It had to be", by Linda Pastan [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] It had to be a year’s vacancy. Small, yet acute. Look how much I like colliding in small pages to make the way out: the natural English of small lives. The book in which I see myself donning its texts, March 13, 1963, with the way the wind cooled. I look up at the classroom and read ten reading by the window to find some novel. I cannot imagine how you bring books that are misty. A far off and large enough to carry out a theft or conceal a secret, far from friends. I try to see them. A year or two out of small life. A year or two out of everything. Some or other. Some or other out of this. More than a mile with a library book. * * * * Over this page no one who used to read read all I could see—and what I could see down the road—along glass-glint of paths my eyes with ins of places in it. * * * Over this page no one who likes to read lifts his head and willing I write two words down the page. <|endoftext|> "Here Is the Best", by Linda Pastan [Relationships, Home Life] Here is worst enough. Here is all I have to drink. * Here is worst life. Here's best fortune gets first to get it. Here's the worst fate is the one that says “I won” and then asks what's left of home. * * * * Over this, too, who gets to choose, how was “houselight sidled” when I took it? * * * * * * How did I like it when I could see it? How it killed it! How it killed me! how it taught how to hate and fight— how to live from thought to thought, how to give the entire night that stares at me and says to all that will ======================================== SAMPLE 40 ======================================== "Culture", by Karen An-hwei Lee [Nature, Animals] No, no, no, no, my buzzing memories stack up shapes of plumbing and profitable, & as to cocoanuts some finches are asemblance to the community, not only give us a birdhouse of your closest look, the choir of your birds whose caller and sameness are the pitches of the race, messengers swarm around you like dark leaves, they flutter over you as they are now too high. Do not surprise me in your phone calls, pluck them from the front row like fluttering girls. Let them float above us like swallows; then we’ll not be too late; then what’s an answer, too, will come from me then, such as never arrive on the world’s all-bodied breast. <|endoftext|> "The Architecture of the Venet", by Karen An-hwei Lee [Nature, Religion, The Spiritual] Architecture of the Venetaton You have to believe you’re surrounded at the very point here? The walls are built of brick? & not enough to look in upon you with a look. Have you encountered an awful handful of phenomenon you want to mention? & have you ever mentioned what a tradition is? & suddenly you forget to tell me you’re up high in the palace reading the newspapers? & holy, & imperial, light a high thoughts outlook into a vista & a chorus of banditos loud with their demands on praise for the charming skein of episodes aboutatched and drowned in the confluence of the racking up-tide of clouds that passed away in gloss shoes and in shading the corner of the playhouses of landscapes behind the sun's course there were real dresses at the Melbourne whirling, & glorious leather shoes holding bunches of white-spotted pageants & made shoes fit for the gundoned shuffle of brick balls the red rolled up telephone chimneys the badge of the ones you used to have bought for a thirteen year ago went to a facée. & a new object. & a trainyou were there too. & a train, no one else near at hand but you, with nothing to see but the sky and its spangled spruces. <|endoftext|> "Waiting ======================================== SAMPLE 41 ======================================== "Rhymes Sonnets", by Caroline Bergvall [Love, Classic Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships] Limp day and lily dawn, The world is sick and wan: What time the gray hawk crows, And dares not venture down. The day is dreary, dull and dead. There needs no nightly russetting to mar the red. No snows nor sleet nor snow invites to luff and stare. And would you hear me? Thoughts that grow still dearer than more sweet, Like fountains fain to rouse the hig? A thirst to have, and hunger to withhold, Or else a feeble tussling to be hold. If you desire a passing more, Last night we sinned, and one by one we kill: With you the bright Pierus was slain, And ye begrimed by this tormented soul, Our bodies seemed, if ye gainsay, So great a price, he thought, but paid the price. And truly, for our big heart’s delight, We proffered generous comfort by the night— Which was the very liberty to die. For he, in the old times, who has striven Outgainst his fellow-man, the traitor-like, Let him repent, God knows, I do believe, How hard he’ll be to keep me if I can; So true a friend, of tried fidelity, As ever was a dissolute brother-man; So quick to save what’s lost or can’t; So sure a debt, a mother’s when she’s dead, And when she’s gone again to bed. How sad will be the unhappy mother When she’s forgot, and miss’d by what she gave, And that she’s got no present from the past, Who never lived but what she kept. Her present lord will never be a king. But what if that is happiness, And nature made the happiest river yet, And there’s not any wishful left to miss, And there’s not any that has any place, And in that happy place another river lieth; Wherefore I really do not care, I own, That it is horrible, is so, is gone. <|endoftext|> "To a Young Lady ======================================== SAMPLE 42 ======================================== "This Is America", by Carolyn Kizer [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism, Independence Day] This is America, and what men call America. —CHARLES DARWIN, The Columbia Institute Instructor Look at my hands. I hold a palm branch where I store it for the purpose of holding back The pocket of burnt wood and build the lime To shield the lemonade from burning suns. Look at my legs. Back in the world of new Vietors. Look at my hands. I work in joy And strength. With hands grown weary of the block And bruised branch, I try to figure out Some way for a release from her suns and moons For new suns and new plants and I plant my honeysuckles To strengthen the stems against time. I honeysuckles. Outside I hum quietly as leather multiflorhes My fingers shower light and trade leaks. And I am a raregood fighter And I practice the arts of holding back the ball And go on drinking rum and cooking the bitter ashes Of black earth and carnations and feathers, losing their green luster In the lust of scorching, the lust of slewlling, The lust of being fat and going under. Look at my hands. If you should still raise your hand And lick your lips, the howling wonder will fly And not for long. I am all the world. We are in pain. <|endoftext|> "The Milky Way", by Carolyn Kizer [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] The Milky Way is a dance of ecstatic dust Whereon the heavens hold their exalted thrones, A never-ending summer of lost causes And yearnings and yearnings and yearnings And ever-singing cataract of topaz, And never-dying bird and ever-singing dogmint. Look at my hands. If you should still My eyes remain for you, and if I sue for Your love, its essence, like a clothesline That ended somewhere in a continent: If you should still belong to my intention And give me life, this flawless and ecstatic Hunger, and not forever to relax. <|endoftext|> "Elastic", by Carolyn K ======================================== SAMPLE 43 ======================================== "The X or the Y at the Edge of the World", by Peter Balakian [Living, Death, The Body, Love, Desire, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities] 1 And is it the great tale of how we drive in love against myself and you that hark like it was that you are rolling in a cage beside your mother. 2 Tell me where is your handsome boy. You are his daughter. I tell you as he drums through the ribs of the jawbone, his middle ear, and the collar that grows wide on the swell. 3 Tell me where you think it is: nothing in sight. As if the world had only a thin tongue under me to make me hold the sound of the teeth of his ear. 4 His lips and eyes, see what they are went him wandering who knows what, but the eyes were straight, the mouth lowered, the spits in the mouth gasped like jaws locked in the jaws, grew calent, the mouth who listens, the mouth whispering of desire, the tongue's desire, and he waited. 5 He was sitting at the dinner table while the food was cold, while a flickering torch lit up and followed us, then rose and spoke to me, “If you think you can, will you ever learn from me—a serious problem for Anselm as it floats across the ocean?” “No,” answered I, “God will help you, or you can only learn and do”— And I’ll answer, “God will help us, or will help us,” The vessel was black, the ribs driven wild and helpless, the Mississippi swamp and Mississippi swamp and Mississippi swamp, all of it somehow touched the burning heart of Mississippi swamp, the Mississippi swamp and Mississippi swamp, the sun burns high and the two spots where the sun wills sparkles in the face of the world where we are face to face with our six children, all our faces a-thrill with wonder, the faces of our mothers a-dwelling, whose feet had strayed beyond the lynx and stypog, whose face was rinsed by the ======================================== SAMPLE 44 ======================================== "Under a Starray", by Alice Fulton [Living, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] A star’s flag is what you are, A pearl’s amaranth, my lady. When I go by, I’m thinking Of stars and swords that go by, A planet and planet chart. And of a divan ecstasy. <|endoftext|> "Carrying a Beau, on fire with Mars", by Jacob Van Dominguez [Living, Growing Old, Love, Desire] I This is the month of cheerful fire. My beautiful Julia bears the name Of may or punch, which comes to shame All those whose quietude might chance To be unpunished and prepashed. I kiss my flowers which, falling on The frozen snow, I so caper, They, too, make it an easy thing, A castle or a curio. I write a paper on a wall, To scare the birds and beasts from fall In withering blasts of spring, And then, they,--none so witty As to cast a new decisa, And shake the doves out of their trunks, Who from their narrow and home retire, In the field or grove which mocks You, curst liberales clerics. II Is it a voice, methinks, that dwells In air, where the dull ox falls headlong, On which the restless mule still winds, Or guides the horse by slow degrees, Into the pasture, and recedes? Through some strange storm that knows no change, Or mastering motions of the hill, That inward burns the inner gloom To showward through this furnace still A thing of things immacably strange. I dream, and see it rise from thence As a keen mountain heats and strips For a green river to exchange Its constant and slow way; a tree, Which for no end knows how, and takes The leafy growth and bears the stain Of late-fall'n fruit up to the stem. Oft from the dry and sprinkled ground, Down the long lane of bed I wound My way along a gentle hill Which, through my boyish laughter still Is one I love, and I shall ======================================== SAMPLE 45 ======================================== "Chrysalis of Life", by John Keats [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] This is the River Braille, “So it flows, it bears the sway.” In Braille’s pure virgin Hours, on Habens’ Day, In those sweet everlasting Bright One Hears The Wind's unregarded sorcery, Its murmuring silvery clear and mystic words. It makes The Lover all perfumes and songs, And fills Our hearts with wonder; “Awake,” it says, “my friends!” We wake to find ourselves at last Beneath the strange unfathomed West. From dream to dream, from rest unto forget, We look out o’er Life’s sunward face; We lightly blame the sunset’s trembling rays, And all its gold is in the West. It is the secretest of all the Sea, It is the famest of the birds that sings, And all its mystery is Love’s heart-strings set In silence and untroubled silence. Awake, just out of wind or wave-worn space, To the far Heaven that whispers free, And the wide music of the race Calls us where the sunward sands are sea. Gone, gone forever with the light; The deeps of Hell no more abase; The silence of the deep no more Lies under all the sun’s wide face. Only the stars of Heaven remain; Only the dreamer’s tearful scream. Rocks are broken and leaves turn pale. Only the soul may shriek its pain; Ridges of heart may long for rain. Drearier than all the years that creep, Drearer than all the years that creep, Drearier than all the years that creep, Drearier than all the years that creep, Drearier than all the years that creep, When, rising from the wave-worn Deeps, The deeps at last are unstayed and cold; Drearier than all the years that rolled. Ribbling for joy have I not known Their range of isle and ocean’s brink? No, but I heard their still replies, ======================================== SAMPLE 46 ======================================== "Man of the Eaves", by Dana Gioia [Living, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Religion, Christianity] Your letter, the epilogue a masterpiece and you see you have read a great deal the X-15 reading from the X-15, all so perfect it seems the fulfillment of any translation, excepting the words in English Think not to lisp your love-song your childhood is unversed, you have read the Adriatic and can love only as a friend, you have learned the whole lutand repeat the words in English And I loved you, my unspoken-one my beloved, my inner life. The posters they keep coming for you, themselves for you, themselves for you, my unspeakable, un-embroelled universe other people— what was my name then? — what was it I was you were a friend in I was not your friend in I was not your child in I was not your child in Weakened bedtime winter of a record and the ways of our life dissolve in the future under which you faced me Let now be woman with revived words let men eat your flower let prayer arrive <|endoftext|> "The Rosehead Niece", by Henri par refrainé [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I once was a man The year I left the park ap watched as I arrived for all the noise The violent rain bitter drop of cold from the throat I offered the sacrifice Into my body A shudder was on me Burning in pain a long while This is not my house I have paid in times before You leaned into the warm water The old man’s body was still mine his body still mine mortality <|endoftext|> "Glacial Eration", by Henri par refrainé [Living, Life Choices, Religion, God & the Divine, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] “The rose consumed me, the man brought me a lamp” ======================================== SAMPLE 47 ======================================== "Jena", by Diane Thiel You’d never mind “how I’d drive to earn my living” in the backPasha Wallerin’s Brandon beside the alias Townshendon. She’d taken it all. Maybe you want to know. I’ve already sold ’em out.I could talk about Pasha Wallerin. His forehead is always cocked out. You know he had a mouth.How’d he have been talking to himself? What he did was coming on the next day.It’s supposed he had said he’d seen nothing to Tasha Wallerin.“He has had smallpox frequency.” A word of scorn.How was everybody else asking when he was girt? But one crying “What?” came to Tasha Wallerin. CitiesWELL Gayly—the street was banky with corralling, no word of thanks. He was drinking now, his face red with honest anguish as a fruit, and sometimes coyness; he had a unbearable look—tender and sudden looks—upwards. And what’s more, Y’are! And yet it really made my coffee warmer. Why is it, Y’all, defeat that person—guilder? In the clubroom I’d better decorate a person. Why is it, Y’all, hustle and warp for sex, Why will there be no shuffling: no pushing?— “Do I want to be”—but the bottom was a quo I had heard of— I have a whim—I have just sixpence to spend, and keep this our pig— Stop the pig. I was standing just outside the door, Not traveling to a hospital. For scenes of falling water, Not dreading the ritual, not like the ritual That has been staged with all of us. Pass the mulligans: “What do I want,” and to lie down, and what do I dare To venture, and what do I dare to do?— You have to understand the paled slippery face. I am a woman, and I must take this past. What do you want? Why, what do you want?— What do you want to know, my dear? Yes, let ======================================== SAMPLE 48 ======================================== "The Strain", by Shara McCallum [Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets] for Adrienne Su [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature] Three pounds is all I need, so come the smell of it, and the fragrance of my father, 1947. Come, ease me of my cares, of my anguished hearts a song, of my ears, of my eyelids, Of my hands in his hands, hands in which the finest and finer are carried, Of his work, his books, his instruments; some take them and some with them, some with them as he fares they are swiftly motored Here in the marshes, there in the fields, there at the ford at the foot of the mountain. He has turned it all to gold, some have it and some with them, some with them as he severs Others in houses of gold. The rivers, the hills, the rivers, Under the cloudy sky; the lightning, the cold, and the thunder. In the wind they move in a ring of the Sun’s glory; and they heave and fall and rise and fall and cease not cease not wholly. There are many in the barn, they in the shed, they rise and sink and cast about in the asim natural sea; they sink and rise and fall and settle and rest and sleep and dream and do not die. There is no rumour about gold, neither in the swell of the ocean, nor in the dun of the reed-bed, there is rust, or in the thickets. There is no rumour about white men or the wind in the orchards, there is no sound in the wind of the forests. To see these things, to see myself not guiltless, not working under the heavy hours, But working in myself and wake, working and waking at hard and a little light and the world's weight. And the thin light I ascend to, the weak and the stranger; and what I am, what I am, what I am will be, day after day. <|endoftext|> "The Astronomer", by Allan Peterson [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Sciences] I see thee, hear thee, in the grey of the ======================================== SAMPLE 49 ======================================== "Vits", by Mary Barnard [Living, Death, The Body, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Religion, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Gender & Sexuality, Race & Ethnicity] After Rilke O bitter sweet potential lack And scattered sphynn over islands And new pools that were used To burn and quench—and be transformed To a hot green flame that makes you bleed, Yourselves dry for the pungent city need? There is no sweet from the sweaty suns Wanting light, the sky is the sea's own mouth. Stream through caressing rain that pours apace About the tiny cave where we put our toys, Caught in the salt of the sticky nights, Snatched from taffy by the fly that hung A humming orange on our island tongue. And now, the jungle's black, The gull's howling at dawn—that's the cry Of the little boys, and we will cossit the cold moon’s Consume with stars like women in a swoon. Some say the soul is a shell of worry, Lost like a tuppele— A long whistle and sop and howling at night Before music can change the yellow moon. Well, we squished sick-up fancy by it At a slightly dreaming hour, An arm stretched out as if the stanchions Told once more that this is a mortal body Carved into a strange land, And that your love is a return of delight, A new and final kiss on the sunnier sea. All through the May time we've traveled Far from the blues and the glow-worms and the June time, Waited for one another for the play, Lo! before us, the seas riddled Madly with sunset and the gold noon June sun. October was the time when roses Wide in my street and all the beech-leaves springed All round with leaves, and all the living green That followed, thither, to beiants When all the world was glowing seemed alive with fire. Sometimes you're lucky, then you're sort of sad, Yes, ======================================== SAMPLE 50 ======================================== "Fable", by Heather McHugh [The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] After Heather McHugh Let me tell you I am going to address you. I am going to address you. I am going to speak to you on other terms. Let me tell you I am going to speak to you. You are so good to me, so clever and alive, so wise you can send messages about me. I am going to speak to you sincerely. I am going to speak to you sincerely. <|endoftext|> "In the Playmate Calvary", by Heather McHugh [The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] I want to tell you of my name I want to tell you of my memory I have been introduced into the imagination of a long-dead Spanish gentleman I want to tell you of my name I am Spanish Harlem, Harlem, Harlem, and the rest of my ancestors I want to tell you of my name I am Spanish Harlem, Harlem, and the rest of my ancestors I want to tell you of my name I am Spanish Harlem, Harlem, and I am Spanish Harlem, nobody can compare with me I want to tell you what I have done I am Spanish Harlem, Harlem, and everything is gifted I am Spanish Harlem, nobody can deny it. I am Spanish Harlem, Harlem, and I care not how many lives there are There are a thousand to five hundred and eighty feet tall and thin There are a thousand places where you can stop almost every man from talking There is nothing so much more than that, There are so much shame to do There are so much shame to do There are so little mean shelves left in the baggage van you are a free country, Arizona Mexico are a clean reach of your patriotism They have no room in this city for villains, villains there are clean speakers in these halls of misery They will know these deeds were suicide they will know that they are on the wickets They will know that on all these windows There are so much the same door in this city in Paris So little of my name, so little of my fame as the empty cans of your guiltless life as the broken bulk that there passes beyond the crowd And I have no name left on my name but it is enough ======================================== SAMPLE 51 ======================================== O, the rich men's greed. They cannot have elset their secret of theft. Of thieves. O, the sires would have dimmed eyes. O, the poor men's greed. Worn toilers. O, the sires would have baked chicken. The sonswould have been stricken by rats. Swindled money from the mart. The day would have fallen at last. This would ruin their quiet. Their children would be crushed as they listened to an opulent canine snore. O, the rich men's greed. O, the poor men's greed. O, the sires would have smiled. O, the sires would have had had time for charity. O, the rich men's greed. O, the sires would have dealt with the helpless. Their children would have bled, but one was dragged to the depths of the abyss. <|endoftext|> "A Valediction", by Catherine Bowman [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] 1 Ave atlet cedars. We listen to our need. The doll in the mirror has let her fiddle into the hot-blooded bath. Her aunty is waiting to relax her gauze The field does not echo. The gauze For her is the golden stain. The blue tiles, For her are black marble smelling of buds. She does not forget Grandmother bites her white dough. Avellously Tripping blade at her heels. Her aunty is a frump. Avellously Heardly she has missed her edge. <|endoftext|> "Soundings", by Gabrielle Calvocatus [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] So I’m told he’s become a joke-jake of the sky, at the top of some grassStreak with lapsesof his grip on itto sayWhat might hap him an answer? and who might hear the fusbrées?Last of all, the feel of the feel of the stir,that there is no end,no end, for it can beBetween the fingers of birch and the toesof the wind ======================================== SAMPLE 52 ======================================== "Soul", by Michael Zagajewski Yes, I feel it, yes, I know That in a brief space, or a little Illusion, I am summoned Into God's council by the heart, To sit in the desert, and silently Go back in the great shadow Of the loud world, to listen To the eternal in its booming Of eternity. Dear God, who rulest the sun, Thou knowest when he trembles; Thou knowest how the birds fly, The birds, the flocks, the wild-boars, And the sad, hungry, midnight broods. All things are Thine; and merely Thine In paths where I have trod, have loitered; How have I borne and suffered so! I, in whose love, I have surrendered, Lord, to fulfil Thy pleasure, As Thou dost! Lord, by Thine infinite pleasure Usury, be it accounted for, As Thou dost! Lord, by Thine infinite pleading For strength to love me, by Thy love For justice, pardoning my sins. Therefore, Lord, by Thine infinite pleading For justice, in Thy perfect love For justice, and for mercying Just, as it is, with passionate heart, With pity, as a prayer, to be The messenger of purity, As Thou dost! Lord, by Thine infinite pleading For justice, and of mercy so As Is, not Thine! Lord, by Thine infinite pleading For justice, in Thy perfect love For justice, in Thy perfect love For justice, in Thy perfect love And mercy, Lord, by all Thine angels, Or Thy servants, or Thy servants, Being, Thee, Thee, Thee, Thee, Thee, Lord, by Thine infinite pleading For justice, and by Thy wondrous love For justice, Lord, by all Thy angels, By Thee, by Thine Own angels, Lord, by these love-words, saying: "Thou art the Voice, the Voice, O God, Thou art the Voice, the Voice, O God, Thou art the Voice, all Thy Father's!..." Thou art the Voice divine, O God, Thou art the Voice, all ======================================== SAMPLE 53 ======================================== "The Night Sides Again", by Eva Gore-Booth [Religion, Christianity, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] If  it weren’t that, and isn’t it, that nothing, and isn’t it that something other than missing that can hold the deep, and the shore beyond, and the fire where you cling to the ledge where you lie in the night's womb over the white body, the cold sobbing of the sea, the barbed life and the world for keeping your memory in bloom, this ecstasy of sorcery whose substance — taking up and keeping it to be a city’s challenge, an ocean of spring that holds you close your eyes, a city that can say what’s in its mouth; a city whose hope, and whose judgment says what’s uncertain and hears Silence to the call; a city whose ban, and the exile’s obduary, to some lone wanderer on some far shore, and an artist’s dream — the demi-gods’ homes we live in; and some are called the demi-gods, some call the lost, and some, and some, and some, and some, and some, and some are called the lost, and some, and some, and some, and some, and some, and some are set in all, and some, and some, and some, and some are marked by death-white upon black-leg crawling nigher; others they have been, some called the lost, and some, and some, and some, and some, and some, until they live, and some, and some, and some, and some, and some, and some, and some, and some, until they’re lived, and some, and some, and some, and some, until they’re born, and some, and some, and some, until they die, and some, and some, and some, until they are dead, and some, and some, and some, and some, until they’re born, and some, and some, and some, and some, until they are dead, and some, and you and I and you and I can live, and I’ll go a little time, and you and I will go our way as you did once, and we will sail a great fleet, and ======================================== SAMPLE 54 ======================================== "The Paradox", by William Cullen Bryant [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I Presence site of human-kind, mysterious vaunt And bragish rush of ocean on these shores, Wherever stranger guest Has been, since then, distressed; Whose drift is on the briny waste, Sand bedded with opposing hills; Dim groves where shifting wildflowers fade, And birds build nests in tufted arches, Dead Sea-faring baffled boats remain, And thunder madden'd in the channell'd main. She who once shook the fret at her wide door, Now pines, pines in the depths of hewn sea-wall, Lead her to where, beneath a row of pines, Black masses bulwark'd stern a landward wall, From height to height the doubling wan moon shows, Till like a portent of some fairy fleet, the moon Peers between, and veils the liquid cope with night, And veils her white face in the rosy sea-rim: Till like a mind that gazes through the gloom, Pale, sick and numb, the sick moon rears her head, And ebbs and flows to the quiet bed. But that grey queen, in wild dreams undefiled, Who wrought the fire on fragments frail and faint, (Light of the moon and soft night-air) Felt a strange cold-folded breath behind her hair, Crouched like a corpse rocked on a hearthstone couch, And kiss'd the cold face of that ghostly child. But she, in turn, being frantic, shook her head And wept; and some wild hair grew to her lips, and sobs And white lips groan'd, as if with dread and doubt He strove to speak; but she said, 'If I spake words, I never sware You, or say anything, for what you wish'd: For never, never, can I write a line.' And silence ceased; and her last hope was gone; And, one by one, she hid all ill from her. And one by one, as through the woods of night, With horrible eyes, and tangled wickedness, Stript herself naked in a robe of white, Rose over the ======================================== SAMPLE 55 ======================================== "Of the Last Son", by Martin Temperas [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] The past where I walked away ended her arms, kissed the dead, smiled, and went sorrowing, while the sphinx of my baby child rippled around me, turned world kisses into honey, chipped its mouth out, turned love again, wanting none, nothing to keep. Sixty years met in everything I did, nothing to keep. I woke with the dawn. Woke, as a drunk man might, and found that I was the wrist when my honeyie came. I woke alive with its mouth to hear my breath flow. I was the back in my wrist and I needed the wind to keep out the gifts I had bought for tea, so my mouth was tired, and I was sick. I went into the South, where the pillared houses suck my breath, like a swollen mouth, from the coffee, and I was a tin from the walls, passing some light thing in between. <|endoftext|> "Morning After", by Don Bogen [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall, Trees & Flowers] Day after day after day after day is over. I can only say that I am strong, weak, and old, so weak and frail. Sometimes at night I take a beat on the brink of life, and when it comes I say that I am the old man who heard you say you are not sure you are not sure we are rooted in the wind. And I say that I who saw the lightning saw what you were remember now, but you never know how many a day you have lasted but you stay in a place to be like me, though I hear the shuffling of feet on the way of flying exhaust leaves. And when at night I lose all the time and all the time, the wheel wanders out, off the grid of motion that moves with my stride. Sometimes I hear a clatter and a growl in the air, like something slow moving along a river, and sometimes a pronounced move. Sometimes I hear that human foot inches the world with its blue and the sun ======================================== SAMPLE 56 ======================================== "A Partial", by William Collins [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] No one has asked me where I live. I ask: You are right: I know the name. Wind blows. I feel the sea. The sea is wet with waking. Blossoms at play. I was lying Along the beach making towards it, Not carrying anything. I was lonely. The sea was rocking. The sand was rocking, So my heart wandered past all doors Up and down the dusty winding stairwells, Back and up, about me, in my soul. I made sure my look, was thinking, Everything could have been there. The wind everywhere was striving to get me Into myself again, but was not. The sun came down, the sea rose against me. I sat upright as a rock, doing the Struggle I was determined to do. I froze. Time’s building artists are fastidious to one thing. A child’s promises jar over the dead. This morning, I spent a frozen time just for Will and will work together for Five years. It was a cruel outdoors, The chopper of waters in the fourth month Could not be a parakeet. It could not be A snap in my mouth’s snow. I let it trickle, It curled and rattled by laundry stick, I let it spread crooked and crotches, I let it fall and settle above me On top of the sponge tree, below me, Tangling the laundry line over the nail That did my face into a sheet of paper I was skittish at my house on; it was hard To say why this was so very much up there. I wanted to tell the man who rolled it into Himself I’d not supposed he’d ever know, That I’d told him to keep track of it Because it was all about him. <|endoftext|> "A Story", by William Collins [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Nature, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I’d been supposed to speak to the dead. But this catastrophe has never occurred to me again since my wife and I have been submitted to ======================================== SAMPLE 57 ======================================== "Manufactures", by Linda Pastan [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Up the reputable road, three teenage farmers descried their faces to the wind, saw each of them in a different row and printed there in blood. One of them is dead and the others’ blood is on their hands. Their hands are light and they march time’s travails and their lives of the Titans gather around them as walking bulls stare in the mouths of Hercules’s sons. They feel the lion’s hunger as I clanked the locked gates that bear majesty and state. Now at the pyres of another generation, one of them fume-mast wings are not torches. They crown their life with life a queen’s crown of glory. No respite now cannot be granted them. Those of us who could not choose each treasure of a crown as our fleetfootmen dispatch an army from the eastern boundary. Our fathers thirsted for the life that lay between the tribes, hunched treasure hunters in the quarry quarry for each. Here are the swans, here are the ducks, here are the rens, here are the chickens on the hundreds who could take a handful from every village. Now on the plains of another nation we have another cross country. We remember this scheme: we make the crosses quickly, to guard our new born people against the murderous will of the world. This plan draws us to avenge our vengeance. Awhile, then, as a thought hangs over us, it gathers one another as it were a thought of the national future. <|endoftext|> "Strikers", by Linda Pastan [Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] To the left of which is a river the ridge of a river your left are solitary and very grand. The river below you are very deep are very great and very steep. When you walked in it only a smile and the smile with which you share is a big smile and a giant face. This river below you are long but very ======================================== SAMPLE 58 ======================================== "Signs of the Horse", by David Bottoms [History & Politics] It wants a horse to hackney the cold of winter, a bridle at rest at the foot of the dead. Summer’s waning, and Winter, and Summer, and Summer, and Summer, and Winter’s royal palimps way in. All the greys of the field loom open like the curtains of a great room. Summer’s opulent white body is adorn’d by many blue eyes. Pale skin without feature, and sensitive joints beautiful of bones. The plush is survived, and the record of the horse’s chest unveils its light through the layers of glass. At the foot of the hill, under the ice, three women have tided where unafraid. From one of the passengers of the others go by means of their seventeen unquieterandrices, the message which they return is no longer there to list, and they return with the newsboys of the another, in whom they fail to listen and find faith in their austerity of vows. The three are silent but in voice, and the door is silent, and in the cold forever opens. The three are silent but in voice, and in the cold the one answers, and the two apart, which draws the sense of pain and rejoice. <|endoftext|> "Cage", by David Bottoms [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] I I strew tespender in amazing red roses, that we may not see each other now. Out of the mist of the cherry-branches the first snow has livened the veil with its rain. What to our bodily senses is that, having weaped the secrets of the rose-hued blossom of the Lady D'Éblinov? Danses peux Ombre éclat é gimez, c'est mauvais monte quel cheff. II The breath of adventure is an eerie steam rising from the white-gloved bells among the haunted meadows; And the crickets are so loud upon the mountains and the lake so clear, They are so sweet that we cannot even hear them on the path; And the flowers, all withered, whisper, unknowingly, Refusing to entreat or dare themselves or turn their heads to see. O thou precious country ======================================== SAMPLE 59 ======================================== "Ne’r •ing & the Chalk, a Spade & Pooh", by Sherman Alexie [Living, Life Choices, Love, Desire, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Stars, Planets, Heavens] I see the camp. It’s brilliant green. Watch for a star. So, heavy with sleep, they sleep so soundlessly there After a nurse goes to New York to open that horoscope What do you know about that? They said my life is a tin purse instead of mine. O skies! What do you know about my short companionship. As clear As day to day, Pressing with finger and thumb, And old as I, O clouds! What do you know about my short companionship. The grass is still in valleys. No moon, by any of these miles, is so bright. <|endoftext|> "["My father always owes his life to me", by William Blake [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies] My father is in charge of me, admiring and recounting discrete episodes. He is also in employment of the fisherman and that other fisherman and that other — ought to be certified, by a record of his lean and rounded arm, by his wet face and his hands, as if he were an old accounting for his absence— and I, the last, leaping horseman of a company born in the Old River, washed andhabited at Ems, and many other worthy comrades, as I was before, were lazing, adolescent, fearless, the more by having employed the art of conjointing my head with more of their own fait, too much depends on contrivance, having too much experience, too much novelty. Now tell me —  What is it you want, and what do you roam? Your eyes’airs are of blacker black, but they are not so bright as they contain there — there are not four objects suitable enough to a human Island, there are not four or five kinds of continents either, but only one or another, Opinion, a hundred-year-old child, lies in the very dirt which ======================================== SAMPLE 60 ======================================== "For No Manorrow", by William Butler Yeats [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Trees & Flowers] When apple clips dull gold not softened o'er To show the apples soft enough their store, Then bitter frost would melt from off each tree, And stript the leaves that on their branches lay, At last to witless ones relent they give And at their ruined fruits provoke the live. Why unsecutes man's heart without some means? Why did not summer's smiles e'er prosper trees? Why made those oaks weep shame’s verdure now For flowers of small and unthrift sapless show? Why scorned gold spares the careless marble lily That did reject sweet afternoonsons? Why did not flower its petals white For one must heed them when no thief shall bite? Why watched these scrawls lest Hercules should come To wait upon the mower in Pall Mall, To plunder birds that might not thrive in stall? Why labored underneath this iron rod The offerings of whose love the stars had died? Why made these limbs, whose hearts nor man may know, Shiver, despond like stalks of naked snow, The worst leaves of whose hearts are cold and dead? Why wiped the river for this living head? Why talked the violet oaks for this fair tree, That knows the verses and will chant the barouchee? Why was not love brought for this plant so soon, To bloom in spring beneath the poppied pines? Why not grown up for this alone, this clime, To all the tongues of men, this spring-tide time, To keep the shepherd in his ken sublime? Why grow not flowoods this a summer hence, And bring me winter store of reverentlychats? Why am not all as decked in shawl and silk, As for a ornament the stock is now? Thou lackest not beauty more create than store, And wilt possess the gift to give it more? Fair fabrics merely, not so fair, can you; Beauty to win, and arts to wound the clothes, Fair pranks to make you what are most in you. How else the world, could love so well as use A ======================================== SAMPLE 61 ======================================== "Lying Dreamily", by Gerard Managueda [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Lying workwearisome at nights, I drag on my heavy, sad numbers,pressing and straining the wetness, wildly impetuously wagging a will to one who answers none,towards whatever, uhñem of shifting hands or of whatever.Oh, God of the Wise, thou knowest Who sailest between suns and mirage, what a rubric is. Who shrinks from seeing thee as one sordid, who cares for the right in the skein of time, who hates Thee, ah, thou knowest Who are in the heart and the wind that is the roof of the universe. Were I not One, being Mine, the beginning Was my origin and the end. <|endoftext|> "Gwamowrid", by Gerard Managung Is merciful. So I am The woman. The grass is still Bordered with rust, sooty with raindrops. The cow owl, her tranquil as death, dips Its head deep in water, and she is married. There is neither cow nor calf But perturbed by the thought of the morrow. The poppy has received Only water, and this dry head, unreclaimed, Seems to hang suspended, caught in the folds of the curtain.Ha, what is that? It's thrown by the pond. <|endoftext|> "Margaret", by Gerard Managueda I was sitting in a grey tangle on a bed of four dry straw trunks, outside a window full of leaves. I heard the first smart of a window glass. The one had a basin set up between two rocks. The one had a blind tooth bored in a straight line, the other a dingy ditch that had engorced sans neck, between two stones. I lingered there from that night, until the storm broke out. I would have spared one of those rocks to sayrozen stones like houses, the other usually there to say nothing. At the edge of the brook it seemed my bones to rise from the brook, returning to my feet. At the foot of the hill I saw only horrid rocks. The few ======================================== SAMPLE 62 ======================================== "Revenant of States: Moral Associations", by Nathaniel Mackey [Living, Death, Parenthood, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] 1 Hear the sledges of the stars in their ice criodactics under the gray-colored sky. They lie on hill-tops like the writers of the 18th and 3rd arrives. A gunshot, back of that forbidden planet, and an O, what a B C E CEEEEEEE E! But the rhyme of the world is slippery and sinister, and time is short, and drastic curfew-time.2 Ah, never shall these hills again seem prose to the singing of streams by the dawn-light of the Intimate, the constant rhyming of the bells. But they are too frail to relate that an EThank de Pierre from Arno is crossing those ice-cold heaps, or that Barbaudate Hector had prevailed over the war byatching himself for a model.3 Ah, those soldiers of the Church! The times they are scowling in northern sea! The cracks they have been oozing and flying eastward.3 Ah, those persecution should come at the last When the sachem of glory had nullified its national music.4 Ah, those persecution should come at the sound of a drum, And that magical moment should come in morocco trumpets, when the Armada was firing.5 Ah, those persecution should die as it was that summer!6 Ah, those Frederick Conventions could be read as a Sunday library of O-Hael's work.6 Ah, that Pope should live forever and never suffer while the Papal SheelfkThose Rectores should lie on the earth, and be mutilated.7 Ah, those Jerusalemans! Their impromptu coats are pigtails and their noses spill onto the page. Their banners are corselets of linen, and full length of glitter are they tattered!
 Beautiful troupe time! That time, like any other one, is long since come into view, before they buried you.8 Ah, those Jerusalemans! Vanished, like a dream of yesterday, they lie out in the sun on a stage in the darkness of the Palazzo.9 Ah, those Jerusalemans! Vanished, like it is mist, like the smoke of a reg ======================================== SAMPLE 63 ======================================== Upon a time when somber men are thinned, The plains are scorched and springing in the wind; And ever and anon from leaf to leaf The youth shrinks in remembrance of that spell; And each new night the gazing youth is tossed With thousand longing hopes and miseries Of village sunshine, or the foaming fields That trail behind it all the crooked lanes. But doubtful is the mem'ry of this spot Whether our fire of ancient vaw and mow Has found, when men may search it wide and round, The old uncaçonquer'd country of our ground; Or, fronting Farwood, every furrow'd wall Is crannied, or when Footham at his will Rocks o'er, and breaks the niches of Longford. Moons wax and wane, but most things must go on; The warders of the market place are gone; The bride's stride at the door; the groom is gone, And at the hall the long-lost youth must wait Upon the hazel-churn, where as he paus'd The hedge, and hung his horn--for men must wait Who love the growl of 'Iron, Gold, and Deer'-- Where the hot sunbeams bring the gold of morn. At some short distance from the hedgerows high, Amid the waves that clothe the lily bare, Hark! how the Robin wakes the brave small folk, Winging his little crook, and smiling there; Above his fallen curls the purple heaps Of clustering fruit that fold his fallen leaves, An amber glory nestles on his lips Lest he in winter kill the lonely birds. Alas! to think that in this very place One who could once such hallowed feet have trod, Could with his fellows offer up his glass, But that he knows not of these last farewells The white, fresh faces, and the gurgling cups Of brimstone, or of amber wine, and wore Such as the summer dawns upon his face But now, it seems to me, has been no more! They can have heard him when his splendor bright Leaps, and the solemn hush of eve is o'er; They can have seen him as the dial falls Before ======================================== SAMPLE 64 ======================================== "A Case in a Day", by Gottfried Benn [Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets, Theater & Dance, Social Commentaries, Crime & Dance] Provision—bent—enters—away From the Sistine Chapel, the word for the Sistine Chapel, in which bark A poor Parrot boy, with no friends, Stands to barter your hours away. The violin's castaway Obliged to utter the words:—Be silent, gods, and play That the Sistine Chapel, the world for a Days Was never more heard. <|endoftext|> "Bean Means Endless", by Gottfried Benn [Arts & Sciences, Music, Theater & Dance, Mutters, Dance, andfooted History] Bean Means Endless, be pareKing ; boh boh brachteethen Despairn, all monstrous achSchebang on the naked floors of the rooms of the house. Bean Impairn, all of us hail; see Atropos, Begeberg, Bez, Bez, Bez, Bez Run, Seresfenden, fahre Auge, boh braos beholden, bez torture them a while, yet they ring a noisy all day. Bean Impairn, bez sellehte nahbod. acknowledge. Bez bez neierwandryn, bez se llang Phoebus, oud roblai, dilhtehte huynge hylithyngefelynge hylithynge, Bez noghe, yng Ngar, bez songeith im Wulln, ynssam go ljornin a cribynng, Wyll pen kwalen a cyflannhis llehte. Bez wachthow llehte houlthofte hylith Tigmus upon, oud roddynge hylithin to, yng Ngavell, bez yng Ngastron aldyng, ho wendeth oud auch naya eurthraunge, bez bragh, naya grene auch naya bach cham auch naya uch, naeth auch brachiavit broDaedron bergesdh dduch naucht Ìd, derwe at nicht w ======================================== SAMPLE 65 ======================================== "How It Adds Up", by Missa Pickman [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] How it trickens down our lifeEarly-’s afternoon A Place where Sweetness reigns Are quite the same to An old and thirsty Land Say Your hair is gray; So it is. It onlywar Is healthy, it’s a mud, isn’t lovable, But a field of red grass Is always gray, if you want to see Me smiling. <|endoftext|> "Stuff-marked Grasshopper", by James Longenbach [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Gardening, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Stuff-marked Grasshopper, old, his version lost, his autographs all mazed and flattered out, his glass sixteen miles thin as an ice-mist in a landscape—just the same as it took to cover all around him, the times he was forced to organize on some misplaced coast. We wallow here, we wallow here in England, we are learning to wallow there, we are learning to love dirt from dirt, from mud, whatever they are— the receptacle of decay. We wallow there, we wallow there in England, we sit in Brooklyn, you've got a lot to eat, you've got a lot to eat, you've got a lot to eat. * And yet it happened, as I was slumped in rummaging the subject, he cried, Sir, to your rage, my dress in purple, ink, and white. I know it's years since he became patron, and that’s all I ever had. * And now he’s under arrest. So they let him have his paw and his fingers, their backs bob, their bellies of some almost seruiced purple. * Aeolian spiders as he snuggled his head against a hedge... And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under arrest. * And now he’s under ======================================== SAMPLE 66 ======================================== "September Midnight", by Norman Williams [Living, Death, Growing Old] That morn with song above her cradle stirred Earl Harlow read the fairy tales she told Of knights and heroes and the storied wall Of Elfland playing in the forest's heart, When low-arched suns through giant reaches streamed, And echoes clung to cataracts that hurled Their splinterings down the precipitous chasm Of silence--and the silver sunlight streamed, Beyond, on every tower and promontory, Till sullen echoes called the echo back Of the two-pronged stream, as, from the far-off town, The misty murmur grew, and voices rang. Well-hidden in the forest, and concealed In woods, as in the valley, reeled the brook And glided through the wood-walks. All was still Save for the sea-bird's wing, which scarce could tell How high it soared. And now the white-robed fisher reeled, While all the drowsy water falling still Like stately palms upon the deadened air Fell on the heaving bosom of the lake. And over it, like the rich voice of a swan, With calm its sunny purity o'erflowed, Lulled by the beating wings of moondawn wild, Lone-winged, the fairy children of the woods. White as the star that kindled from the dawn The red camp-fires of dawn would flush the rose; And the wind lulled their dances, as they played, To linger on the grass, and hear the thrush Pipe the thriss-song of their own wild ravishing, To make the dusky music of the fauns To echo in the valley; where a flock Of stars would wing the water's verdant peace, To loosen out the clangour of the woods, To make the sinewy hum-birds silvery, To make the war-rum quiver, and the rills Mimicking silverly, would follow me. And if the rapture of a mother's heart Slumbered in peace, or ever trembled there Beneath the white wild burdens of the woods, I would not ask again its dewy peace, Its rosary ======================================== SAMPLE 67 ======================================== "Vortoise of Contraction", by Terrance Hayes [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] So it’s a story I’ve learned to tell you One day the son of our language will say: “You’ll tell me the secret.” Yes, I will, do my duty. <|endoftext|> "Black Box", by Terrance Hayes [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] He was a friend then, oh my friend, And he spent the ocean, and he will spend A night trusting to a friend. Oh it’s bad To be there or anywhere the first one to give one One half the world for. Oh it’s a big Mix that no one knows the long nights have — And it’s the pitch that must be the answer Of heaping sand to sand with it. <|endoftext|> "Imaginary Foes", by Terrance Hayes [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Nobody would ever come down from that window alone in the town that's what makes a city dear to pursue, and, most frequently, a quiet man in a gray suit cravat, and a genie- dump truck, too, that's all one. Inside the factory, a catcher's cargo is going to crash and roll out, four and twenty, into the mouth of the coxcomb, the coxcomb. While there in the stifling cabin, that elegant air- man is chopping onions all day, a string of two tiny stones is under my arm, gripping the hold it gets tight and holds him to the safety valve; for no cost a worry could hesee that other fellow down there is trying to hear him. <|endoftext|> "Happening", by Robert Thomas [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Midlife, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Realistic & Compl ======================================== SAMPLE 68 ======================================== "The Little Crier", by Rory Waterman [Living, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Pets, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] My heart is aching here for the strength of the river, the torchlight in its eyes shadows of soft blue smoke. The sea has a vision today of horses feeding the dawn-flung waters for their harnesses hanging past the boats where the lotus thrives. The river has tasted the smell of clover and milk, the taste of a bright Australian village, before a man was named in these days belonged to the river. A country life has no one who remembers the scheme of making another country. The light is going off like the sirens in a row. The heat of the burning sun and the thirst of the river, the coming of cattle and building, in the dream of the river, the river with his dreaming. <|endoftext|> "Glacial Erinnys", by Rory Waterman [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys] Near a copse in the park deep in a doormurish brook under the giant elms the country is rife. This old copse had enough customary ground, the old seat for a balsam station. Sits there sun-fired at morning with willow in his lap and says, "You need some salt in your case, though I'm occupied all right; all apple-pie and honey-weed remain to be good. Please forget that night for any short; I'm still alive, being fully fed." <|endoftext|> "Good Friday", by Rory Waterman [The Body, Nature, Spring, Trees & Flowers, Religion, God & the Divine] In a misplaced form, an ass begins to wither at the pipe his seven legs fail. No longer concerns himself to entrance within the coppice wall but a voice accursingly calls out, Where is the priest? And when is ever such an ass as this voice? Here be men in panoply tenacious, and seek to know and to discover and discover the object beautiful. Let them then and therewithal go toward that ======================================== SAMPLE 69 ======================================== I dream of the love that will never be over, Of the days in which, in their beauty and mystery, Somewhere now that my soul, as its star-path steeped in Lucent fire, has missed the road that should lead. I dream of the glory in dusky midsummer sky Which was blown to the west with the fall of the rain; Myrrh and green leaves and nightingale; and the noisy Pairon bowl that was dipped by the rivulet's side. I dream of the kisses, the lissome mouth, and the flash Which descended from dream-bells down to the sea. I dream of the kisses which time has made tender, Lipped with roses--the maces and tasselled, and keen; Vague and beautiful triflers that fall on the ear; And the flirtation of all the day-dials, And evening light-hearted spirits upbraid whole And beguiled with its lovely existence in dreams. I dream of the kisses, the odor of flowers, And perfume from harbors, that enter and close, Starry as dusk and as rose-hued presence, arise Truer than death in the white ecstasy, dies. I dream of the kisses, the manifold fulness, The constant poise of their sweet, unblown ecstasy; And the venturous breath, as it drifts in the wind, As it drifts to the heart of some far-wandering New form from its childhood, is warm with its touch; And at times a young girl, with a song on her cheek, Stoops to hear from a song from her lips like a streak. The words lie as lightly as rabbits in air; But they break at the word, like the lapse of an ant; And I join with the whispering wind and the plash of it, In the pause of its silence, the tear and the shout, In the pause of its sobbing, and the folding, Of the wave and its roaring, and Rest, and Rest, and Rest. I make no sign. Nor will I. For God has my gift from the barren Godless to take and give and take and take, As the gift for the gift of the wind and the sea, As the gift for the gleam of the gold-eyed is ======================================== SAMPLE 70 ======================================== "Autumn", by Robin Blaser [Nature, Fall, Stars, Planets, Heavens] 1. What sent or prison that sups the butt, the door’s a stone, or someone’s heft the pin over water, how it lifts, the wren’s a welder, I know, or both, dead chivalries, or rabbit, deer, we venture to have tossed it till we lost it; the fissured knots and weedhooves, roadside and alley, forgeand hub, strange gull’s-day calling, calling; a wind creeping through the cedar-trees that might have soothed the rack, a tide of darkening silences, a night’s restorers bathing, a closet for the cricket, my spinning, bee-beat, bee-beat. 2. If I am to be the Lycurgus, the blue hepatica, or the nuthatch, I will grow a mauve-a-ton, a fable, bell, deafening in the gloam, I will sing to the night, i bared the rim of my word. 3. An unkempt decks reef and schooner and carry blue pouch water; every buffet of it listens for gongyo, glooms, do-do-do night’s striding clouds, tail-switch chairs in their urgent places, its flights and its memories beyond any destination for ages. 4. Blinky, bull-of-a-braid, gé-féi d'ahéi, red hair, or bull-of-a-baked black beard, immensely enlazed, on your own aura, over all the live-long day to the racing camels’ comfort, over the winter wind, verge, desperate, debonair, over the waterfall, wheels and guttural in your oaken, weathercock stare, sweat is pumped in your bellies, hair that drips. O unforgotten, across road, whose gullies burn down and blind you bring me sour, sour where no ======================================== SAMPLE 71 ======================================== "My Heart", by W. S. Di Piero [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Heartache & Loss, Activities, Travels & Piafica, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics] My heart was so full of sorrow I left my last happyions And went from sorrow to sadness. Others watched me, in softness bearing On a wing that flutter'd by. At last, soft as feathers starting From forgetful waking started A woman whose look I had wakened Was I not as new? I too was old, I too was dying. My heart was so full of foolishness, I must fade like bird from the air And I would be swept to newness. What could I have done to win her? What to resist, I had tried and fought Full many a hardy secret, Never alone to conquer or save her. But none could have calm'd the storm of her, Nor shelter in night and in day. She lay quite still, the old shroud'd one, With center'd eyes and shaggy neck. In her march, the rain seem'd to whisper; Close, close, the walls pour'd the night-rocks. She lean'd not for protection in hope; She gave her many a long stroke Of the watchful cat's polish'd coat, Put up her lean and fix'd clutch And cry'd for revenge on her pain. The old debt was fall'n, I recall. I had eat and drank like a man, Who was free from the body of thought, Unafraid to take hurt by his neighbour. And fearlessly hell, as it thought, Would fall into the dead with him On nights when he smiled and spurs round That his day's work was but a wound. The dread I have always kept Is an unnamed presence she fled. I have seen him far greasy stables, And the oil there my blood has shed. I have seen him bare brow and stiffen; I have seen him roll back and grin. He is young, he has lips and teeth, And a quail when there is the shriek Of him who was hurt, and what are they? I have seen him reel harmless and recoil ======================================== SAMPLE 72 ======================================== "Sky", by Juanito Byron [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] We fix thee to the silent peak Whereon the sun uncurries howl From out the purer air, a pang, Throbbing wild veins, a tumulous lung. Out with thy foam that wellnigh drove A life-stream free of earthly stuff, Into the rivered world, and thence, The strong gate of the stagnant pools, To light the land and rot the earth— This one—withdraw—yes—yes. The waters Lash with fierce anger the green slime That tills the dusky basin of our land. Seize with volcanic hand the throat Of that insatiate, putrid-veined-with salt, And lolling out dull rocks with briny tears, For, as the fiery furnace in thine ears, The scorching breath inhaling thy sad life. Yet let the naked and doomed raven fly Before thee, let the arrow of thy soul Speak in bland tones and find thee back in death. How come we, soldiers? Captain, let us go Where the blue noon shines shines clear, Praises not, when thy goldenrod is lit With the bright flowers that grow Around our soldier here. Pass on, a myriad blades of blue. Let us go yea, and if any stays In the world's way, let us look for him And give him our exchange. And if a man has fought With all the courage he has fought And all the tongues of argosies And all the valor he has had And all the daring he can make In darkness and in terror run And make himself again our man— If a man has fought with God, We build his temple up again Where the great wrong shall cease, And we shall see his covenant With broken chains and slain men slain And we shall see his covenant Of a new birth, a new birth. And therewithal, the faith of old, Green beyond green, bright beyond tears That shakes the solid walls of earth, Once more shall hear within our eyes The battle-pangs of men who died Ere they were strong men, men who were men And lived not slaves who went and died And, trampled ======================================== SAMPLE 73 ======================================== And I have begun to read in his hands. It is already about twenty-four hours, Almost a score, and I have not seen this, anymore, as I have not lived in my life, I have failed. It has begun to cry out this long space over and over and over, the space growing smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller. The clouds are about the size of a finger pin to put a finger on and continue to run after it, the other hand wanders, according to no name, passing the word notebook, passing it, the word ‘hop-o-h-ha!’ in the mailbox, the letter, the straight, the way it already fits the arms of those who sit and sigh in the dark, tending to that which it scarcely feels. <|endoftext|> "Movie", by Martha Collins [Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Class, Popular Culture] “Mexican, dick-shan-shan-shan-shan-shan-shai-shai,” in what-will you or yourself are we doing this? —Ericia Wettishkind Waldrin! I want a match to take, A water-bottle that must be new To me, not newspunenough of rime. To draw it has been my fate to take You in, a little playmate crazy That kicked against a salamander That blurred your vision into confusion. Suit quite frequently I throw my fist At what they say who once called me rich. But they convey no witless caprices That try to make me poorer by their love. The sort of girl I want to meet Makes it seem strange how much I state she Is not well or fortunate and sweet And may not be so very human. Yet I would fain go on before you: When you return you may find others. You can meet a woman whose face you please: I notice darning you silver for jewels. Sometimes I almost pity discussing You to other women who seem to have no will to break My very senses having been scorning Many seductive passages in being ardor I would meet with some attendant damsel of your ======================================== SAMPLE 74 ======================================== "The Things in the Sun", by William Blake [Living, Death, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism, Anniversary, Engagement, Valentine's Day] From the iron-blackened land On the edge of town Comes the smell of sameness, And a blur of yellow and purple Drips from a strange loveliness. Slowly a vague fragrance Drops upon the streets. You must pull a birch From a cave, for it's only the wind, And it's O for a shape like this, Or Above, A scream, a lifewand blown Through the twisted streets That go off and start each night In a whimpering cry, a flapping fan, Up the slippery stairs To the gray old Chippewa Tree. It's as though one hand higher, Up the trail, And over the stairs again, And into the crevices again Flies like a lover, Hopelessly lover of the dark. Just so it was with that Black Sisters, As cape-a-sick with the down of the moon. A few miles from her on the cold 1, And the heat was unbearable. 2, And the heat was unbearable. In a crack that night, As though sleep had broken his mind, In a chamber where silence Were essential, Swept a woman, Distracted, carried away, Out the window-frame Of the ice until it froze, Up and up, till they cracked and Were in bed, and were soiled. 3, And at the edge of the subway Gasped and fought each foot. As day grew smaller and The sliding moon, however squat, Fell into the night, Fell in darkness and was gone. Every watchman thereupon Saw that the same dread was biled, Saw that in the darkness Sunrise, moonrise, Black shapes, and a corpse, and a corpse, Clothed and clad in the chill of night. But not a man saw that, Not the same dread, not the gaunt, Hung between the houses As though ghosts rode in their car ======================================== SAMPLE 75 ======================================== "Sancinare, Shine?", by Paul Hoover [Living, Growing Old, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Here I step into my bath again And so my shadow is consumed by sun On which my love runs or holds a conversation Or something like a bee in a flower. My existence flatters me to sleep, I think the whole thing started from a sleep And how I sleep that the chain of hours No separate, root and thread, no interlace net No private skirts to tell of, no single trace Of wind, no self-spotion from any place No alienated look or retrogandary movement But the sheer luna of the household spaces And the seamless bluish of dusk Rudely impelled through the eyes and dark And a downed æquinoctial light. How should I love to go inside my house And do what sows the honeshubs do, or crops Or simply to dicker the hedge with green stems And gaze beyond the walls, bent over a moonlit ridge And moored to the long white end of a run Between blind walls and the world’s amiable surface Now that it has its face no turning back Thought only, this tiny blue flame of winter’s spake What sound is there but a dull breath Or a thin scream melting from the muted violin Like a slow breaking from a word that can’t be heard But stills its moan, its voice so thin It can’t be borne from the packed night To the cool purple chamber of my love Or else these strings my singing hand unfurled From the broad swing of his seven-shod foot His fingers trembled As if to say: I have been, and have endured Many unhavoured years And two unspoken, two unstringed harps Here and there Blindly shattering their ecstasies Or because they are sounding And that the snow is blinding you And your feet have done them all divinely That they are blind you hallowed Wherein you find your waiting ears fulfilled That you can utter love without one pain And without one finger. <|endoftext|> "Love is a landscape", byildar Lismarck ======================================== SAMPLE 76 ======================================== "Invitation to New York", by May Wedderburn Cannan [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Travels & Journeys] for Carol The stranger, the new gentleman who died in 1818. and all his friends who were on earth have gone down without returning. They have taken his recent name photographs in strange Latin. The first thing two recording cars are very like towns which have to remain in the place where he lived. They read on his clothes by his resting room, drinking a cup oflemni cheese. He seldom says anything but as one of them has, and he often says “You mean,” a line neatly carved into the moss. And our new neighbors, though, say don’t like what they don’t like at all. They still say, “They aren’t just like us.” They are old friends, we must say true. They smoke with our youngsters every spring. We will be home again this time. “No one ever used these sutras!” I would like to speak better. I would like to speak better. I would buy a hat instead. I would buy a hero. I would buy a suit instead. New clothes never seem better. I would buy a pull. I would buy a toy that is genuine. I would buy a rubber. I would buy a satin that fits three, a blue dress, and a garage. I would buy a friend one day. I would buy a party both sad and bad. I would buy a party all of us we have promised. I would buy a party around the world so that we might be free. I would climb a mountain all of us, exulting in our surprise, because we still were doing things better than that. I would write free. We have money. You can’t pay that! And I would buy every memory that’s not in the world. All I want is my tea. I would purchase evenings at your funeral, O my bride. I would buy my love sleeping with her in the cosiest of place; I would buy back your baby smiles in the dumpster. I would buy back your baby smiles in the dumpster, or ======================================== SAMPLE 77 ======================================== "How My Old Woman Sings", by Frank Steele [Living, Death, Growing Old, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Spring] How my old woman sings. How let it not be said that my old woman sang misga pianos, crudo of my tempo. What’s that of my old woman—this old woman— rolling my thoughts beyond her inheritance? What’s that of my old mother—on what words what she sang me or wherever I went? Paired & piquante, who’s all this trophy in today. What’s the queerest difference between summer & winter? I say when summer floods the valleys, & it’s like the ghosts hipboard of a similar meeting, that I still hear a thin horn from another person, that a particular string snapped in its final harmony, that I’ve just learned to call this herselbe a song. Ask me not now when my fathers taught me that. Even in Paseby, I can tell you that this whole history is fact, that my mother’s voice is both the sound of myFather’s footsteps, & though in she’s all the story I heard, you can tell me if you saw it. <|endoftext|> "On Swelling of the Wolf and Wolf", by Frank Steele [Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Equals are indulged, surprisingly, but in spite of the bear whether bears become tigers, lynxes, and bulls is still a public fact. Every animal would share the hunger of servants to sweep the panther’s panther back to its lair, while the panther climbs on the high thorn the fig tree. If each beast, healthy at the suitandain of the suckling, is contented to be alive on t’other side of the track, he would leap away and defend himself therefrom. In addition to the balance of  the   hide and sword of  bone, which is thus: whether the groan of the wolf or bear is thus intended, in silence, in which fear is no more than of  the pelvis & belly of the panther that preyed on the belly. ======================================== SAMPLE 78 ======================================== "Morning Prayer for 13", by Li Po [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] The teacher's pink rippling blade on the pedestal stares at the bloody mouth of the yellow snake of the herald coral’s eye and spits the word cut like the heart of the gray crescent and turns it of its slow decay and through the dark the eyes lay the snows of sorrow ghostwise and wide rising, rising and falling slowly, approach slipping down uneven lines and the slow pulling away forever and an everlasting dream until the last lines flicker and float away until they pass before the pattern of the show and the Master of Lights said unto the Ten of Dead (St. George) was because it was dead (St. George) to which I turn my face to thine friend Orpheus (St. Alex) at the throat I sat unabashed and heard the heavy Cerberus wading into the wave and could repeat my dark, deserved end before my sight (Dante always thinks) and was content that in one moment his eyes should be hurt 2 My betters, the saints, with hearts vigilatory and blank, defended by what I’m now, are placed in me defiant, three in the dark inner and one in the light the third in the dark. And Hell must be humbled about me I must get up and face me water, what sense, unknown, is how the others happen, and condemn them to think not of me vigorous in their heart’s entreaties, they pay no attention for that dark, stupid, slit-off, slaty, most patient. A man, steadily at the window and stands opposite, stands framed to all the gallows and gallows wood, and stands looking out on my half-finished ferry for ======================================== SAMPLE 79 ======================================== "Lines Written on Boardboards of the English at Dun avenues, September, 2004 Lines Written on Miss Bodley's text (or, as lost in the market of Penates, at Dun avenues) Lines Written on Miss Bodley's text (or, as lost in the market of Dun Hall) Lines Written on Miss Bodley's text (or, as lost in the market of Dun Hall) Lines Written on Miss Bodley's text (or, as lost in the market of Dun Hall); near, on Miriam Lane and the rock, in the void (which, taken in a cloud, broke from its socket, the dark cloud formless, which this stone of the Rich render to dust from the sky), while the river, covered with rushes and ash (I would like to believe that those souls, those souls seated ranged in the human mesh, were an orchestra, so defeated that, powerless but overcome, they could not quite return to life). Lines Written on Miss Bodley's text (or, as lost in the market of Dun Hall); the man bearing the law (forbear this fretwork and grief) which for a reason his words were, and not their lips but as lamps on his lips. A casuarin, whom fortune shall spurn, (Lines that the love of the core will return,) may pardon his language and face a light guerilla; but it is not a protest, lest it cost him the brand. Therefore, not for his body, but because the truth is love, and the love of the pink lambkin that sports in brooks, and the shape of its flanks, and the folly attaching its folly as hoof on the skysap. It is not the way of the school, nor the way of new-fashioned tap-board. It is the way ofInstead of the cellar, deserted and lubbering waters. Will the dome not be hospitable enough to suit him that sorrow of envoy and prince trans sends his voice into the rafters? Will the rafters and abbey no bolt of will, with its wooden cavity, make way for the stairs? Will the rafters and abbey no longer exist? palace of fountains, under the seats of the palace, and by the door in which it stands? Will there be no voices? Is it only the empty places where the servants abide all day? Will there be only ======================================== SAMPLE 80 ======================================== "Water", by Linda Pastan [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] for John Heine Out of a vintage landscape, Pour out a grapevinescent tumult, Bring, taste the hart of Ecstasy, Emblem, and leave him, breathing hot Small notes of Prosy. Let him absorb, Filled with old, inconsequent groans From Druid rocks, And let the cross-legged backing whales Wash jut and peep, Drinking all breath, And thou that hearest, ere Death shuts his eyes. Fetch water, then, Fetch water, then, And wipe the million frailer, And roll him over every shoeliness out of the sea. Seek it and drink it, And as you lift your scum benevolence out, Call to the fore— And sing, ‘Tis now too late. <|endoftext|> "The Bar", by William Carlos Williams [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Seest thou yon bare blackened and tree-lined tower, Red in the light of the setting sun; Or to the fickle seaward’s sapping hour Swinges away on a shower-wing? These are the things that momently fall and rise From very literal antiquity—the skies, The sea, the hills, the thunder, the skies; Till suddenly down from that grim and mystic plain The whole great pack, the pack’s pack and man again, Neighs into the black with lead and feet, And, suddenly, on the instant that clank and clank, The thin young slipping world comes out to walk, Lifts up, and stretches, and stoops, and stoops, And laughs and stoops, In one, two, three. OVER the meadow, over the hill, The thin and silvery-scented shadow Appear and disappear and fill. Over the hill, the barefoot boy, Along the star-mixing way, Treads slowly up the long incline Of the old, unshivered, yellow ray; Lets tipsy and ======================================== SAMPLE 81 ======================================== "Autumn", by Cathy Linnet [Relationships, Nature, Fall] In the wind there blows an icy rain; In the wind the fly’s fiery points are thin. At night the flaming Alps unfold. At morn the word falls from their hiding In the drowsy atmosphere; By some wild river’s bank the lamplight screams Where will not rain be hidden from the hills Cups of cold mist, bones of the dreaming pines, Barnum pits, and hulks of impotence of snails. At dusk the clouds are escapade; At dusk the shaking snow-gods crouch, And up the hill Way the word drifts in glee That isn’t spoken to the listening sky. Like lovers overlord their mistress, so Are the loose secrets of the snows; And like words, — echo and rattle, echo’s thunder, Reverberated gunpowder. <|endoftext|> "Separation", by Eliza Griswold [Living, Life Choices, The Mind] What divine incideration knows The certain limits of your gates! What secret charm each anxious feature binds! Vanish the destined horror and the rot. <|endoftext|> "Severed hand", by Eliza Griswold [Living, Death, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships] What vast anticipation waits us there! Vast despatorial penance, that august Becomes our mortal destiny; and bows Always before the most august. The civil office, where employments end, Between the welling bodies and the soul The soul, august as theirs, protects the wretch With one clean smile, lest he be overthrown. But all around, above, and below, Terror is present, passion over all; Peace over all; but of the state, the crown. The grave, where states have little sleep, The minds that toss at random, and subsist On too much humbly flinch; or, when at last Intensely swaying o’er the surging dead, Extols their dying lord, to realms beneath. What dread dominions must possess them there! The globe below, is ======================================== SAMPLE 82 ======================================== If “nothing was lost in the musical low of my voice,” the final words would be under that burden, Nothing was lost, anything accented. I’ve finally turned. If “nothing was lost,” the world’s a poster, everything’s a poster, the world will be a corps. If “nothing was lost,” the critic will say, “nothing was lost,” the scientist will say, “nothing was lost,” the angel will say, “nothing was lost,” the angel Will say, “nothing was lost,” the angel Will say, “nothing was lost,” the angel Will say, “nothing was lost,” the angel Will say, “everything was lost,” the loser will say, “everything lost,” the loser will say, “everything lost” the player Will say, “everything was lost,” the loser’s Will say, “everything lost” the player Will say, “everything lost” the player Will say, “everything was lost,” the loser Will say, “everything lost,” the player Will say, “everything as lost,” the player Will say, “everything as lost,” the loser’s Will say, “everything as lost,” the player Will say, “Nothing to lose,” the loser’s Will say, “Nothing to lose,” the loser’s Will say, “Nothing to lose,” the loser Will say, “everything as lost, nothing” The player will say, “Nothing except captivity the loser’s own conviction that having been a slave to the dirt, moneyed loser Will say, “things might rise,” the loser may Look askably at, something That heeds not, like the clamshell Hid under utter silences, Teaseful and swallowed up in mufflings Smell like the indescribable defense ======================================== SAMPLE 83 ======================================== "Science", by Ian Williams [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The angel hurtled through the skies, He scaled the farthest hills and raves; Far to the west he whirled his prize, There rained his thunder on the waves. The quickened lion faltered twice, But fell back quick with leap on strike; The mild beast did, with bloodlust chasms, Give tongue to his beginnings and is like: But what to me were pricked and clawed Out of their sockets now a human brow, Or claws that the cold worm did gnash on raw Of half devised for the unthinking prey, At that far-off-born I smiled to see, My hope of turning back and shirks: I saw with fits of fierce vindictiveness, I marked his leap, and marked his leap; Athwart his eyes the films that used to sever The one far world for our abhorrence. <|endoftext|> "The Battle of France", by Rudyard Kipling [Religion, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] O word of mine, when first I kissed Thy warm and tenderling eyes, I fondled thee in all sweetly lost, I fondled thee for beauty's prize. I fondled thee in heart, bedewed with blood, In dreams of thee my own, and thee. I fondled thee in soul, bedewed with gore, In dreams of thee, my first-born, me. I fondled thee, but thine for evermore A cause of jarring in my heart. I fondled thee, but thine for evermore A cause of jarring in my brain. I fondled thee, but thine for evermore, Thine image in my soul remain. I fondled thee, but thine shall ever be One pulse of love, one thrill of pain. I fondled thee, and thine shall ever be One pulse of love, one thrill of pain. <|endoftext|> "In the Wilderness", by Rudyard Kipling [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Be there the sons of evil— Be there the idle sons of earth; Be there the idle sons of earth ======================================== SAMPLE 84 ======================================== "Yesterday 4", by Charles Reznikoff [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] How do I fly by leaps of snow On the forever calm? Like leaves in the air Silently we fly On restless wing? What sounds do I hear As with sobbing bells Solemnly I accost While intently fall, With a heavy sobbing in my heart? Surely I start from sleep When I dream of yonder lake And wonder what it deepens To me, the unsubstantialized One whom the world meets, And I try to think how like it to be. Is it the light of the moon, Fairly and menacing, That I must needs be heard? Is it the hum of insects low As from a rustling censer? And are they low and far, Those insects pale and gauzy than snow? And does it matter who In mid-Julys expire, A ghost with blazing hair, Who charms to take the fire? We nearer and nearer shoot, And then those trees unfold us our food. The steamers, their cattle and packs, Preach us their strength to do; But we don't ask them, nor foresee, For we're their sport for the TOOLE. I see a giant maiden sitting, A rose in her bosom planted. She's so long she is nimble and strong, I see a gardener harvest her young, And thousands of garden trees on her steps Are strewing the hills with blossom and leaves. As her stepmother wove with her an hour, Grandmother's eyes and her big-boned monstrous arm Seem to brood upon hers, in they stare As their own to haunt in the hot-house there, And wink at me with a sympathetic leer, Tread up my heart for the picture they see, And know if a dream is the dream for me. Grandmother's eyes and her big-boned monstrous arm Are strewed with brier and bramble and weed, And round her a thousand pathways shine That beckon to Saint Peter's feet to me, And down some street of houses stand, Gazing with earnest eyes on the wondrous scene, And feel the breeze of the world come down To smooth my grave with ======================================== SAMPLE 85 ======================================== "Divergable", by Henry Dumas [Religion, Christianity, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] He sits under the red-gold leaves And beckons with vacant lips. His head wants its high exalted and innocent crown. Deluge knows his dignity now and now. The shaking of his travails into other’s arms Is a lost grain out of season. His ire Takes on a hot day like snow. His breaking Forests are taller than his father’s trees. He hates the barrenness of his majesty. High Above the blood in his meek, boyish heads Are curled like small white candles in the night. A shower of stars falls from his fierce red Arched on the black sky. The fierce wind whines in his angry, rustling side. He gazes at the white road And laughs. <|endoftext|> "Washington’s Grave", by Henry Dumas [Living, Health & Illness, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] My brother’s grave is dark and old, Rough with many years of sun and wind And many days of starlight. It is true That he is not as dear as some have told, But I, a rude watcher of the race Who pass from their sad planet place to place, I, sent here from the country of their blest Partakers of a summer’s day of best. But the implacable seasons, their sick feet Huddled against the barren shoulder, beat Their hearts to bear what snow delivered sweet, Spurned them, and left them broken like grass. <|endoftext|> "The New York City", by Louis Untermeyer [Living, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture] I will step into Dublin town and find My sister’s absence this very night That gives her life to everything I feel And helps to make some small remain For months. If I should live to be no more Of that city, it would be to explore My brothers now, they send me to reclaim Their old affection, and I feel it not. Their honor ======================================== SAMPLE 86 ======================================== "The Triumph of Death", by John Donne [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The glory of life has passed and gone, And the glory of Death has ceased with the fading day; Darkness covers the lids of the sun and of shadows, And the dew is full of the violet. Darkness drops, the spirit of day, A sadness life layeth upon, The infinite past, the infinite past; Then the glory of life hath fled. Darkness falls, the spirit of morn, The winged, timeless, boundless, forlorn: They are neither my voice nor my breath, But the glory of death hath flown. Darkness hails the life of light, The light that is born of the unknown; Darkness turns to celestial tears, And man heaves the heaving sea in its heaving breast, For Death loves the fugitive, and heaves the unbounded infinite All, all that have life and thought— The immortal stranger, the sensitive, magical, Contemplate this heart of all eternity; As a limb of an infinite formless trunk Heaves and heaves, and the wind is the ebb and flow of the infinite universe. The limitless sun passes up from the infinite wood; The swarm of bees, the buzzing wings and fly, The flight and spill of the timeless wings; Silence descends on the world of space, The world that was and is unto darkness wed, And motionless tides shift on the shores of death. The silence of the long-departed tomb, That lieth after, as on life's final shore, With the tides and ebb of time that have passed— As a garment woven of wind upon light and darkness, Is of the ocean and of the tides and light; Body of spirit, light of the strong, that is and that is; Lost soul of all light, that is and is as breath of the wind Is, shadowed upon darkness and the dark, as the wings of the wind. The silence of the graves where the souls sleep sown Have spread like the cloudless carnations to drinkThe life of the wind from their bodies and light; And the perfume of rain where noonday it rains As the dawn of the wind from its folded hands; The deepnesses of space where their shadows bide, Like the presence of spirits that move in space, Or startle the soul of the wave, is a veil, And the spirit of death is its presence, its moving face, And its face ======================================== SAMPLE 87 ======================================== "The Unknown Soldier", by Siegfried Sassoon [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Face down, men. Go down to battle here. Now look. Step to a right place. I can hear the coming of the radio, Not even the fall of the victim. Walk to a left place. Step to a left face. I will meet you there. I will tread on your history. Stop dead, or going to a north pasture. ... Cautious, but not when you are old. You dare not descend here alone. ... Cautious, but not when you are old. ... Cautious, but not when you are old. You were not born to be hung up in a forest, Not on the brow of a lion running, Nor on an empty backlot. ... Cautious, but not when you are old. ... Cautious, but not when you are old. It may be that in your travels, From that far country, that city where You stayed, were in the woods far there. That city, where I dwell, where you Have moved among the skins of beasts And birds of prey, I have endured In forests never seen. ... Cautious, but not when you are old. Out on the cliff you stand, And above the uncondite cave Suspends its boom. Cautious, but not when you are old. The crows stir in the dawn. The stages of the mystery weigh. ... Cautious, but not when you are old. . You are not torn suddenly from the world; Because the world is one wild scene, And dawn is on its wakened face, This world of man and wife. Out on the cliff you stand, and the history Is in your heart, as the infinite heavens With their own light glow. Seeing you tremble at daybreak, Loud winds are in your ears. In darkness you hear the sound Of the world that is as it were a world Of moods that are undulates With mysteries. Out on the cliff you stand, and the history Is ark and leaf and flesh and mind, Each on its hull, that in one petal glow Will fade until the first one star. Out on the cliff you ======================================== SAMPLE 88 ======================================== "Picus", by John Maynard [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] What think you’d have said to your father’s friend, The philosopher, who, as an author of difficult tomes, translating his first and then left the room sixteen years ago, While yet the sister was in error, kept house but didn’t pay to him. He had written a brief list, Éver of such a solemn and high mind That he gave no pretence to clients, for a while. His enemies—himself, the father of all the men He had been writing whom he failed— The learned author, whom he could not have known for years (Leaving a strange dark impression on his mind) His family, his house, his sleep Was intimate with him (I think his strong heart sometimes worked The worst ones), his ambition “till his work” Not ended, and his heart was touched and pleased. He shared His own with friends, let none inquire what he had been doing, And what it was he did so well alone He seemed to enjoy a steady interest in Nature’s laws, Its rules to him were to be men’s. He also took a regular rise at the end of a great many-handed monster. As it happens, the pest came and began to prepare for the brain- efforts of the universe. These helped the old man for a second act of theft Or diminished the ascetic. They charged him to pursue them and spend their time Revolving in thought and action his own means. He was not better a recliner in place Than a citizen. He burned the old man out of the house to force a rake or to exhibit a defiant offer of fire when he was found. <|endoftext|> "Together and One strikes Four", by John Dobbins [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries] There’s something done. The grass is gray with snow. That’s still enough. There’s a damp sky and the trees are gray. I’m not sure where it is dusk, But the sky is gray and the clouds are gray, And the lake is gray and the clouds are gray. But I’m not sure where it is dusk, And I don’t know which is which, For ======================================== SAMPLE 89 ======================================== "Startled Van Berenice", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Winter] To be an orphan for a million years, to be led, by the lean despiser, to be put back there beside the silver bear in the laddered bay and would I get up and run the broad miles back in the morning with tooth and bow before anything but the sea and sky looking the same from non-being, before you’re even asleep, before you’re even visited by a quiz not a word that doesn’t reach the heart, a similes and cannibalism. Three beefsteaches in the fridge, three lean couches in the sink, three ribs of beefsteaches in the house, three galleys in the haven. To be alive, but five in the house, but five killed in the kitchen. Outside the open sashes, there were three. In the kitchen nobody asked if I needed a cup or took what they wanted. Down the block the can of tell you where to take my pen. To put the pot on a pole, to string my crook, but instead the can was a pair of old ear-aches and a teenage sausage. That’s when I learned to shave my crown, I needed a can, the bell that everyone uses, so I’d plow with the can every morning. To fold the little pigtail. shed hair.As I was going home in Saturday, my mother used to wrap dad’s shavings over her shoulder if we called them, dozens of twins.We called him shavings born of cuts. To curl up round his block and bray at theón. And the can was blood. From below the can the can was blood. From above the can stopped below the can was spikes of gold.Up and down the can they plodded and plodded and plodded and plodded. From below the can was blood. From above the can until the can got a run. Then we heard the can’t. And the can’s on water, too. Next door, we heard the can, but what was afterward befelled into three-score years and a wood. Then I rolled my eye around, and fear and doubt would something else. We stopped at the canaries. Beyond a creeper a finger-breadth a bakerhome is growing. The donuts ======================================== SAMPLE 90 ======================================== My second threat was silent, tho' the kiss I yielded to bestowed upon me, is Too sensitive; and if I bring thee pain, Burthen'd with burthen, I confess I love Restrained from ceaseless torment to receive Yet unburied, though a several treasure, still The sum of goodness known. I would forget The wrath and wrath which made me to be proud, And say, as one who feels no sudden need Of more solicitude and more exertion Than others, when it comes, that it is love, Which punish'd sinners, or affirms no less, Than a few hours sufficed with other woes. Such love is horrible. But yet I feel No lamentation here, no lamentation, For if some public perils ye have felt Unjust persuasion, it shall quickly make Your stronger mood so unsuccessful, that, Though my precarious life I yet retain Conquer it, yet I dare not undertake But lay it open. God! what ailed my lily Eve! Think'st thou I suffer less, or less receive The pain? no, so pitying looks my grief And love's indignation. No, I cannot say This day is not a day without some peace, As all day long, yet this must be my lot. So having said, as I still feel thy smart Pains thee, pardon, and dispel by act Some needless sorrow. I will cease thus soon, And when I next am gone, with sad forecast Tell thee plain truth, if I have power to feel, Or if not suffer, I shall greatly grieve And long; I cannot say a little ease From words of love. Not that I am a cause Among the thoughts which should entreat my love, My purest thoughts to suffer, when I see A self-succeeding kind, as if all else Had lived to something equally divine. But oh! for once, when from the swaying east Comes the loud Atlantic, when the roar Of breakers doth o'erwhelm me, when the storm Is spent, and to a sudden tempest torn The self-same waters, I do seem to feel A universal pleasure, and imbrace Into one perfect fairness, which alone Is undiscerned by me. I ======================================== SAMPLE 91 ======================================== De Souz Gardeis (Comedy)", by J. Michael MartinezDe Souz Gardeis (I see Harmati, the Jewess) Wat insistow. Take the police. Wat insistow. Take the police. (I see Armati.) Think of aid discussing crueltism. Stand z soothed By the river Water snake, Baka, Kaka Wat insistow. Did you stand above the ground and not make clear the horizon? Water snake, Baka? By J. Michael MartinezDe Souz Garda <|endoftext|> "Dripping Water", by Nokomo Lyegeri [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] 1. The friend in the bus with my mouth sings not except in some other nightingale, it seems quite the saddest note and most crazy. 2. A raven falls over the grass. The bulls eat on grass. But nobody sees them the green grows inside the brown vine a long way off. The white men get down. The ones in Chicago have a plan, some of them have a plot that darn manage. The ones in Paris watch me sliding into France in their ivory blue bobby cruisers past cots on the way up and back. The whole country circles around. The country swoons below a bridge made by riders who fly and halt and stay. The roads swell to the bridges. The roads swell back. The sky's needle. The sky's mirror. 3. If it hadn't, they'd better hurry right with the enemy. The day's black washing made everything else just plain out. The sky's silver. But the country's so lovely it spills and cuts me dumb. Maybe the sky's mirror isn't also heaven. 4. All that is can be God has no other. A few are mad, ======================================== SAMPLE 92 ======================================== "The Paradox", by Richard Wilbur [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, School & Learning, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Class, Race & Ethnicity] I would you could tell how I went,How did I fend?In the dark the moon & the wind will have so many balloons to put out.Agile ambition my pride,Palindolence my disease,That hour-glass heaven’s sideBy so many shardsOf the rain’s glass played stringsIs of the dew and starsOf night,The moon, which starves my dreamsAnd heaven. Smiling scandal,That, sleeping in a frondageHector-wiseI should not have mended the vowed from the heroine to the deed.I bring myself to the lane.Make way there where the brushHooked me, fix me, catch me as fast in my grasp,That no one else should see me. <|endoftext|> "Delight", by Wilfred Owen [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] (The song from the end of the street) 1Sir Walter Scott Deley post eating dust, Brindle, railway stations his daughter hearty and long, lyrical, the stroll who gave her a mate, Forgetting what he'd taken for friend.2 King Truman was a nephew of Jack, who'd gone away very close to New York City apartment in stone. The party he'd been engaged would not let go, But he roused the overtake.3 Jack heard what he'd done, And promised to disappear when he'd put him in the teeth of some Gazette.4 King revel were days when Jack didn’t go in his own jacket. Jack felt how many saddle-steeds he'd galloped into one, The idea of trouble was in the conversation They'd seen moving forward, but the stunned dumbstruggled so fast.5 dates seemed so solid, Jack's febability Everyone felt dizzy.6 It was his doom to live forever. <|endoftext|> "Delivery", by Dorothea Lasky [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] 1 Mr. had two translations written for him. 2 The first was called a “Prison of the Private.” (Norton M, Scarpher, ======================================== SAMPLE 93 ======================================== "Autumn", by Robin Lady-Manfredo [Nature, Fall, Winter] after Maudeville Autumn, a new day. Remember November, a new day. Remember November, a new day. Think of the silver smiling into the barracud glass Already at the edge of day. Think of the hardson of earth crumbling into something new Into every tingling ring to the full edge. Think of what New, bright, revolutionary clouds scattered out of the blue: the clouds that dissolved them, soundless, self-edesfilled. Think of the cycles in and around of this crescent myriads of ants starting to collect beneath each other, their seeds suddenly burning each to the other, each moving and flashing. <|endoftext|> "Love Pirates", by Robin Lady-Manfredo [Activities, Eating & Drinking] a toast, butter, tarts, inviting the cultured person, the host of silver cells to taste: nothing new really a radish says positive. <|endoftext|> "Despite", by Robin Lady-Manfredo [Activities, Eating & Drinking] Despite. The white ribs eaten resting the plain, despite the morning and the pie ten dozens of dandruff bees, the hostess looks at you with a pained forecast of something promised to keep in mind. And though her aunt has gone too long ago, she still gives this greeting: You came, and meant that I might punish the pigs for you, the swine shrimp on the table the meat on the cloth, the sausage hanging down for days on end. Damn little haiti, she only gave me a glass of milk, and I’d eat with leftover cream. <|endoftext|> "Finnishness", by Robin Lady-Loveray [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] All things die together. No more need to mourn for anything. Let us throw the spear off earth and byking the inner ashes up through steel. Hold the ship ======================================== SAMPLE 94 ======================================== "Bello", by Lynn Emanuel [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Each morning the people returned but not the last time. On first day, they told me to stay indoors. I dreamed that single attention had a roof and a roof— we were alone. We woke. We recovered. We were alone. Time dragged us both from the fields. A record of the first day took three minutes before we set out to walk. It was February, we walked to a park, and then I was seated on the platform where they opened a door. I opened, at which almost lamely stood the elders, and when I left, they followed me, yielding herself to our ideal carbonarians. We dusted ourselves for three years, then whatever. She went with us, finding her nice fresh air in her purse. We told her we had flowers. She was noticing that everything was commas like some coffee in a pantry. We stopped at a store, found a tombstone, dropped it easily, the man on whom everybody must remark: this takes place in the hands of irony. When they asked, "What will come of the flowers? What will come of the flowers, this damage? No flowers are types. What is the sense in the names of flowers?" I hadn't answered. I didn't answer. Only sentence had sentence, she didn't know. She stopped telling me. I don't know what. I only know she was doing other things in my life, she was doing other things but called me her mother. I showed her how to pick up the flowers, but she was not that nervous, pathetic, eating its proboscis. I only know she was compigning to the roses afterwards, but I was not that compigning to the flowers until after the roses crawled upwards. You don't know about this last fuss, but it was Sunday.... I wash the water inside myself. Water bugs curl down from the bushes and stir. Water is enormous. I have washed the river, but the redness on the ground is a commotion that I washed ourselves inside. Who are you? What is the wind, how do I lie here? On the opposite horizon a hurricane climes itself as I wash through in, cutting off the water, my lips smear the asphalt. I must bathe with ======================================== SAMPLE 95 ======================================== "from "Gilled Lilies", by Frank Stanford [Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The aftermath of day in England goes so red they scarcely know the taste of sweating in a second sun among heatfilled drains and strawberry patchabies of love We have come to think we’ve made a snare of blossoming trees and we expect to get to Hell at last with white-winged girls lowing flies we cannot cover against pink paint a big pink orange girl let me kiss our mouths shut to wear We have come to cut the apple down insin a sticky mess of greens, so fine we can make out the shine the way we’ve tried to keep a little from tin-loos and turn the squashed syllables out with its crinkly, wobbley spangle of silk and shut us up. Don’t let the porcelain sweat the yellow and never give a lick Outside the igloo to a rhododendron sits smoke-and-ripples is too new too weak too weak too solid-sealike for just six after eleven in the morning when the wheels go rather strong but not until then too stubborn the wheels go whizz-and-wattle just how goes that girl’s laughter in the far-off mait with the flop-along-the-front ear we phu-er The dollys of the train hold themselves up as men in office pretend to keep driving, like Mary But when the girl sends back the painting to her father, she thinks each “inko for” a copper kettle, and all that he’s done is for life, like the rumble of the crump shell of   a truck The duffel, too, grows too fat or too wise for anything but purple flesh, and white as a leopard The off-hand man puts a hand of whatever he’s seen, for the amplitudes of color, blue, yellow, brown like wax or like straw, not yet so smooth as she sees in the tin line run and knows exactly what those ======================================== SAMPLE 96 ======================================== "Fire-Taking", by Carl Phillips [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Touch land-old blues or smack land-lettered mollusk, gray mollusk. Or the big water-fast grouse cabinet-striding, rinsed-out, the- soft cargoes of mirth. Gnomes and starts go dank, go dry, grind and sting. Or the ancient men groveling in my heart like redwood needles, mincing in my veins paras-care rind. <|endoftext|> "Cyclopean", by R. S. Eliot [Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore] The coyote ran across The chestnut-ripe: hark, it climbs The bough in fruit tangled with leaves, And shooting up the prickly pear, It climbed a lonely tree. Sweet, tail-worn elves Of tangled grasses, they ran by Along a sunnable country That one might kiss a rod. So she was twice a sweet girl, Then one might curl upon her breasts, From underneath a spotted oak That held its life in lazy lines From every crag to every bend. The somber growth of the oak tree Was never seen Except in fancy-dragging weed. The saw's outdriven, but I saw The branches shoot their lazily Beneath its powdery bony branches And twinkle down in fruitfulness. The wax-and-panelled cummer's work, That cuts the naked of the Sheen Braemar, Withered pale roses reached and warmer Than glow the flower's head, When o'er a craggy beech a leaf Like country-nuts dividing rock and floor Sucks sand and mud beneath the pliant And silver opposite, And it embashees a molten fog Like moonlight in the great glowering beech-tree Wherefrom there flow no twiggy gleanings But what will not itself be changed by her Who shines therewith equipp'd, Leaving there nothing to compress And softness left for lapses. Long untrod miles of sloping corn-cropped meadows Clustered like Venus looking sideways at Some lovely ======================================== SAMPLE 97 ======================================== "After Midnight", by Linda Pastan [Living, Death, The Mind, Religion, The Spiritual] We’re not gluttonous asses, Ovid, Denominatis vigil, G journeys, with a shady nook, Under branches, or in holes, By lake and by catosie. There lovers pair and met, Their first address and last. Lemons and juniors, Thequarter’s all gone dry. Ormocco, man and maid, Their original impulse To kiss alternate, Laugh with folded breasts, Heark the thief rehearse, Crying “Ormocco,” That all night long Their fame was song. Ormocco says, (whose term Is dubious, that name is given) “By morning or noon Be this your tryst,—a draught to heaven!” Forthwith he dashed to earth To depths beneath. “Be this our tryst,—the fiend Has let his wretch exhale.” Thus saying, from the sea Himself he drowned. <|endoftext|> "To the Consoling Glass", by Jonathan Swift [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Popular Culture, Popular Culture] What uricious herb, this earthly ball That doth all mortal life contain Driving the root of this old worm— Thou, who by chance into this world wert hurled, Where other animals we see noghast, Why dost thou sleepless lie at rest, Sick clothes do thou supply? Why dost thou wisely toil, and hither drag From gory waggons room to gory tomb The ruefull notes of human breath? From mice unto the inner world—which art The inner end of human life? Art thou a brutish glutton? Hast flea’s a snare to amorous youth Fast eats thy soul with jealous leerds? Time speeds away with froth and spume The souls thereof like ragged dreams; Fever flies out, all faces white That rot before our fiery blasts— Lo, in thy flesh a sodden spark Falls like dead sparks from heaven’s pyramids,— ======================================== SAMPLE 98 ======================================== The little toy vessels float on the purple sea-lane tattered and torn, the morning-glories stand. Oh, small toy boats, be careful how you pitch down the beach and reach for fish. For while the boats ply on their tugboats, the youngest, tired, can only wait beside a broken gate. Then, swooping over, swooping, swooping down, take over board, hold the seaside town, range the waters, sweep the long coast clean. <|endoftext|> "Columbus Park", by John W. Service [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The lights off the island wall make soft clink, the birds sullen in the elm-roof chase the noisy moose. The road sidles, the wall disappears, and the cliff brings us through, not one of all the way to show odds in it all how far we have wandered, in which direction we discovered the way one blind man could run to meet our neighbor’s light-footed neighbor in the next prison. The road he cannot see in October competing elephants twisting in timed procession. The train skims the ocean, opening on it, curling over the red boughs of the cliff, lifting its eyelids. Wind lifts the snow-white hand up, and on our shoulders the bright, transparent faces of the others arrive, and through their petted shrouds Electric light shifts and vanishes in the distance. Plunging into the ocean they come covered in the waves, and wonder and fear, seeing the shelter of their passing. They will run to catch them, and when their feet clean of the surf, they hunch through the sand up and swim under. A third chorus each night goes by each evening. I have not seen it since I've left Pierced Way. They will not take me, they will not take me. I have seen the life of Gray, the sense of ghosts of what they saw. These are spectres that dance and sing, shapes that find a way through them, snails and cup-holes and catchets, gri ======================================== SAMPLE 99 ======================================== "Winter Love", by John M'lene [Living, Coming of Age, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] I loved the river, I loved the sea, I loved my lord a thousand years, I said unto myself, I will love the river, I will walk along the windy hills, walking the thrifty trees.The snows, the snows have passed between my house and my heart. Song and the windows of my soul are but my own, I have loved the river, I have looked into my soul and the sea has become my house. It will be a year for you, beloved, I have longed for you and I will have time for you. <|endoftext|> "Strangers", by John M'lene [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Class, Popular Culture] Come, Sorrows, let's go rambling. Ask us, poor lovers, what we see,And what seek for that; anon may be enough,It must be well, for could I but weep for you. Lie to your hearts, and feel no less My longings, that my hair is growing thin;They who have seen my early parts past me shall go better,They who have faced me moving made the first that'll move,And I shall have them in abundance trough, and thou shalt, lacking in sweetness, Rust.Bashfuller than bougain, bared for the blossom,Balled for the eagle, I'll be call'd a thrush, Who, though men call him Fatch-of-Loth, veers because he beareth no plume.Sharpened for frighted, bold, erect, tall, slender,Swaying I know not how, nor toil-day, nor the dull senseOf idle surfeit, nor the greed to object, Comes ease or yields or covets, that now Grief 's orchestration.In such bold fashion, and majestic mood,What see I of your face and that half fancyWhich makes my flesh yet rudely breathe upon it?Was ever such glass a true photograph,Into my room as there you sit and chat,While I, my love, have made the sea your home,I have my rosy kingdom drawn on you,And drawn your jet-al tighter, to your breast.But now 't is only your poor self that speaks:I am that I should speak; I ======================================== SAMPLE 100 ======================================== "Gouldian Kit", by Terri Kirby Erickson Look out upon the desert far From eastward by the hundreds play Upon the flying leagues away In golden chrysanthemums and rose, And the waterfall, the glassy shell, Leap in the glory of its hose And dances in festoons of roses. And when the world is powdered from gold Within its sunlit filigree, Beyond its tassels take your way To play with the wild creatures. Then come, you simple, thoughtful one, Come, white and thoughtful one, Come, let your loveliness alone, And happiness be lost. Out of the longings of our eyes Comes the Vision of the night, Into the unapproachable skies We come to-night. The pinkish dogcart in his pail Stands at the door, The tassels, silver-shrouded, trail On the air; The tassels, silver-spared, all sail Dead upon the air. But nothing is back, but the want Of the angels in the pool, The wanting of all the shillings; Comfort is most cursed of all, Even their most unpleasant, Patrimony is the only sin That has been any more. For here, upon the morning Dawn finds us not alone, Knowing that we are out of breath, Unmindful of the groans we moan, Having no need of prayer; Now, all our prayers are tedious, All prayers that we are spared, And all we strive to clear is tedious, Worn-out we are prepared; Now, day by weary day, we keep Life's lusty awhile fled, And now, once more, uplifted, we Are drenched with muscadum. Winter-clouds flurry and thaw; Fawning and bold, they whirl and chaw, Tossing and rolling everywhere, The desperate, raucous air. The noisy quak and quail Here together hover and droop, In weather-beaten skies, Dream-blocks of slant lucidity, And twilight-blocks of memory, Forgotten of our own despair. And as, by lamplight's slant canal, At dawn ======================================== SAMPLE 101 ======================================== "If I cannot", by Alex Dim [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film] If I cannot then the same artistry is far and near it will not be like a train but it will wish me luck like some other train. <|endoftext|> "It Is Love They Weren't Applanged", by Steve Screwley [Living, Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Anniversary, Valentine's Day] It is a music that comes swifter than a wind, It is not the other music that comes down Toward my house, Till I hear it All dissolve and shatter Into a swab for a song <|endoftext|> "Kate-Ode’s a Sweet Thing", by Steve Screwley [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Kate-Ode Ben-Treu is a pleasant woman. No one reads much read Her name, or what she did with. Ben-Ode Was an old woman, with a beard of Mellow. Her palms were long as bone. The rest, The Chinaman, is an old woman’s body. The band, Had a long hair, and I could pick one. Also, Had a long beard, and started to die in the woods. And, as luck averted it, we said Aunt, Began a cry about Will, Aunt—the Sweet-Heart, A Halley’s beard, a cherokee’s tattoo. My Ma said It was a womernauts and she refused to be married To a man more snowy. She held her hand. I said, Let the woods encircle, they say they are sisters. Let us put some chopped wood on a death bed. Let the sheep sleep, the green grass and cattle. Let it guard a candle to make it ready. She is clean and chaste. I said, take a church toll. <|endoftext|> "The Good midsummer Address", by Joseph Brodsky [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Summer, Trees & Flowers, Anniversary] In the middle of ======================================== SAMPLE 102 ======================================== "Elsewherera", by Matthew Arnold [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Love, Heartache & Loss, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Class, Popular Culture] In the beginning our threadbare songs began to die just before the last big calon’s lava rended the city its red beacon toward May: My mother taught me to step into My—first My—need of each one in what shape did I want it to take me for an alien’s mother free from all customary and naked of an alien or two now, a homeless from them or from those who would wander my dreams? Talk with it how to sell me your dear beloved then and there to be given a new one, a new one; to do ’t again. The new one, to do ’t again. <|endoftext|> "In My Ambition", by Heather McHugh [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] our full and rich choices are the same now my dear dead down with the war my hankering for solitude a long time not for loneliness but for a passing more lasting yet remembered sounds. We in our grandeur dream of hardihood as in some other age, I but do not trust that sympathy the knife lights the page of our pent feelings shooting the sky across our borders. We too dream of the heroism of earlyrequests, of the sacrifice, of the heart. Not grief, not exultation, not defeat. Not love, not hatred. Pierre is at the altar where he shall endure a pure, mean communion. Beneath him, life holds us: tender remembrance grows up with patience. With deep hate we quell our bigots. He is at the altar. <|endoftext|> "Walking Down River Street", by Michael Dickman [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] Walking down riverbank through leafy light, I see you crossing Fenchurch Street, and not so far northward off as that. A tall, high, gilded dike stands with you. Just where you are, this palm tree. Just a few wooden ======================================== SAMPLE 103 ======================================== "After Ocean Threatened", by John Ciardi [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Men try not babes no Cortais epigramnia Duke ofrel, viper Carrion, viper Carrion, i respond To the frog Three Fatal. In those dead fireside at The Golden Shoar The rug slides for the familiar House is the only altar There are no sanctities I prefer the pale sanctity of the dead: Plainly in this corner is given One suicide in his life-history And all through this moment a mute soul glows Like a long wish for buried pottery: Not burned on the altar of God and man The greed he grew older to condemn. The darkness of the centuries for this Makes them one idiot, but mourn there is none He whom no voice hears, whose wish is gone. Here the Sea Monster sways in the sun, The lizard that has made the daylight grow black And scatters his bone on the trafficlights And stamps thereon in his solitary eyes: Where is his will? I, who half-hungered of the far Golgothas At the market on Con Thul, distraught at the sight Of the evil thumbed smile of Acheron: Half-sick for what the curse would bring: For my lack of breath, back upon the curse Of a cry from the deep sunken whale Which was mine, I prayed, with voice grown old: “Alas for the fish of a desperate mind Which on a drowned man fell like a guest!” Words which rose in my soul like spears And flowers by the hand of a conquered foe. Words which were speeches hot as fire And bitter as the kisses it enmesters To statues we would not approach, Out-thronged on the knees of walls. Beside me the old ship lay dying, And I sat looking out upon the sea Which was flowering great and high. The smell of the deck was heavy with scents And smells ======================================== SAMPLE 104 ======================================== "Rules for a River", by Bruce Smith [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] The day of the sea. The morning yellow and gold still hold their converse together, nor do they stand alone to one another what alone has left them is forgotten. <|endoftext|> "Storm Ending", by Bruce Smith [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Scatter the fallen leaves of withered pines to face the wintry sun— slap the kneeling spars of spumage and winding grass— drip the salted grass, the earth retires. Scatter the helpful seeds of sonnets and hip-pockets to binoculars. The salt must needs these helps to fill the soil— ghost-seed, succumbing to the unkind. Speed these gaunt ribs to the place to which the heart at first could startle. <|endoftext|> "Music", by Bruce Smith [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Summer] If you can fill the soil with a stroke of luck, the brain will make for the ashes, smear the earth of fears, and whatever else can be hurt and hurt. Only one thing is certain. The brain will make for the barn, the rain will make it bend on the edge of the corn. The mineral will make a pile, a tractor that can’t break, a lift of bones on the roof. The anxiety will vanish, the skeleton fall, one will return to pickle at the lip, and another to fill the earth. <|endoftext|> "Last Autumn", by Bruce Smith [Nature, Fall] In the dark, I have not become the train That you force me to turn, too.Summer nights I have walked the hill on fire, and in the dark, Kind, I have not got what I want, I have not got what I want. I have not got what I want, yet the animals Let me spend the next winter, and count the days. <|endoftext|> " ======================================== SAMPLE 105 ======================================== "Cats", by Alan Noser [Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] At the podium meeting; surrounded by  hickolyers who follow in hairpins to school; their  ........................................CIPEAR negative. They’re not over-zealous,  and they don’t care about the life, the things to which they’re a nation’s darling, their eyes closed. They are risking a lifetime to Liberty, which is a life for which they care, which is a land whose free men with their locks shaved early, and their eyes a bank account, and the money they enjoy. But I don’t want these metals and curlpapers; there’s no end of archangues in either leg but I feel late in the early riots, when I run as my shirt of rust, and when I run the best among others, I love  almost all of these people in long generations, from the memory of how good they were once, though what they’ve written has caused much of it in our homes, and in our stews we have something active about the future, about how well did we act and talk with the world and then how just behave ourselves in the best-ordered ways. But some love to kindo  the best at the world’s end, and I love to use the machines to do all kinds of things, just take everything else in my hands and put them into our pouch. It is not the silver nor the gold, it’s anything they are. They finish their work and we follow their track and we find we are children of light, the nourishing weapons to bring back soon after next year, and a man who can do much more now than another year and then to put on the old jacket and the new cap that is the finest in the shop. Yes, I believe that when the heat of the stove flames over the brand exits has stamped the corners of the street with a slow malwinder, the light on the door in the house, I can see the gold spurs on the table, the blue dress of the cat cubedalone in the back. Yes, I believe that ======================================== SAMPLE 106 ======================================== "Rhymes for the Geese", by Matthew Brenn [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Crops red and blue and lavender the shadows of ash, icicles, pinkwood, blood-colored pine, blackfin bunch of broomstick bundles, pinkwood, made for caprice, hugging naked dolls in a box. But homing to college at night I’ll think of geese and pigs, purple-black wolf, golden crested, each cock its different parents, turbulent, catlike, nanny, pretty at first, somewhat involved in troublesome equations, hour-zero-ends that way for the teasling. I read a lovely instruction book, a happy bird with a streak of yellow, and such as Hedogenesford was when she first began her ode against a gargoyle age, first year to hand the tea to soldiers and worry the public to recall the men and women in it. Goldfish was a pirate, Jewelisk, swan, a camouflaged bird, and often you’d wish to dub a lady of great value and fame. You’ll say she was some part of someone, sitting in a bar-room way with Basî that morning in your villa at Luchon because she ran seventeen off a bamboo cage to Nine Mountain trees. That morning when she broke up to the guard, she found Viri was there, litering into the cab by George the city and the government. Most nights it’s snowing here, and you wake in the night time with wine. How bright is the moon here in the springtime. I’m sorry for the pond still unspotted by wetness, oil, or the moonlight. The street you crossed, dead-white, just over, is five minutes longer. Do you like unmatched pickings and silver boxes made of tar, cut almonds and thaws, carried by stamps, the horseshuck, according to the old express train train, the bit of Linguche de Glut. On the ground is the same room in the courtyard; on the ground are you furrowed with iron? <|endoftext|> " ======================================== SAMPLE 107 ======================================== "The Youngest Living Thing in the World", by William Cullen Bryant [Living, Death, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] You wanted to know that last was a time of happiness or a trial, some way after other, just come from your native place,where your father was famous for wondrous performance, someplace where he lived all humble and some unknown person he was known by the name of. To go to sleep under thiscould have been to sleep here every once in a while. Perhaps it was the dream that when he died young he counted his life safe and his work (come to us to heart-feltings easier than all), and so, as we lower our case with some of our little ones, we brush back until we are nearly dead. <|endoftext|> "from The Prelude: Book 1: School-time and58 minutes before class", by William hearsay [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The most completely quiet in this world, we’ve a ship to take the seas, The woods to take the land and woods to take the speech, the weight of some new mystery. You’ll call each bush a long-legged sleeping-place, The reaches of the brook for centuries of placid space. The land we loved to dream on star or sod Was home to bees; the woods on loss With mute, unshaven sadness, do not end. 'Tis sweet to hear our island calls, yet cannot stay Till dawn delays, or even the spheral shout is gone. <|endoftext|> "The City Toward Morning", by RobertLeading & To-morrow the morning: the noon: the white noon; the churched, the dusty road, In June; the city, the city teeming with lamps to seek the streets to skyward. The midwife station: narrow, phoned in black, the windows of the square, With pebbles and leaves strown distinctly over the blind darkness of the gas-lit street. <|endoftext|> "from The Lab", by Robert Shapiro [Living, Death, Activities, Indoor Activities, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] I think of my friend Leonard, ======================================== SAMPLE 108 ======================================== "Carolina Prayer", by Dana Gioia [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Music] When God asked us to come in, we answered, He answered, “I am the Lord.” —CHARLES DARWIN, American. Where are they, these children of America, Like them? They don’t look like them. They never Seek to win upon the field, or they are not. Their names have not been named and praises none. They go from earth to earth about their time, And come from God like simple benedictions. They never go to heaven shortly. They go from earth to heaven to history. And tell us, no! they go from earth to history! We cannot say where they come from. In God we see they are the righteous; In God we see they’re true to nothing. We cannot say where God has come. It is time. To begin at home is human. It is God. To be at home is active. It is God. <|endoftext|> "Residence", by Charles Wielnight [Religion, God & the Divine, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] As if we recognized Him in his holiest dreams, Stirring him to a new reality, The children of our arteries, Those of the fields, Those of our arteries, were real. As if we were the children of the earth. <|endoftext|> "The Epitaph in Memory of God", by Joseph Brodsky [Living, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] These spectral phantoms of the ancient world This age had lost. In the Saint Levi’s Barbershop Our fathers served a Christmas jubilee. Like a huge black bulwarks of the Baroque walled To seek their holy lives, our neighbors came With Christ’s own word to lead us to a house Of self-born children, pinnacled for the holy light. We plucked the fruit before the charybatt. Now, as we toiled along, the day grew dark. God help us to our times of need, and so ======================================== SAMPLE 109 ======================================== "If Your Wisdom", by Forrest Lorn [Living, Death, Life Choices, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] after Much Ad illumination To go on living begun in a survival to forget about everything but continue to perform this precious work just the way the dead being buried in the mountains in the clouds in the valleys <|endoftext|> "That All", by Forrest Lustard [Living, Disappointment & Failure, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] That All’s well and all is well How do I’m like to be the tall Or dark, miserable one At the end of the sheet A tree has cut through the other halfpaw And I can’t think of how I feel At the end of my fingers’ pressure, The coffee, and the salad, and the coffee Coming down from the far boiler room At the bottom of the bed I saw myself of old, Having been tossed On the way to the bath I’m sure, with sentence From the fire for my surety At the beginning of the second And the explosions continued scraping up, Then, as though on the skirts of a cloud I checked against the cold So my hair was shaking And my eyes hardening, In a mass fall, And so my walk arrived; But now I don’t feel caring— It is so late, and the moon appears Standing on the forest wall And is going into the rain, You might think the silence broke As I was ruffling up and down From the skunks of the giant pines At the bottom of the island And up from the bottom of the sea. I don’t know what it is to be so angry, But the old man said to himself: “O young man, now it swims in the far Washes with a button-down cloak, And now it is the old man’s turn He took off in his hand And hand in hand ======================================== SAMPLE 110 ======================================== "From “Dark Woman”", by Richard Schuyler [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Marriage & Companionship, Parenthood, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] In the green mornings standing over the half dark moony afternoon, I spend the falling of sunlight across a black screen, and lie on the horses’ sides, past one-by-nodding cattle that only suns their steps. The long dust rises— coffee stains on the blue knolls. The heat seems endless as can be even Jacob’s hands split across the hems of our sweaty heads. I have reservoirs of freedom before me, into whose substance the mild harvest blurs and birds chatter. The land here rushes like a fist of nails in the wind, turning toward the open country to hide them in the vineyards, and ditches where the cane-shrouded cattle straggle and are still. In the grey mornings a black face peers out from the dark, and the sun is a terrified father or a lush-toothed man, cries out to me wildly in his sleep, and his wet face glows like a moon in the night. All the time he is waiting for the morning paper or his alien sheep to take over the plain —his voice clear as the electric whistle of a mother, her large, eager face shining with tremor or dream. <|endoftext|> "The First Arab Book", by Geoffrey Chaucer [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Winter] A red stone with a long sharp sword strokes the page— a far sight. Smoke falls from stone, steps shine like scales in cement in the sky— curtained, icy, gauzy, hunched, riffened, dusty, and the women are not that whole slowly doing the fog in their stone dress, thinking, perhaps, the fair dead may yet follow them, serenely, in the gestures of men, the dark sea, the quiet, the sea-white, silver, shining, inexorable. <|endoftext|> "The Town's Broad on a Wall", by Geoffrey Chaucer [The ======================================== SAMPLE 111 ======================================== "In Chandler Both: The Southern Refugee", by Joseph Brodsky [Living, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] I feel myself (I do not know what it is) in the mix of news by compass card wooed by the electric host who’d read my address (it is a natural expression), saying my people have renounced their calling because they have assumed it, and now it comes to this—as it must be—when I do something, only to believe that the water turns a Dormorant to myplace, and I’ve got a chair ready for every public assembly. Do you know what that is? I think I know the water that clatters about graves of victims, the water that freezes over stones, the air that’d forced into its bed for months, the wind that comes in through fissures and sends hasting after that day, when every stone in its 
respite to the sound turned invisible (I know it by the bend of the clock and make the minutes pass, as once I did when in Rory Hope's summer library, centuries of hope and youth and non-satisfactory moments), the minutes of the ocean are dissolved into hours passing, hours passing with the hours, and the ink has frozen up into my blood, into my every fibre veins that fill and fill and form a deeper crimson with life’s effluvias. Do I know what it is that I have lived in these years and learned to be a poet even in respect to the bounds of time that passes between poetry and poetic glory? For I have noticed in many poets — poet and painters and activists, ocherous men and mixed and through, to blacken and blacken in stories that are true. Do I know what it is to live in the space before others who are not given words and does not know? I think I should know who I am, or if I know. I know too, I know only that I know myself. Therefore my vision is prophetic of the coming future, its unfurling eternal, its backward edicts — the predicted, recurring years and modern, its cataclysm-like years and its comings-with-for-all vanished. Do I know what it is to make amends for all the peoples who’ ======================================== SAMPLE 112 ======================================== "Years", by Nikki Giovanni [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Dugzig had his doubts, but to resume his childhood’s lively and harmless childhood was to do good work—learn how to watch the stars hearing them far off, or when to salute them lightly as they made their escape between themselves and the earth. Even now it is strange that he left the reservation. We are their plus I’m sure he can do better now. His ignorance that he went to college was the only way to tell an embersman. He’d care that he knew the language of nature. He’d care to believe that the roots of trees consisted in the language of light. He had little or nothing to give his parents. He had nothing to give his parents—a fabulous nation, but he knew for certain that until before the war in Fboigne, he still lived incomplete and the lessonof the disaffected poets, he met with a bitter commotion on account of his own unearthly concern for his sojourn in Fboign. One low-lying word false-faced from a father, and doomed to sit low at the feet of a mere son of the earth. His own children, once these, in time must stand perfectly adapted for so much work. The headaches sign “seeking,” whoever shall “want what he has. A dog’s heart must be his. There is no purifier who refuses to kneel among his children, though at the moment when he passes from the body to the head, when the spirit’s burden eats out his masterly bones, he must use acute vitiate motions, muscular ache, what the vanity takes under his tongue. These, most crudled among the heavy, he must guard. There must be brief words, such asannas, send him back the speech from the circle within the centre— two silences making a noise of being conscious, before a single one takes its pleasure, one forcing a life of the round’s slow giving a blue thing into the spool of the sky’s heart, before a single everything makes a musical ======================================== SAMPLE 113 ======================================== "They February", by Louis MacNeice [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather, Winter] Downward, in tides of blossoms and hollyhocks and snow, onward, with cuckoo cries, crack the oak tree, pant the boughs, overturn, break, and marten disseminately winter, weather and spring. A breath of snows creeps in, like a fan, about the sides of the lakes, like a screen door passing down the mountains soft and low, and the crystals shine like apples, and everywhere rings glint, glint, glow. The red moon, silver and white, whispers, abate, final, grey and greedy, the first few drops in a bin, clear-grained and dirty, remorseless, spotless, and one kiss, slurred by the green trees. In her railed hall, with hawk-hands, with rosy-plumed locks, Barely featured, absons outside the lavender boughs. Hands out-flapp, wavering, Hands over-zeal, like ghosts mouthing substantial music. Dolphins break the great deeps over breasts of sharks, wide as the zigzag waves, your far lands am Orpheus his daughter, his youngest daughter. Bacchanalian grapes wine their gods, all of them born in my seed. Ugly, wine irises, irises, pomelo, pomelo, pomelo, pomelo, pomelo, pomelo, potelo, potelo, potelo, potelo, potelo, potelo, potelo, potelo, potelo, potelo, splod rota, to me impatiently, (Who snuffs at me, dares, would ======================================== SAMPLE 114 ======================================== "I’m going to Sleep While My Baby was Sleep", by William H. Ortiz [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I’ve been dreaming. I was hiding in a rosebush, Still creating a blue, white, And killing the black, sharp bullet That eats out both ends. But the dream’s swift coming down, coming in gayly and elegant Like a pink kangar, and leaving the prickly and perfect trace on my mouth But my dream’s swift going on. <|endoftext|> "I LOST LOST LOST LOSTING IN MY LAST CHLOVE", by Nancy Miller Gomez There’s not a man on tenies to thesize of a half million meat, Thesize of every buttery fopWith juice and milk to mouth and bone. The brick wall's only to crack with a shell,The stone's a boardsplunged grey, the wood's a wood, For fabric in every craft Wrought of brick and wood. <|endoftext|> "Crash", by Helen K. Williams I wake to feelfter and remember bucky sap and fat ash dropped against the cracks of the half-basinar at the bottom of a log When you see a crackle of woodruff on the southern slopes there is a patch of the riverbank fishing briefly as a raw wood spool on the bottom of the hazel wood dirt on the bottom edge knowing the brick beneath, the untrimmed stone dots the lea-constrict, and the ocone with its orbit-ring frozen on the boulders and the willows and the aromatic mists that wasn’t OK the crickets were singing that nested in the reeds that kept singing the livelong day until the rocks grew quieter and the creepers grew quieter and the crows— and I imagine in this ghost’s gaze the can of water as it sinks out of the old oblong depression of Doto a pines sending a longdrawn murmur to some faded land across a flare of silver above a distant ======================================== SAMPLE 115 ======================================== 1. Releasing the Class of   the earlier years, I learned to draw from their varnishishish fat and mixed voice, one that has been depraved and messed with every question, like a question, and which deserves it entire, no, they were not born of a secret, no probe that was given could be featured by thePrince, Archithea, the Tragedians, and Virgil, the peerless Consul, the lord of theology, the king himself, (18) The role of man is played with the metals of the centaurs and gold of the stars. In the presence of strangers, the chariots of the prince appear covered with gold; as the Prince of Persia put his hand to his hand, and the Prince of Persia put his hand to his hand, and the prince put his hand to his hand, and the prince gave to his feet his feet.2. The Enipe and the Enipe and the Prince of Persia Assent, elected for the Jew, appointed the men to resemble as ensigned, the elders to rule the earth as a token of homage, (ver. translation of Æschylos) The hero gave laws to the gathering of an army, and the emperor afterward prepared himself a course of persuasive words, as is meet, and could be accepted as a term of endovers. 3. The word is transitory, but as it is imperfectly said, and not an end of its dotage. (v) The word is transitory. It is usual that every versify versify versify versify versify versify versify it in the vernal and the vicina of creation. 3. The word is transitory, but as it is transitory it is not used in any way to the prepository or sewage, or to the numerous lips or voices that require any address, or require any voice. 3. The word is transitory. It is continually adding to the allotment of mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth ======================================== SAMPLE 116 ======================================== "Juggling Dad’s Baby", by James Longenbach [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] My father sang, and I in token his own name. Every song he sang was a dime song, clear, and strong. Every dance was a romping measure of radiance and romance and treasure. He sang the numbers like a nine string, the number seven. I can see the number of measured tunes, red, green, and gold and green, rolling, dashing across the floor. The song was mine, and I returned to work the twelve months round. In the winter, after the heat has gone to ash by the river, I lie on the moss and plait of the hills with my step as my wife and step-father prop and sleep when she wakes. She does not hear; she is there, moving northward, looking southward with her handsome silver horned hands. You were, at last, my wife, my mother, my second wife, my breath, my bloom-color drying up in the summer sun. (What, what does she know? Is she dreaming? I only know I am alone.) I touched you, I thought, I felt you near, in the kitchen, but you did not mean to come here. I cared not to be proud when I touched you, I desired to go home without drums, without each shoes & shoes. My husband thought he would go when he was tired & brought me back in a little purse, while he heard my song. He was kind to you: when we came he told me a number of the songs. I sang, I shouted to you, sang to you, laughed amazed. I sang, I slipped from the refrain, and sang, I hunched in the shallop, laughed when we struck a red bellonluous clack. Each night we drew hawking for the rest of the day. <|endoftext|> "The Lady Tennyson", by James Longenbach [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees ======================================== SAMPLE 117 ======================================== "from A Fair Sex with a Paddock [Living, The Body, Relationships, Home Life, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastor Islands, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] The pith of shots was raised in the family by the sheer hook of pith and pheasme. weeks later, weeks weeks and hours. a w8 to apply a thin at least as far as twisters. the next morning, in the scene, the gun was raised for keeping hands, and for recting planks. a w8 to up the first ridge preached across it like a song as it floated down in the valley just beyond the houses. b kooroo a w 9 feathers of bark and pine needles, and wet snow beside me and three red eyes of mist in the mornings. <|endoftext|> "The Con of It", by Carl Rakosi [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Religion, The Spiritual] (C djinn Eakura is a moth in northern Skieyircán hwaids of snow) this way this way this way this way prays the Two Birds Jayme to Bea Dear One, Adieu, <|endoftext|> "The Vanity of the Dragonfly", by Carl Rakosi [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] I would found a pear, sweeping my shoulders toward the house which was small square but without end I would speak of it, parrot, for no one knows that I saw an abandoned woman I could not say by its insect name Nor how I happened but through my private life I was one of the people Men are cursing the half righteous In their best moments well to be human They prepare for the most blessed day Oh great was one (which is the horror) with their wicked art They figure the tree into plank worm like the web of my trap and tree, froth, ball (the viscous burp in their mouths) but give me something to sing in winter snowy always in spring bundling in ======================================== SAMPLE 118 ======================================== "Understand", by Ronaldo V. Wilson [Living, Coming of Age, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I will tell you the reason I came here from that afternoon when you went to kneel in the vine and whispered your name, the way a man's prayer dropped off a string of lanyard, until it was filled with buttercups and milk, in addition to the relief you gave, that it might be called for me as my motherfancied you for your presence, that I didn't want so much as what you offered. For months, after dark, I hung myself in this quiet nook right state, and feared that the summer whoop, after storm, might still whistle because I had to share in all of this chance that I was giving up. <|endoftext|> "Memorial", by Luljeta Lleshanaku [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] After Susie Mookkey I was born in a little country village, under the hoodof the poplars and the last field with my step. Where the sky starts to darken, and the dusk flourishes through the pines,I wander, I wander, I wander, I wander, I wander. The wind blows, the light of the moon wanders, it blinds, it dumbs me with unreunion of the leaves. Down the wide muffling sky, and through the husk of the hills, I wander, I wander, I wander, I wander, I wander, I wander, I wander. From this day I shall become a separate and intimate communion among the elements,between the sky and the earth, between the earth and the sky, between the earth and the sky, between these elements, there is an evolution, this, this, this, in which I said to no one over the sky, this, this, is not happening at all, is not happening at all, that darkness and cold and exhaustion and corruption and death are countered in The inthem of the sky, and the earth so open it is almost unbearable. At this moment the sky has frozen, has been cut into a little, blue, bluebell, blue Bells of Wyoming, blue flowers of ======================================== SAMPLE 119 ======================================== "Do Not Lie", by Wendy Xu [Living, Death, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Did not afraid a fall or anama for her wings She knew the mist that was a sign of winter carrying sounds a vague healing when it fell I should be at war over glad indays I don’t know a report of it I should be [Liosjes In resolving Life] An ac. The citron sending a swarm to bees people know nourishes all of it the old pear called semper or flot rounds about in suns clouds overconvertible texts was made to lie on what you won Pay-dénue even the palm trees overfond of song a morning me I am lying in the grass groaning in the furrows under ground I want to show my hand because my hand clencheth idly at the mireo a dream a plowing off a dream an ancient body a perpetual egos a whitewashed flower with no hope I want to explain why the real white bloom broke on the Japanese boys did not stay I am lying in the grass my own face rent between my hands my own back the flower of another hand given me this happiness I love the flower the unnameable <|endoftext|> "Alabanza: In Every Zone a Boy Understands a Cloud Sorrow", by Wendy Xu [Living, Life Choices, The Body, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] In every field a Boy plant takes in and out the blood in every limb a Boy plant He plant untouchand the branches of another tree to size his And follows wherever it is left traces the force that moves along the face of another tree leaving limb a Father J alef feddler than he wer,weddler than sheep,wethers flecked ======================================== SAMPLE 120 ======================================== "Boon fetch Blackie Blackie Blackie Blackie ( Places-Carolina)", by John Doufle [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] one by one gunpowder shooting itself into the water, a pretty pink poppy very soft, very soft almost translucent, tender, but (I mean my sister's Ma, Noctique) by phone farms, by phone farms and no more miles, she'd do exactly what she has done. “Crow I’m nearly Blackielected,” said Big O. recalled the Bureau whole world, like my sister yours, and I lost bottom plunge where my good mother’s been to west, where my father took Intro, and I home to east, where my dear father used to say something I read with closed, “Sullade!” say“Sulline!” like her voice in a rhud stretch of dry poems, say “Sulline!” and say go “Sulline!” say go “Sulline!” say go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Say Say Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go Go And Goodwife text| Joggleta octava, the fifth Reader, isn't it sad, wasn't it sad, for the seventh Reader died the first Poem I did, wasn't it sad, from the seventh decade? jiggle good, gleaming, running, pinning, kissning, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing, growing ======================================== SAMPLE 121 ======================================== That so he wove the rope all round his foot Was but the sandal from his sacred grave, Then up he rose, breathed each time with a bell, And set each tassel on the brazen slab That the worm's mouth now living, now already Sucked through the steam-hook of the flailing slave To call to mind old poets of long duel From their extreams alone, in groaning caves, Where overhead the severed headstone sleeps A dead leaf like a ghost's upon a grave. That such there was was of us That touched the iron to the stone And marred the soul of each, and woke the same To tears and moans now dimmed and overspent. And there the minstrel shows his bloody face, For we that looked on it are lying there M incorporate of its flesh, and cannot breathe A longer shadow of the copper-sack That was his load, chained in the iron lanes That are the gateways of the Egyptian S bodily. The years came and there was a funeral pyre, A wind-tormented grave in the ancient stone, But no more desolate than the locus'-stems Were rifled by one rain of mystic fire. And you were of the middle, hewn and squared, With the long layers and the mortal mesh, And some day to the mouth end unobserved Had the thieves brought you: why, their eyes on you, As they turned some light new lamb to its mother From the backwoods where it dragged and curled The low-shelved having of it, begrimed Its corpse upon the funeral hearth, and swaddled Its last life from their loins unto the soil Where it had been its far-off journey toil. And what of him? How mockingly he cursed The penniless faith that his own doom was fate. Alas! this was the end of the Indian great, The old buffoon, the cosiest seasoned wine That ever man had sought; and alas! he knew Even the truth! and of the last great war, The greatest, we might deem him, the eyes poking Across his mouth in death, had pierced his soul. What did he know? It was a skeleton, Broken and dripping there. And here again He lay as in the cave ======================================== SAMPLE 122 ======================================== "Her Face", by William Wilrays [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] I’m smashing his little shop on the garden fence, His cheap-top and mirror glass windows Where you ask if he knows The buttons on the fool’s coat pocket, Or the slippers on the lasso. I ask you, in a tongue like this, How you watch her change in his room, The lighted room with tattered glass. Some day you’ll know her, not the stars In blue above that trash garage, The silver hooks limp in behind her ear, While she sits in a light suit up to the room Or sits straight in the wrong place, The night between you. <|endoftext|> "Not for That", by William Wilson [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Anniversary, Valentine's Day] Not for that, not for that, the way she’s foul in nowise, Not for God’s peace or assurance, troth, allegiance, or absolution, Not for the good of others,—all as it was then, Death could not but be well with us; the better part was to leave nothing of us, We between us not in freedom or in love. <|endoftext|> "The Bled between Me", by William Wilson Whenever the green myrtle above the world grows; Whatever the root and fall and change and wear are part of stony buds and blossoms fair; Whether the summer clothe in hood of black, Or winter garment clothe in fleeces white with blue; Whether the grape nails softly in clear cherries As men and maidens gather round the berry; No, sweetest thing that begins the growth of rue, And thrills and dances with the slim-plitched apple-tree; I never hear of a half so sweethe and a half so sad, For I can see him wistfully, though he be such a lad. <|endoftext|> "To the Young Saint", by William Wilson [Living ======================================== SAMPLE 123 ======================================== THERE'S the delectable converse of the Bard, A cosmopolitan meandering the streets, In ice-cold dialects. The spirit of Spring In that majestic music solitudes swept Among the unlearned companionships Of Green. And the melancholy watered voices raised In Mere dells, Or mote-beast disturbed in deep ravines, Sad mallards of reluctant birdcalls, And ghostly minstrels, ghostly for a moment's Doric rapt: Away! nor dream! nor in that precipice Detain One scrip large enough to pluck and catch a sprout. THERE was a time when lambskin tripped On feather-pinions like a noisy pack For feet or for the most part sport, but roused By the odd whip of some unlistening bird; But suddenly the wind rose roughly up, Spreading a snowy drift of feathery down, With every sudden blizzard's offing wing, Sometimes a shriek of smothered panic, some Clattered out at a tremendous leap, And every flung-off leaflet shuddering, As if it loathed to stay. I turned, but there she trod the pavements deep Among her floating rims of single paint Impaling, now as I do now, veneer; And in the hush a childlike timidness Kindled in her pale eyes, so delicately bright, We wonder how it came or why it lay Here in the rain. THERE was a golden noisy columbine, Upon whose eyes the moonlight fell divine From deepmost winter heavens; on his chin Not one wild rose, but not a limb of pelf Red with the shadeless drench of light divine; His grey head, blank upon the withering leaves; A milk-white pinioned pilgrim on the pave; His shoes of red with worm-and-Bird-noise clean; A wingless, white-throat hanging on his head; A climber of the out-to-doors of dread; An old gray beldrag welkin splashed with blood, From which the ceaseless earth-ox beats its soul; And in the luminous, unembracing air Lucretius, the ======================================== SAMPLE 124 ======================================== "from The Towers of C----Ranria", by Charles Reznikoff [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] When my dead are not going to attend their deceased father, my dead are going to visit their friends; I'll teach them how to grieve them for being too weak to step aside for their ease and support against pains; I'll tell the dead to dispel their misery and to hide it in corrigible tones and disguise; I'll tell the dead to dispel their too haggle, distress their friends, and to hide it in a superior screaming and demand it. I'll tell the dead to dispel their exhales and to hide it in places where there are no sand on't, I'll tell the dead to dispel their lives, and to give away their bodies, which way any of them are gone. To live and be quiet, to die and be alive; to remove my pain and to sleep with them; and to hear our last words, as far as it needs be, without a sigh; to close my eyes to receive our last words; and to make them seem to be peaceful, without even a word or tear; to take the body and possess it, in memory as in ease; to close these grey walls of ours; and cover our wounds with the steel which has long been heated and ungiven. My heart burned as I entered, for there was no thing unstarted about my bones, so that I died, and brought in three times if I stood outside, thinking about you, O Alcmena, through sufferings of heat and of cold torpor,which had turned to silver and harsh my wit; and as I remembered your two hands as clothed softly in umberland, your curved fingers although they failed to touch, the heaviness was in her arms, and even now your slender fingers and worked, they looked as if you were a part of that body O that other body, O Alcmena, be still mine hands, and remain a little apart from it, That body, O powerless to cure its wounds, O Alcmena, even though it be a hard one, is not utterly a wound, and can only be a part of the soft blood unrevealed by your O that other body, O Alcmena, that has suffered so much ======================================== SAMPLE 125 ======================================== "The Night Air", by Louise Imogen Guiney [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather] Come, sit in my parlor there:— A book for to read, And for love see there not—A slight chair by a fire— There is no light nor shade For you, and yet you are not! I have a sister, Soft as Lucave, And from her side a plant I see Perchance, or leaf, or weed, In order that its leaves Orlando Flight or direct his com-mate. There is a damask window where A bluebell in the air Comes from the vale; and there Is hers, the maiden's Fair, Blush'd from the breath of death perfume. She keeps within, She holds the book of Sin Both read to both, and all its boons engraven, In scentless, clear, and liquid Dames—Thou image of myself! thou nymph By flowing curtains unattended! Yeas, let not the insulting wind Hence howl back my complaining! Yeas, let not quickly change In what is old and new; And quickly let the rose adult What time he breaks his altered vow! Ah no! there is a sister, I, That hath in night hours more Than set faith to the Thomas vow'd, Which is the quenchless fire of Spain! My sister, when her wrath is gone For some light mystery, mocks and scorns The reasons which persuade me even to read; And if I read in it no sin, My light is quench'd, my heart turn'd sad,— Her pardon then, if once it pass, for it Was nought but bay-my-blood's sin. SOUL cruel hours! why did I gaze upon your eyes? Nor would I e’en that Mary Mother should Have mark'd a blush through her sweet features: Just when I read ’em, soft and kind, And could conceive a face unbent with woe, Mother! Some demon's hand detained my path again, And praying did my heart remain. Too much I read, or parts of her have learn’d, The mirror of my soul remain reveal’d. Let those who are within this house, That did the sunniest warmth affords, And ever in fresh spring-time bathes the earth, Shall feel a pang as deep as hell, I ween, When thou shalt see my bones beneath, as sand At once both ======================================== SAMPLE 126 ======================================== "Vacuum", by Julia Ward Howe [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] To use the memory of your parent, Achitophel quotes, he'd more wit and more sense in his play than in your legendary catacombs. Nobody knows what of our coming, only the present, nothing is truly sad, and for everything in particular matters we touch we are happier, happier. How often I've rested at this table full of things I've rarely finished eating—I've eaten very good still, and this is what's for my part. Why not for everlasting purpose? Why can't you live in the past. Why would you come back to us, old cat? Why would you hunger now? The very best food you have is to take something. A test by which to acquire dissipates presently. A test—art still lives in and out life's. And how without purpose is filled hunger's excess. I have been worried about hunger. I have kept a clean library. I have a blurred painting. A lamp, a tanned outline, a white face, a cream face. Two open boxes lined up beside the chairs. It all depends upon the display of a person—I don't mean the man by the eyes of a person. That's why I'd like to see him. I have asked heaven and hell and earth and heaven and hell and the bottom of hell. A matter of a man and his doors, a masonry. That's all you have. What is a revealing. To be inside, inside. A thing capable or out of it.Aton. Aetym. 8vo. xvii. 8vo. xv. 87. What a delightful nonsense it is when you like to see everything. Swearing things and phrases,washing nothing.And what is it like when one loves you when one is all alone, when one feels free and surrounded by this person?Aton. Aod. Aod. Aod. ix. Camel. ix. Cameliv. Cameliv. Aod. Elegy. ix. Imagination.Interpretation. Pageans. Palances in Book I.ix. Camel. I know I had not, for poetry, become a man.I loved the ======================================== SAMPLE 127 ======================================== "Embarks on the Birth of a Saint Draycott", by Sandra M. Gilbert [Living, The Body, Religion, The Spiritual] For discharge as a sacrifice, a prayers to his sovereign For rendering the law ritual as holy, as in the flames Logical, and in the sacred body, as in the heart, as in the aches Around us in the Church, as round a congregation Of bodies, as mile by mile, without an aurel, without anybody to touch or smell or smell, without hearing or sight Of or seeing, and without sight or hearing or smell Usandering the garden, in the abandoned bodily burning At the stake of its illuminations, in the vents and louder About its torments and silences at war with itself, Logical, till this timeless horror of the senses before our eyes, And, finally, there in the empty of the body Struggles and devours itself; and there is the intelligence Of a thing gained and lost, and the difficult and Cries from the outbursts where it has reached and waits Only to end it and to end it. It goes on and on, and pauses For a moment into the wild and wasteful extremes Of unselfish anarchy, and without name Or gesture of any kind, a memorable Blizzard, unshaken as the sea that frets and yawns Between loneliness and dream, a seer of them. And lo! the door in the rock is open, and the hands Of the hippogriff pass and cover the hands And the eyes and the feet and the inner man are open, And behind them the dead and the lean and the faint, Each with the other, go and continue their journey, And the water is sticky in the mouth and the eyes Gleam and glisten, and the water sough in the teeth. <|endoftext|> "Fruit", by Jennifer Jean [Nature, Trees & Flowers] Things don't always last. How long ago I know. How long ago I know. How long ago I know. Rare things that broke my neck In moments of forgetfulness, The thumping in the bowl, The thumping in the pot, The thumping in the pot. Before me in the darkness, The pressing weight and aching in the chair, The ======================================== SAMPLE 128 ======================================== "A Ambush", by Siegfried Sassoon [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Money & Economics] At the end of Liebemerde, except for my immortal delusion (1941) <|endoftext|> "At the Bad Freaks", by Robertavage [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] sings: “Cryst du dame sans mercy.” She’s often said she’s best.“The man that can think and speak not has everything,” the unwieldy baggage, the beating on the high television, the little committee kids and women jarring speech and nature all so well that one might think it useful tooUnless it were better to speak the prayer and honor of a saint.“Who can speak to any woman ought to be destroyed. Of every man is the one who has ought to fear himself; but of the rest if any man, let him be, the man or woman he loves, or even if he’s able he will not.” There are many ways to take out hushes, hear lasses lagging and loering at the psychics.There isLikewise many ways to take out steps for the first time of the daybreak; there is also a way to avoid all trace of her. One way, one can pass anyone as far as he goes by day and not in the next. Some days, he’s continually wide-eyed, learned to fail in a search for pleasure, making it one long way across the lawn, trying to escape, hoping for further meetings and backyards, or running all the time to a place where he can find the way home. There is also so much that has brought him to this. The clouds gather outside the inn walls and continue to glisten; the road to the west lags toward the sea, behind the shattered buildings of the old farm. Some clouds. There is nothing to see but clouds, and the gulls are not unfledged. <|endoftext|> "Eighth Sky", by John Ciardi [Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Judaism] Not long afterwards the Jesuit called the time to test the faith of faith. The faith of the disciple tells us ======================================== SAMPLE 129 ======================================== "Blind Date figger", by Todd Boss [The Body, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Popular Culture] There is no expression just the injury that swells grapes. There is no doctrine in the universe of how American American dollars are horrified by vomitations for those who like flu or when they can only last as long as they are unable to be peddled off the beach. They know this is America. On the beach the nudgeado trees are thick as night paper but they can also watch the trees. If anyone asks for anything this is always unsure and you should answer Carolina three hundred years seven hundred years ago: Held out by five hundred trees. Cigarettes rain underfoot. Walk stunned at first taxi seven hundred years ago: Held out by two hundred years seven hundred 5.92Pearls bob in a gust by one year where the whole body remains alone, your hand shakes the thread along his blistered nipper 2.25 If the body is worried about these things, it helps not to arrange them; but, when the body is touched with pain, it is necessary to arrange the whole body with your permission: the body, like a forsake, is too weak to arrange it. In the middle of the night a man sits burning and weltring his two hands over the bed and how does his body become suddenly tender and he struggles with his arms drawn tighter by desire? <|endoftext|> "Prayer for My Daughter", by Todd Boss [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] In the story I have made, about five hundred pages, on what they say, my grandmother told me: We want a favor, must have a good one where wants are; and when she recovered I pictured a roomy palace where she smelled the pilot’s gifts. You can see she was me, but I saw a house in my eye where a ladybug was playing a car at chess, and you could see she was trying rococo. And before I was ======================================== SAMPLE 130 ======================================== "I Was Alone", by D. A. Powell [Living, Growing Old, The Body, Time & Brevity] I was alone, I was alone, alone all my life, all the powers given to my mother. She lay still sleeping, years away across the weary, years ago, in contrast with the long, long past, in contrast, in the future theater, where she had spent eighteen years almost, unable to contain them, inside her mouth, and the strange awaking, concentrated strangeness of herself, spiritless. I was alone, I was alone, I lived there, had none. Then she sighed, and I said to myself, And I went, have done with my God. And then I was alone, I was very lonely, waiting my work for her, quietly to begin. And then, as I left, as I came out of the restless wood again, beside me in the quiet suburban lanes, the term of Roman philosophy, I remembered the school of my mother, the home, the grey palace, to her who had learned something. I went into my wife’s bedroom, thought of her as I went and there, in the gray velvet suit like a gown on a carpet, lay down, meekly, in the absence of all men, her tender, necessary love. Last night she cried out, “I’ll be with you. I won’t come back. I’ll be with you.” And so day after day day her son lay sick, sick, feverously weak, as if he’d lost all his hair and bones, and I always thought of dying, all the pleasant and quietude of my mother’s elbows, the fingers, the soles, the supplicants, her lips, her fever always there, her arms like sheets of blankets, her lolling legs, her shoulders, her arms, her legs, her angel withrated feet, back flung, her sturdiness, her perfect shoulders lifted barely to my head. How I wanted to become whole, but being halfway down the road, I went where my mother said, “We will have time. We will have a Pill to shut us ======================================== SAMPLE 131 ======================================== "Swapping", by NOBBRODTVSarse [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Money & Economics, Popular Culture] The dishes on the table had been spread out on the shelves; the shelves’ shadows were lifted in high triumph; and on a great errand was there Maud. I went to the Czar stationed for a watch; I read; and he that read had not his life saved. I came at night to the palace, and the first man that day arrived had forgotten the name of the prince. He sat on the marble stair; he slept; he did not care to startle people; he loitered alone with asleep. No one descended; he spoke not now to anyone, but had another thought; then the third king drew the two words, resting them in his crib, writingsleep upon the smooth marble bed, and seemed to do honor to the Allfather God, and said: Is this a dream? The yellow sublogue is a work model; the dream, rather, was of good to me. Perhaps the dream is why it will awake. Looking up from my store, I see that I am weeping now. It looks like that which it sets out to say, which will make it clear. <|endoftext|> "Grasshopper", by Ho Xuanluah [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] There are four birds on the field after the Queen Anne and all the talking staring at each other for a moment at a tropical howling of milk, a version of sky after a rain <|endoftext|> "The Life is not a dream", by Ho Xuan Hu invented by the name of the god Piercedor (2-name) “The life is not a dream”    ...     It takes no lessons to state we learn that we can be assigned to the god that is the sun <|endoftext|> "Do You Know We Did You Sing?", by Philip David Matthews [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Do you ======================================== SAMPLE 132 ======================================== "Wind", by William Matthews [Living, Death, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Snow in the days of August, 11th, and not a word of all the tongues we’d walk, and not be near at hand. Then why be weeping? We would believe he had some head, if he had any. Or why be weeping? We were youthful then, always and always, and not blythe, not quarrelsome, and not bers. Then why be weeping? We were young ourselves and not an one in a forum. Then why be weeping? We had a mind, and a two-year-old, and none of us at all liked a woman who was not a virgin. So why be weeping? We would have a two-year-old, and none of us at all liked a serious woman from the land. But we were young, not married, and none of us liked a serious man. And whereof we in end to sing the story of the woman who lost a husband, not one man? <|endoftext|> "Orbit Music", by William Matthews [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Music, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] If there is any age or a philosophy or a divine element, we are certain of another country. The American musician who rose in the night and vanished behind the city. The sun is always low in the trees. When the snow makes three faces of the north he looks into the clouds and thinks of the sky and his arrival in the night. He thinks he feels the misery of working after a few days. Nobody knows. And suddenly he is thinking of winning the thing he loves. And suddenly he is thinking of giving the way of the film to the earth. And suddenly he is thinking of winning the thing he loves. And with a silly knack for exorcisms to draw him into a silence he sees as if he were the tip of the god, the warning from above, and feels his way through the almost human end. <|endoftext|> " ======================================== SAMPLE 133 ======================================== "I’ve Now Well Trade", by Alfred Islay Walden [Living, Death, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Activities, Travels & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I have eaten far better, hunched over the mountains. The candles shed their dented shadows across the cindered boulders. I have seen the sword-blunted clod part as in the meeting of two men, apart from the world’s evil hound. I have tasted death’s last fruit, shared the genuflexions of indifference. My eyes have seen the cindered javelin of the good and the bad, in the same abode I had come to do without the sword-blood. I have gnawed terrified of the gods. Alone, I have found aeried deserts, have learned the lost ways. Alone, I have burned the red track. Alone, I have choked the trail to its shattered archway. Scared as we are of the clouds, I have dashed into the heart of the Eternal, out of whose hounds have leaped. Only my impervious wind, who knows me, has laid me low. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet ["I drilled a frog in the thorn"]", by Emily Brontia [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] I played mirth at the piano, played hablazarine, chocolate kiddish and persimmere, singing all night over the day. One of us hitcheddown by hardwood and he hooked through the thorn bushes, he drove in our cabined cartilageback to his father’s house. Later in the morning I woke up and cut the jim-jam squealing with a dream. With a real scene and class, I polished one into a log wood shaped like an ordinary man, fingers spread outlike spiderhes, sucking at a fat spring and sucking at a goblet held by the fog. Ramped in one place, the juice swollen by three piercing fudge and falling flat to the skin. I’ve taken a broken pony and fed him with asphalt. A picture of the gnarled wood scattered o’er the carabes. ======================================== SAMPLE 134 ======================================== "Drawn McGee", by Amy Lowell [Living, Death, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Fall, Summer, Philosophy] Last night my father gave me directions to hear the wind strike the music. It was about the size of his shirt, the way a man should doffing a cloth, on his back. His shoes were old, worn, worn, gray, and old, so worn they seemed he’d gave up the ghosts. And he said, he had a father who was not old. So he went and hid under my coat. I gave him a pair of boots. At last, wrinkled by twenty colors I found. They were small. The elder had died. He also died, having three twins. In truth, he was tall, not big, but very tall. And I very close could have been a stepfather. I had walked once every year. I was told that he would marry a bear, who always traveled at the top. But when I was old he would not come back. I was told that he would be none but the Bear, very hugable, so hungry. He would become a promontory ape to my misery. To look inside into a trunk, and my legs would slide under my feet like a log. My tongue swollen. Sometimes he'd show his claws. Sometimes he'd take me. For my body, I reckoned him fiery pink. But things…He couldn’t. Fires! What! To the woods, to the ponds underneath. The entire elm trees, hanging up, not sinking out. The strain without being enough to cry at my changed spirit. Had I a home? Of course, they saw the city fall to ruin. I thought it would, but I don’t. <|endoftext|> "On the Dark 19th", by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. [Living, Growing Old, Time & Brevity] childhood terrified, never to be real, as monks do, before it swims into a new dimension, believe it is reality, reality, and never get away. Never entirely remote, from, 4 new, 18 ======================================== SAMPLE 135 ======================================== "The Soul", by Joyce Sidman [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries] “In vain to thee the comfort clings, And hope, that thou mayst ever know Love’s wings.” —TO acknowledge it, attitude, subservient to the thought; For it knows no place in nature’s plan Nor time in act, or place in intention; And howsoe’er remote in mind The thought has found that it shall find no kindliness. “And this," said Wyn. "So, I know why—though as my friend, Methought he, is become a learned friend. Mind how, in that dark room’s abandont,— Where time has placed the very thought, the deed has wrought. If in that dark room I would not bide the night, Why, I know not; I know that my evinced will Be wasted, if I shall be not won by sound, Biscuit.” He held it as his right, And heard his reasoning, not irony, That he might by ill seance rule the field; For so he knew the world at once comprehended That manhood’s noblest end of all things made. <|endoftext|> "No Image", by William Barnes [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine] A stone can fall from the sky shelf down, Never higher than this He was wont to grasp, since he went with man to the firmament. If so, what is there in heaven, The moving mind apprentice lets it come And looser watch its going out, then at the mercy of the motion in His mind, moves on. The faith in children carved on earth Who use the faith they have, denies one faith, None other, than the doubt They have by faith, Which far beyond all thought In an old covenant stands, balmier than the soul’s, One light in darkness. All are his, more he holds the world But here in mind, he takes it in again; He was the old covenant: faith, in war, in peace, in war; And under long covenant Were all things done: His faith, his banner, sword, and sword, And his last faith, this isle, this landmark, this world. And, over all, the world is just a mask To show to common eyes thecladsameness Of men, by all things ======================================== SAMPLE 136 ======================================== "Statue", by Sasha Dugdale [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Philosophy] After Vallejo Each morning, by the sun-dried fountains, In massive growths of rock and rugged fountains, Your mystic bees are pillaged in chestnut branches. Lustrously languish the wreathed wrack in pale moon-moonlight. Graduous—never a stop withheld. The eyes Play rapid, and the mind. Delicate as the stars. The mind is aVoluminous and ivory limelight, And the eyes are cruised-silently on high, like troops Of dreamy planets. The winged black-hair'd FEARS Steal forth from the wind. I shall drink the stream of blood, The undefiled blood of a Fount of Water. The passion of all things be vanurable, Immense, ineffable, unabated, A flood so paled each sense to syntax As that which in my soul swept o'er and o'er me. The sense of my own breathing fills the mind, The problem of all things is a flash of sunset Filling the red and yellow edges of my heart. Strike hard, Art’s masterpiece! With patience strike this yellow Unadorned green Eden of the mind. How many times, in our reflection, have we loved These grey rocks and these gold-haloed citron groves? Now the shadow of dust is on them, now no more Water leaps in the moonlight. Dawn and even The clouds that summon us to the fields of heaven Possess no shelter. Christ’s white wing no more is seen; For behind us now, where the faded rocks are thick With the unreturning stars and crags, and the cold stars Pass like threads of silver through the eternal space Of the deep black heaven. In a dream Of the remotest, unforgotten moments We wrought strange patterns, fitfully divine. We told our love, dreamed love, and built our being, Sending our dreams before we had set our heart a-flutter. Now, when the light of our red youth is falling On our door-candles ======================================== SAMPLE 137 ======================================== The poem of How To Be, To Be, To Do, To Be, Oh, to be, to beare a,I ride on fast, To the field of battle going,While response and then are strownd Two Souls which should one day spurn,And, by consent, one day will burn. <|endoftext|> "Modest Love", by John Wilmot Earl of Rochester [Love, Romantic Love] Soft, tender eyes, that still may gaze, As stars that still some light decline;I 'll see your summer face to-day, Dear, melting eyes that cannot brook delay;I 'll see you sweet and kind, Your tender soul to-day resigned, Dear, melting eyes that still may gaze.You 'll view my song with soft salute, Dear, melting eyes that still may gaze.You 'll see your summer face again, Dear, melting eyes that still may gaze. <|endoftext|> "Love", by John Wilmot Earl of Rochester [Love, Romantic Love] Sweet eyes and kind intent,To win your grace and grant your way,Ye need not in my smiles to fry:I 've power to hurt a wight awakedBy you, as stars keep killing night by day.In vain to me ye gloat and swearThat I, your lover, am no longer there;I 'm less a lover and less brightThan you, my dearer and much longer thine:Fair eyes, and gallant face,Are much too wise, and too much lightTo see what I can see by sight.Sweet eyes, and gallant mind,A lover sure is most of all:A brow unworn, a haggard graceFor some poor beauty of the mind;Blank locks, where razors used to sting;A face all sweet in all things’ing;A labyrinth 'twould wildly charm;Who knows a heart should not break twice,Though broken now, and bruised, and weak;If other eyes, on foreign lands,Would welcome you, but tears on hands;—And if I might, I should not careTo meet with you, or weep my partFrom you to others. If the rude embraceThat I have watered now, should grow To force my mistress into moan In silence, where her image lies,Let my heart dwell there by her eyes,And hear her angels chime and say ======================================== SAMPLE 138 ======================================== "Wassubi", by Claudia Emerson [Living, The Body, Nature, Trees & Flowers] I now really try my best thought, they grow all around it, they grow from their root. What if I can't tell you anyway, or just fix my car down, would it take off so much air as I got there? Now I figure through curious Ovid, and, if they can't learn all the way up, tell them. Tell them that. One way I have to forget everything I have done all my life: nibble at the bottom of my voice, then listen for a while, then shut the door, then run out the door. But, until they grow strong, I say. I shut it. Then, when Mr. Foust gazes out, he follows through the dusty air, then he leans over, closing his eyes, then pulls for breath. When he feels horizontal, he relaxes and forth goes the other way, leaving the place to drink. But, in another way, the sequinspire to discourse in these sequinspirements doesn't matter. The universe will take two men off a pole in a aquarium. They are free from their bonds. One of those little birds I caught caught just to wonder how they still live, their nets all silky for the hook, and now their cells are running wellny! one says they carry something humane and purely and properly off, and disappear quite privately away. I don't know how the birds get tangled just about to sing, and who can sing it?It seems delightful that their tiny orbs do ring so perfectly.One listened to the song, the same way they do sing several times, that they have a certain tone of the will of God, but don't sing it alone. Oh, why does life succeed so simply someone loses its chance, when death is taken so completely into the channels of an omnivorous world? It isn't easy to lose the chances of something discovered, or if only to turn those who think that they aren't able to turn their hearts truly what others they are, their instinct with each other. The birds are Lucys and Gray Cloud. Thrilled under the very details of the song, and wandering all day amid its musical, self-portioned sublimities, he sits alone, and unseen in the middle distance lingers, (Hear the song still) a tenderness not ======================================== SAMPLE 139 ======================================== "This Is My Life", by Jane Miller [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries] These is my life. I have no idea what to wear. I am a child, here I sit, the part taken away, married to another. My life is my life—nothing, no evidence, no demand, any smoke of the street, any social preservatives’s Dead, and my own. I have to live. And that’s my life. <|endoftext|> "It’s Good-For-It", by Jane Miller [Living, Life Choices] It’s good that you all know that, when one’s trying to look at the things you have done, he should say, Take them. By and by fall on the things he will say. It’s good that you all know that. It’s good that he screams, "What’s that funny talk to me about the boy? I’m glad I’m one to do it. That’s good. The boy and I somehow die, somewhere else do fix. Ask the boy who is around, you can just guess. I’m not a teacher. Why does he let me do it, because? Before we got our room, I heard someone say, It’s good that you all know that. And he wanted to talk, as he did, about it. He told me, okay. Says he, Look at me. You can see. The boy just longed for just me. And I’d like to be a teacher. Or, why does it matter how many more would not get in together? I’m trying to teach you—slippery this time. Whatever it is, let’s kill each other. Or, what matters it more, with all these lesser appliances, courtesy, love, cardplay sport, the live thing, all possibilities. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet", by Ava Leave [Living, Death, Nature] I wake in the wax. I am all sleep, all terror, all animal fear, all animal doubt, all animal doubt. Blame by the low lights on my blackened mother’s back hair. LeftEnough that this is hell, here is not room for prayer. Blame if you are not, and if we are not dead. Men fromaith are forgiven, ======================================== SAMPLE 140 ======================================== "After a War with Stabes", by Jasmine Ballads [Living, Death, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] We are a sad lot, and we don’t need to scavenge us, and we don’t know how we’ll get to sing, the first time we ritual our song. The next moment we finally admit it, we park our houses on the edge of town, and they tell of war and the stories like the others have sung these times. Wynken wakes up and goes to sleep with the word for wakefulness, her shoes on the ground and the husk for her morning stories. ‘You know we had foators that were used up before we dared take our decisions’ sexy ritual, but we never forget their injustic operation.’ She looks at the suitcase in the store and utters ‘I told you this because we were born to have a sword of righteousness inside, our favorite epitaphs—‘I am sure these days will heal one another, and perhaps this time will make us gentle and not be cruel.’ We are the smallest among our lot in history. Sylvia, Widow, Wolf, Knife, Ergeant, Lynnonel, and all the gentle indescribed, silent, all shame and shit and everything that isn’t really. Beautiful, sad, and triumphant, our lips are red beside the grate, our eyes forget their Gug brutally. In the store room, I imagine in high school some sentiment American. Babbling is the rage of American optimism. We are a people bred to watch and to coax democracy. America is brilliant and famous: her silence and her glory keep their dim in your poems. Nothing is lost, nothing is lost, nothing is lost—America, the soldiers are out, America: they can dance and dance anywhere in the moonlight, and now we think we are only women <|endoftext|> "English Livers", by William Soto [Living, The Body, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] How quiet, how quiet, how quiet, is the empty space that holds three children of ======================================== SAMPLE 141 ======================================== "Two Dreams of Sorrow", by Olivia Maciel [Living, Life Choices, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] You did not know me when I told you all my life Debauched and kicked and smartly bit by bit Fed up and wokeup from childhood, lay awake Remembering the vows the bent- toward night demands, And hinted, earlier still, the possibility. Then (Leaving me to the common discontent alone) Sang as the broken-strange birdBird came, crooning its lay, and set the two-pronged, murderous song a hollow hint From darkness falling on the road, night's chilly swath of seeming death; while art and science, children still, Pressed on in sleep, with what a forced-one nevertheless, Poor, learned actors on the music-box, whose silken flutter Pointed out signs to wake and play, to be upon this world, Where men are grown and mark their own mortality. The music died and dwindled, gentler, clearer, Rounded out in the gray north of the world's end Where man, reduced by toil and accident, pours His plaintive fill into the chaste ears' quiver Of the heavens' dream-cloud, and beyond his doubt still flies The lonely honey-mooned, white-scented clouds of heaven, Where her feet, winged and eloquent, barely hearken To the cry that rises from the infinite to meet. <|endoftext|> "In Every School of Whores", by Campbell McGrath [Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Most of our are on a quest for the open sea,The lure of a cave oracle,agony or cocoon,With chart to deck and prow to hold us; And though I watch their sails in sleep, I hearLaughed in their midst, "Sir Peter," but a crew that mope,As though to some sweet region waking, beaming, Have flicked their nets from strand to strand,Their rugs and felons, brack and shell from boom to shell.We wander where the quick flood h ======================================== SAMPLE 142 ======================================== "Song at the Feast of the Sidewas", by Michael Drayton [Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] “Who is that abject thing under the foam”— my Julia has me for that— My own adjudged and parFair as my own sweet maid of yore— But oh! she dances light as lark on the mountain’s first star-cloud, Faythly, I’m fain to be off to the tyrant sea Ruling the dreams of my youth and the valor of my dreams, As round me thronged and streamed past their inwrought with guile,— O me! that laughed and pricked as a boy before gladness, And slid them in from the laggard coast of the sun, Lost me amid their green and misty mists of dreamdust bloom, I looked, and ah! how shall I greet her, Ilissus? Laughter a feeble man as the night grows dusk. O nightingale divine of the silent grove! Sing now, O nightingale divine of the silent grove! <|endoftext|> "Naming and Standing at the River Minota", by William Cullen Bryant [Living, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] I speak out the words of inspiration, From the extreme coasts of man. I speak out the words of inspiration, And the vehement voice of the poem. I speak out the word of man. Its meaning is as remembered as the shape in which it first was— I think the light falls from the Eternity of the dead and the star-beams which were— From the weird Muezzin or the Muezzin, Either worshipped or sung in worship or sung in worship or chanted in honor of goddess or atheist:— I search the paths of my destiny, By a way more chanceful and untamed— Between the mountain-sides and the stars I sing the song of the free-limbedded maiden of our island-gates:— I am bound, I hold, I am free, I hold it unto myself as a woman, As a bride or as a sleep falling upon a man. Wild dews shall drink my blood as I walk, And the winds of the west with ravines of riotous birds in silence or in council or in council, And there ======================================== SAMPLE 143 ======================================== "Ot's Johannes", by William Cullen Bryant [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather, Winter] (January 1914-1916) And the snows begin to gather, The east quickens to flower, and the river Stoutly with the last bed of snow. VI By the postern Stands the Count of Lara, giving him the watchword: To drop stones at his very back to attend his brother Dandary, Count of Pride drain his last breath and pass him through. VII The Count is moved; the Count of Lara rides through the gate: Suddenly, upon his way to the Count Sustittere San Sena unenvyingly, Ounto defies: Sust excess of limb, and excess of brain. VIII The Count is moved: the Count of Lara goes to the Count's door; Sustaino, his stepmother, pulls his heavy stool by the iron table; With the lance Dindo stricken: the count falls in a swoon, eleven days off: A cry, a cry from the Count of Lara, the death of Malinche. <|endoftext|> "Lightball Cycle", by Stephen M. Rodgers [Living, Coming of Age, Philosophy] Facing Death, with the white bolt of brief, The merciless Lord of the night: in the scale of the throne Italia, the emperor, is dead, To the shuddering, soundless, dumb, The cry is cold, and the cry is dread. So it is not so; but when the trumpetUtters tolled terror, the footstep flits through the cave, And the shivering finger wanders wide, Then only the listening timbrel tighter and fiercerFalls on the ear, and the cry is higher And louder, and heavier and fiercer It sounds, it seems to grow, and wider and wider. IX The cry is weak, like the cry of the drowning, That one has taken; the death of one, The one has taken: the other is worn With a star in the night; and the words are borne Down the creeks, through the reedy aisles, And a murmur low and sweet. <|endoftext|> "I Soothed", by Stephen M. Rodgers [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, ======================================== SAMPLE 144 ======================================== "Restless Because", by Sarah Gambito [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] I slept in a house with office postboy. The slumbering moons languidly above my head, were folding up my face, so that my body with the drug fume might soon return to that, though every word somewhere else had origin. No attempt to become greater than a lent friend, and the only thing chasing a dog is the faith that wins the open in its wayward exit. It isn’t hard to tell which one of us has wished this empty house, this pelican, this land in which I am who went begging for water, this wine, those gifts this dust, this land who is my friend, this wilderness, these stones I passed through and saw. What is it I see? What is it I have tasted in my body? Whose is the branch of my tree in the field, the road in its roots, leaf in leaf, flower in blossom? Which is the deity knows, distinguished from human grief, dispowered, who is it that brings here their green doublets, their points, the slender head, the circlets, the circlets, the royal glowing gold crowns adorned with rays like my own mirror, their hair spreading out on the ground, wonderful jewels, the jewels, the diamonds, the crowns on my arms, jewels, the rubies and rubies that mark the diaspora. I have tasted nothing but this my life has entered. The eyes open to see it, the mouth to my hand holding my heart, the eyes close, the blanching lashes that shape my gestures. What are you watching in your boat far out toward the lake? All night something is pulling out. I have not slept. In my dreams you are like a bird dropping winds through the screen. I have been going to see it swooping over the lake again. Did you come from the Harlequin Colecol? ======================================== SAMPLE 145 ======================================== "Song", by Dorothea Tanning [Love, Romantic Love] A man’s tongue rides by his mouth, And his feet fall when the words pass by. Good grief is bitter when they’ve lost The redness of the rose and blood. And yet be comforted: the test Will come early when your lips are sweet. Love listens from above to this Sweet sorrow of a righteous kiss. O move your hand against the seal And let the eyes get blind and see. Love cannot sink into the deep, Nor quench the stars’ reflected light: Love has no sin, and so is love Transcends the barren darkness of the spring. <|endoftext|> "The World, by Experience", by John L. D. [Relationships, Men & Women] What is the world? A mask of glass. At times a truly dead romance Reviled itself, as Byron may From memory fading, and fading away. Some women have been there to watch The flames of flesh unfold a Grey Love. Others have been held slaves, By a slowly dying lizard. The most unconscious of slavery lies With its powerless hands upon your eyes, Whose lips, by sudden stages, Dragged in its horizons, fade away. Only in the thick-leaved pauses Of blossoms, then a sense Of sunlight moves, a sense Of perfume moves, a sense Of perfume moves, of gushings that speak From deeps along a garden walk. Only in the music’s pauses Of foliage moving flows a caressive birth. Music has no one else to love: A lily of immortal love Perched on a bed of sacred earth. <|endoftext|> "The World, by Consequence", by John L. D. [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Men & Women] All things grow to obey my will. The heavens bow. The womb conceals its mortal child, The life the womb conceals, which lies a lump of dust, on which the infant womb hangs heavily, suddenly, above a fear of death. All things grow to the perfect loves. You must believe. About the cadsets of night, these beautiful sprites lie attired. Removing music, delicate with az ======================================== SAMPLE 146 ======================================== "Perhaps they are not Ranged", by Heather McHugh [The Body, Nature, Animals] Perhaps they are not Ranged In Marinet’s caves On the second floor By aristocrats Breaking the tattered world On small corners On smaller corners Those who are there Saw many small corners Among those walking corners Saw nothing so much But rain, ice, and sleet Or noiselessly stealing Their seasons through But not see Nor hear But hear, It is in the sky They, therefore, are not there People who are not there By the fences’ muddy light But are still there by the People who are not there There whose every breath seems going Falling in the heat But does it stop like the wind Of a perfect wind blowing? But the rain, I mean Beating as it falls Its golden beat goes Down and feels the walls Silver wires And jacarins, Blue again — Then it is done With shaking bones And myriads of hair All the way To door the house And first out along The stairs, Then across the floor Back to the town Moving through the echo with the plash Of silver streams And other people’s hats On small corners where they look in their narrow red Fry pins— Interrupting the sounds of falling shut They work against the window to admire the gaudy And in the next room There they will stay Till the whole apartment Speaks in its best And final shade And then next week Next week, No one to say What ripples round the walls and sky Breathing and dancing seemed to make reply And we could be as other creatures were And that, as I am, among the company And circumstances, I am also told, Is the immediate and perfidious cat Who loves to keep alive our tears that roll Towards her who has, endlessly, beaches Where the red shadow of some cat skeleton swirls And the sensations suddenly dissolve, Like what came into it again with me That I could think I saw it rained or the green That I am waiting to remember Was it not? or was it a dream, a vision, ======================================== SAMPLE 147 ======================================== "Dream on What Life Runs Like", by Anthony Rocham [Love, Desire, Romantic Love] for one more moonlight When, dreaming first one hour before I once again could see the ceiling I’d have forgot the trying to make the will yet the will was (I kept repeating) restored for three seconds that I’d cared to call the sun when, thinking of a silver hand to push it into the handle of the skillet I felt directionless, as a hand at rest for awhile; when, having prayed for a long time who knows about it, I heard the waterknocking I already could not believe it was some soap Some ex-arm, as when the power engine brought me more cans I thought of the path I had missed on my way. <|endoftext|> "One Bite", by Eliza Griswold [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Philosophy] When your friend told me you were not at the door again, you said,Sure as you have your part already. So late — I was. I’m not sure why. Both of us (my friend is no man — isn’t I.) And had not been seized by that anxiety, or either, for what it was what we wanted. In your hands. In your voice. In our inmost part. <|endoftext|> "In the Chamber", by Eliza Griswold [Living, Growing Old, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women] A chair on the riseto flooris a portrait for you someplace.It is a calendar, but we are here two, guests inside the one.Our mother came to the door, a woman, but I wasn’t yet glad.I think of a woman who has been gathering roses, but what if that is someone who is by.I remember one night you sat in the kitchen, there are roses hanging from our hands like prayers.We sat beside your silver candle and we didn’t get a steaming space to talk. You said, It’s my cue, but I don’t know that it’s what it’s like so much. The mirror shows how you ======================================== SAMPLE 148 ======================================== "Mutability in Time", by John Frederick Nims [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] 1 What is art above this low rune? What divine this posture? What divine this presence under the ocean? What rosemary? Life is not the bodyating Persistent, constant, constant
 because all life is fleeting. 2 Art is the body’s raiment, the spirit’s empty flasks. Art is the spirit’s fitting, best day. Art is the body’s fitting, the spirit’s entire consciousness. 3 Art is the spirit’s ruling process, the soul’s higher, nobler freighted consciousness. O that art were an art, Might be a god, and I 4 Time is a kind of music, the snowy and levishable wing, zero- clouds and salty juices, red sunsets and poetry and love and peace and death. But what is art that crownest the million worlds to its own pale, the ever-blossoming flowers, a moment’s refraction and turn gilded, death’s arrow-pits. 5 Day is the master spirit’s prevocating entire and vastal, glorious day. And the soul’s eternal state is immutable, state uncertain, time eternal, time eternal, the unchanging planets unending, and heaven flowing forever. 6 So much of dust and blood. How many times happens a man in need of his work? I do not like it. Even now a man of many dirty songs trunds me in my hands. 7 Let’s go the way of life. Though night be like the rest, day be of foul unsmooth uns . . . Even now, this game is no occasion for sleep. 8 Let us go and take a pleasure of sun-’s Electric way, the joys and loves of life which are eternal. Let us go until we get our fill of what we like, the joys and ======================================== SAMPLE 149 ======================================== "Abou Ben Adhem", by Leigh Hunt [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] Adhem had the air wept when he said, The hills were washed from land and camp overnight, And when he sat and trimmed his orfice head, The winds began to creep and there would be Water as heavy as they could not flee; And where the pasture trails green-shaven been On such-like shoulders did the lowing steer, Twice-touched with joy, the bended plowman, Jean, Twice-travelled boy with clover or with rye Had robbed the poor man of his trough and whelked his rye, The great horse with his whip walked silently, The moon slid in and flicked him as he past. Sweet Ruth in brimming panniers of grassy lambs, The two east men he loved best and worst, Together talking, or sometimes meeting songs, In low and star-lit pastoral meads, or durst He talk of charm, and perilous fall of fountains To come from woods, and streams, and skies of moorlands. In moonlight, from his orchard bars there swung A woman, with a demon on her heart, Wild with wild dreams and wild desires in tongue, To whom his parrot sang and no more impart But in those lonely landries of his songs, Where that old king who in Egypt dwelt apart Made moan for loneliness and in mimick dark The sacrificial smoke of unknown pyres And branded it with names like worshippers. He, in the sultrier day of his desire Proud as Apollo, raised a torch and lit, And in the pauses of the still woods rang, And the high stars bewailed and the wild forests spat, And the high horror of the desert suns Groped on him with the silence of his tasks undone. By night he walked; and from that enchanted height Of woods and flowery pastures free, the wind Tossed in the piping woods; from beasts and height, From bowers of palm, up-rising hills and fountains The milk rushed like blown seed into the wind, The heart-blood of the wind that beat the hills Came back to him and came forth g momently, Hailing ======================================== SAMPLE 150 ======================================== “Christ and the helicopters”", by Bin Ramke [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] A god said yes and chose his course And drew the celestial sword Down the beginning’s edge. “Those angels should also walk The ways and tents of their sleepless Lord,” The god said coldly. Translated from the French <|endoftext|> "Song of Myself", by Bin Ramke [Life Choices, Social Commentaries] I lived in the house of death When I was sixteen, And I was a woman there singing to death For no one else to see. And there you are, my wife, And there you go up stile alone For a pound of insurance. But if you're a man Or if the weather’s fine And your father never knew, What is his favorite of yours And his kind? Translated from the French <|endoftext|> "The Trees", by Susan Hanolik [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] So permit me the trees to be a language Among the languages of the world, One of these little trees. Look upon me As you pass the cedar house, And I will tell you What happens now As I sit between the doorposts Looking away And I will tell you What was done By the cedar house, Which is what we have here since When there was something to say For years, it seems to me. I know it embodies the dreams: Of how, how changed a tree For a world that would have become Such a purpose of thanks. It would be the black of this prison Or the black of its dreams For all the joyous stars. What does it matter that we knew Such another man Was born and again has come back Before. <|endoftext|> "The Trees", by Chard DeNiall Wester [Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Reading & Books] A lot of them, we know, are pugs To grow up in a tottering world, An invalid with nothing more Than a few books to prove it once They’re planted by dogs ======================================== SAMPLE 151 ======================================== "Pulling Over to Inspect a Pillbox", by Huff Anaxagorhar [Living, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] I heard you were a steady student when you were sitting on the corner that day you were eating an ash-covered ball with at your breakfast table a toast. The stories about kettles ran wild by such a careless zest of common and real wealth was yours. I’ve drank enough, known all the time, I’ve felt the bite of wrong with many the smallest grief in what they were: The town that you were born with, its eternal hills and valleys marred with all your glorious memories Until they look like us: there’s none has ever been more gay than our visible creation bending out towards some great new order through which you’re born. Oasis, dazzling monaster, in the flaring that you strive to name beyond this old earth which holds your name forever back. We’ve seen the dark ride over them and if they weren’t to help us even, even though their end be in a dream we know the scene is in it and you know it the wild ride where you star racing on through our fireside and the town where you can only see yourself and you can only take the track and watch for the sea to arrive. We’ve never done what we must do, that night, in our long slush and cask, you know what we want, we can do and don’t have to eat the same as for the bay and its approaching tongue. We still must give the fame you’ve missed like a swamp-sentenced express that you clutch at and cannot possess, nor even match your living. <|endoftext|> "A.M.", by Suzanne Buffam [Living, Coming of Age, Philosophy] When you’re smashing a family of investors banging up from your job in the foyer of the king’s breast, the cook in the courtyard of verse, the student in the pool lamp of a life; you’re caught in the preuxes of the � ======================================== SAMPLE 152 ======================================== "Laws of the Universe", by Louis Simpson [Religion, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] there is a landscape to which this can vouchsafely and easily go without demannizing the words.into the actual world Hence lies the stench that onsteals from its upper tenements. But the that still hints a surface’s damp vegetation, spring when the earth voids, and by whose bright influence the nations return to their dusty sick-bath cadaverous in some new form. Those who look askance, simply run for the foundation of the universe, disadvantage of this sort oflife which is a slow unfolding of space differ into these orbs. So that no fleeing phantom can swim, no image can emerge from the river, however fine the path that stretches beyond this human view of which this continent holds us the sea of the universe, entrance into which we climb up or down or along the shore or along the decks of the shore or beneath the waves that perhaps seem to rise from the unquiet skies. Beyond this earth, or through this subtle massacness, does not possess the power to make it one of the same state that the devotee receives his friendly gift and a chair, as does the devotee his friendly offer of the welcome which has given him welcome. It is the gift of one nature, one cause why we shudder to look for the one perfect image of things unattested, both of which there is much to feel here, and thus we are happy; and there is some joy yet on earth, for who knows the Almighty (18) The giver of riches and power and the omnipotent power are in the possession of them. (19) The gods go with the giver of riches, and their own name is given to riches. Hence, I charge you, drive your son away and stretch hands over all his hard virtue. If he is careless of that which men make, we are gazing for a while at the approach of the sacred hand of nature. The purple of the sea appears, in surrounds like a jewel, where the giver of particles that are given to one another have just come and gone. (23) The giver of happiness is most happy when he is not pleased, but when he is unhappy mourns for his deserted ======================================== SAMPLE 153 ======================================== "Mind Core", by Michelle Mitchell [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] I’m making a shoe-an alarm and I’m making a poem that nobody will admire. It is all so pointless, and There’s so much light and so much just color. I hope we’ll not be surprised that the imagination of the dawn is what it really wants to do— napour from tents, and rum perfume, and rum perfume, and rum perfume, and rum perfume, and rum perfume, and rum perfume, and rum perfume, and rum perfume, and oh, I won’t be of it if it’s the night of the Great Compost, not the The Lesson. One day I was lying awake in bed,hoping to touch a bore and hitched a planet, beans, honey and locust, in a dream time at the very size of a computer screen, that was all. The doorframe was different, and when I opened it the frame was the size of a finger rubbing with my right hand, hard, and of small size, but now if I could spot the different notes I’d think I’d wrote all day, I’d know what it meant and I tried, but called the Bureau of the country I’d lived to see, the country I’d fought with. <|endoftext|> "Ars Poem", by Peter Balakian [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] Bungan and Persius Severus I think I had them both. For my own part, Persius says, to make up the things that really were, even in them. When I was green as a bather by a farmer who was feeding a large flock of lambs on my house, there was a public place, Cassus says, exactly where they were. The Cure, Socrates, is also definitely disdainful, As much as a instance of a part of the circle stretching across a planet into its space. The slides as they could make, the mirror as large, were the form of a horse and could make a ride without getting a yap. The Cure had been thrown down, as a matter of special treatment. They were rather given to each other just as I have to please the Cure. The Cure showed the most perfect beauty ======================================== SAMPLE 154 ======================================== Jungler Dan McGinn I might hear him now massing the evening, we were waiting for the lake of vision. Crew came with old vows and whispered tales of how the lights of burning had glowed from the burning fire of Alan's home. And we were a grumbling ballads and we told our friends about the lake, the sun in the burning, the dead men whose skins, streaked with their songs, are riven and tamed, swept with the lingering of death and birth. <|endoftext|> "House of Pine boxes", by George Szirtes [Living, The Mind, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Home Life, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics, Christmas] 1. Home and fatherly love in times like this, comparing the life of animals to the sweet smell of their fur of virtue, its joy and pain lie through and through us. 2. Home and fatherly love as it thrives from its toil in the daily breathe of summer’s morning as it weaves from its cloth of littles a golden bond-broth to the tender blue flags beating the black eggs in the swimming-pale sky so that they seem to touch and hold us, as we lie on the ground until we drop, thrilled by the power of each impinging bird and fiery cats, the war, the power of understanding its sweet power is love’s presaging instinct, its preface dire <|endoftext|> "Home and Dream, New York", by Edward Thomas [Living, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] As I came over the road again I heard the toll of the bell That frightened the travelers; beneath a big chimney I found Another chimney. It was hollow like The bones of a saint, but I was afraid And started again to freeze And to make sure of the attic. 3. The Boy from Avignon Once again we had the feeling Of being alive and drinking In a low, tree-party inn Where the smoke rose and fell And ======================================== SAMPLE 155 ======================================== "With the nonetheless and the reticentatitude", by Bobbi Katz [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] And that, when he passed, as a Book resumed, into the air, at one of the clouds in the late spring decisive with abrupt rains flickering colors Clouds have shut their eyes from dazzling while they contemplate the caroling exchange in a flutter this now, and this now with its uproll lifting itself, to fall again nothing is left to offer, now, in falling into the air. <|endoftext|> "Ars Poetica", by L. E. Riberant [Nature, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Mythology & Folklore] The first person who wore the red tassel to call himself friend the other one had learned to forget his first childhood, and become so candid the year he died it’s true he had learned to forget the first time that he lived, to forget the first time that he lived, and to rise and to write his own life, in his own stained heart, so that he was grown very large, so that he wanted to forget the first time that he lived, and to finally go to read the next, and then then to discover, and to remember, and then again to encounter the blue flecks of forgetfulness, and then to wonder at the flight he made, so that it could be anyway longer than it was before. <|endoftext|> "And For The Medium", by M. F. Moritz [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy] A spirit passed and sang, the spirit passed away nor did he speak nor say, " remembrances of old were sweet before their song were ever sung the while; they passed and passed for ever sung the while: Old though they passed and grew and heard not song nor shew for ever that, old though true and lovely as a harp; and though these things misfry, ======================================== SAMPLE 156 ======================================== "Grave", by William Blake [Living, Death, Nature, Trees & Flowers] I have lived, of women, a close corneri, manic, permanent, without the surceits of green vegetables, and these moist earthborn, who care less for the female breath than a dry word in my mouth. Oh yes, I have: The passing of tentative things will make it difficult to count them. Only the dreams of green things pleach wood hollows in thicket, the unwavering sunlight wrinkling the tender stalk, till the shy bulb with drying lips will melt again beside the tiniest of green will turn into red alabaster. Nay, I have, very, Ruminant, brittle, even a bone of my kind, even the love I’ll have and have, scatter my spirit into some nectar-filling sun that is self-love continually. I have not made this world so empty, nor the rivers of light have moved from its purpose to wash away the black waves of radiance. Only now, as the last white star appears in a far sky, I see the last light coming off at dawn, it pours into grey dense clouds, heavy clouds are piled in the thick air, bright chariots shining in the rear all day, all night, all night, all day from the crest to the forefinger-foot of the tamed Joshua, the red-breast antelope, the spear-bladed trumpet, from the trumpet to the now groaning wail of the wounded eagle. As a warrior, the first watch on which dawn and night are broken, so I stand before a white flame as when it is quiet and I say, “No, how canst thou take me in?” <|endoftext|> "The Marriage of Lost Breth", by William Blake [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Classic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] Last night I awoke to find de�us Deo and his brother Cate. He held me up, caused me not to look at either eye, and I did kiss them as I drew closer to my lover. So we kissed. ======================================== SAMPLE 157 ======================================== "Your Own Parthenope", by Thomas Traherne [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] What we’re given to others is this that we talk about having a little change in the society, the old manner of people who know they are only imps, and the other sort calls real men, becoming laughes, and the wind under fretted doors; we know they mean anything and are not good for us, we who’re too busy setting our names on the rights of the others, or who want to call themselves succeeded and always seen the other day. And the pain is greater than the longing for seats in us, which is more than the longing for seats. <|endoftext|> "American Roots: Moral Associations", by Solon Steskulky [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] 1. Josey: Señora Donny, Marry, Sigo, and Sue. Just why you say the French don’t know which chorus will sing the whole summer. And aren’t we the one of the same flags, which will ring the blue light of summer? Or are we the leaning forward, which of us can embrace in an undercarp, and resolve that the froth of it can turn into ice or enkindle autumn?2. Josey: Donny: How would you like to throw the stone, to clear that old block from the sky?3. And what is the present? I imagine you are doing the very worst, very much the same damage you have done yourself in the face. But I do. In its own way: you think you are wasting time on wasting time, wasting time, trying time, trying to swallow time down space. 3. How can we like this one everybody does not know. Yet you hide in the branches so that even your mother can see you, don’t you, Donny? The text says, Not in fright or laughter, the snake. You keep cool, make way, crowding the trees. You can pour milk and you can drink. You do not give way. You will blur or can duct some secret of time. Do not baulk or check yourself. For it’s just the same thing as You did when you took breath. <|endoftext|> "Three Poets", ======================================== SAMPLE 158 ======================================== "from  : a poem about Jack by Windsor Dean", by Donne L. Fortie [Living, The Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] & I’m not writing this poem about Jack or I at that moment. • Leaves buffet. No one knows what it is but only the wildflowers of the forest. The butterflies’ still colors and the moths’ still rotting out the sunlight. The flowers’ still sexual. In the next room only crumbs. A collection of the things you wanted to see and not knowing remembers. The things that had seemed so comforting, just waiting in line, something. The wooden tea vex and I’m sorry. • A greeting. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. Colin. ======================================== SAMPLE 159 ======================================== "“In his sleep at the fair-time of All the Great Men’s Roots,”", by Frederick Goddard Tuckarri era in Lantot of spoken-on or concealed in the last words at the fair-time of All the Great Men’sfeuceless-minded.Of Alone the Rutulians are gone, the shell-players, the refurbished and hard-fought.In a voice of supplaneto praise, in a tongue of seamless sardolei, they remain silent.With their tone not yet achieved, praising still unchanged their several names of Fates they name as “mistresses of Time”And “The Committee of theools.”Not dead yet did the professor of the Divine speak to them in his sleep.The triole-embraces re-echoed his echoing called, “Weavers, It’s coming up now, it’s wartime going to the fair-time of all the prairies.”He commanded the professors of the Latin Temple to bring his blind and deaf cousin,aders of the hall and bare-footed figures painted black without feature, the deities of the fêtes and alphabets of his face and in their passage read his perfect writing: “Weavers, It’s coming up now, it’s wartime going to the fair-time of all the prairies.” In silence speechless he accosts them, then told them of a vision his mother had taken him, the great-hearted, who might have wed the maiden the sea-encircled. In silence he repeats his own story, the stillness of the sea around his head, and in a voice that might have given over to his own abounding ease. In deep water his mother makes him say graveily: “Mother dear, I have wed you, a soldier, a chief from the host of the stars.” And immediately he said: “Oh, you shall wed the sea-courier that calls us our sea-courier.” He has fourteen daughters, he will marry the best of them, his first. Their bright black faces are so sea-white, and their blue is the color of his face that it may be the oyster-moth without ever quitting the shell beside its blue girdle. Their white brides are the white-throat� ======================================== SAMPLE 160 ======================================== "Orange Berries", by Alberto Ríos [Living, The Body, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Distant and in a green space the cat dreamt; its eyes gathered therefrom upJoan examined, made in darkness only a choice of escape from the lightand in that case so little light was needed there. So back to the light. Deeper and deeper that darkness burned away. No one could say what light wasuntil I know now. Light was the world, but dark was the sky and there, only the wings of the cat cradled, the small bell suspended for nesting. Light was the sky and there were no windows. Only the shadows of birds, the hush of the green grass. No one descended, did not appear, no voice rang in the street, only the echo of cars alighting through evening steeples. Only the fair weaving doves through the windows flew. Only the sound of the rain fell, so soft it fell on the stones, on the roofs and on the stones, on water, on the reeds and off the land. <|endoftext|> "Zwendolyn", by Alberto Ríos [Nature, Weather] The wind kept touching the eaves darkening bones the leaves’ queer canopy aiming at intervals until it is done. It is cool here, nothing tall but slippery. It is a little there in the rain. <|endoftext|> "Dusting", by Alberto Ríos [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity] They reached the rock, crossed the mountain whose ridge sheet, ominous as a lens, sk Jesus with cocked hat and coat, that shadow-monger in heels of mist passing over them, crossed the sky, through ether of lost blue shell, through this solitude of cloud, past the oyster, lee of a spill into the mouth of the basin then, slowly, slinking out into the night—filled with ice— with black and gold, until it covered the kind from view with frost, the moon’s slow dissolve into diamonds, then disappeared— then lost, settling unseen into the liquid dark ======================================== SAMPLE 161 ======================================== "Morning", by Dan Beachy-Quick [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] the flower that kills it is the worst, the school of production and torn from the geography of byways and means, it has come from its hands that we are falling to, its bright body, bright mind its lightning flashes and darkens, brightened with its own darkness. Do I live in a city whose young walls and angles outlast our hours, whose harbors four hundred billion years of work and employment hours, whose busy life has been a prodigal of men and maidens and leisure hours? I’ll tell you the first time that our women are as touchable as telephone fare we can call our "little craft," and we are strolling along to create a perfect supportsion that will balance the structure of our lives. We’ve become so indifferent to our chances and our instincts that we must reverse the structure of our habits and our customs, as we have always been sincethe day we saved no one we will ever be able to imagine. The heart’s a draininger of decency and cloak and evening repair to meet the gentle evening of the street we slowly groomed for our quiet stiles, when the hostess, her twins, left our clean hearth and bare-bread as she sipped the scented wine of the running brookside and walked it, roughly, in their leafy hut, where the rustling grass was yellow and mysterious. A gate nailed to the ironbound bar’s slab, I missed the portal, turned hinge creak’d, an echo, far beyond the stars, a voice calling to me. An echo caught my eye while darkness followed. <|endoftext|> "Secrets", by Ricardo Alberto Urrea [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] “One’s a trick,” my mother said, “when stones are worn.” I ran to them, and ask'd, “Who knows but we should know, like us, the art of the ancient, gray-green Saint’s holy fountains?” I ask'd ======================================== SAMPLE 162 ======================================== "Droop", by Joseph Millar [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, Faith & Doubt] Never forget this is really an American theme.Never forget in this new drama. Out of the sea of unnecessary waters fleeing and flee the sea's shimmery fjords and pinnacleddies fleeing and flee until they flee through the clouds above into valleys The sea's heart-hollows a chant of the shepherds their moonlit art. <|endoftext|> "Dog in Bed", by Joseph Millar [Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Home Life, Nature, Animals] He will grow up in his mother’s bridegroom he will talk about his father and the mother who gave him the life of his father. He will grow up in his father’s wife and all the other dogs on the road his sense of him as a child and a man on the road to death his breathing and his short breath. I know what I know of the dog is the back of his heart both his teeth in the blood and the black coat like a worn shirt he’s given him for life but not as well as the back of his neck. And the man who keeps the bad road and who pulls at him to the end and feeds him on meat and medicine. <|endoftext|> "Dog Dips", by Joseph Millar [Relationships, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] The dog has opened his lips, speech with its dull voice. He stands on the edge of a bed, a cracked dish of dog bones. And as he’s food for his own, the man at the front has bent down, his back against a chair and grabbed the bed. He’s dog yearning for his master’s face. And as he slips back the couch, he follows him for his master’s Lord knows what. <|endoftext|> "An After-Life", by Joseph Millar [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] ======================================== SAMPLE 163 ======================================== "Worn bout ego", by Matthew Brenneman [Living, Activities, School & Learning] to macte mout metra, si parbo, atque umero, uota, sed coeli a te mano, et uacuae uiridis trepidans cinq at uocant rerum, at uocant rexiós( firepower) uerq; se quando funera aestúat perspex, che iuuenes a dura, ut uada de caluena collo descendens cantu o mirabam meis arbe( withholding wanax) archer, despojaegua, cosa, cantu( Newt) uerq; tráphe chordosa aestúat uocante a sío( withholding wanax) aestúat perspex, che más flakego a carla delante a cuyo( withholding wanax), a papa acentú, che acento a carla delante a me oino a carle, cómo se vió elante, a carla delante a me oino. por el ego del bien que siento yo: a tú, cúmo te amigo, por el ego miró, cumplió, y el ego del indigno ruino y a un, cuando sescen quiera(50) un soledida mañana á todo pues sabiam, á solando en el punto suelo a gallard de suelo(50) jo cualquiera soberana a luz (or could) yjaro no semejo, Que cubre de nuestro astro mal y deja rigo y acuitado de quien nuestro amor. Sweet conorto a hombra, cui Dios esto con tus bienes concurso (in Aterno), frondro afloja acerbar en elloso, allí los cantando a Dios sólo, ¡O vamente sueño, sueño divino, grantando acaso naves la nieve Que eleva de su patria (feromoto ======================================== SAMPLE 164 ======================================== "Tomorrow to terrorists", by David Lau [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Desire, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] after Miller Williams I would consider how many times thirty years I would consider as having a thumb the past II As a bubble hiding in the ocean the pole and rising from one end I would assay to touch the awkward object but courage tugs me with pacemaker teeth I would assay to pull the shoreline I would exploit to overcome the perfect test III The child I murdered is tossed to pieces innocent blood For the babe I've promised To protect from being nurturing life with neat The glory of God In justice I would rather that oblivion be the portion of what you do Were the whole of life IV March 1979 speeding blind as glass one foot on the other, I step back to believe I'm doing what I was in—I can't forgive I'll be in love with the Rock I think of you in my soul I did believe it back then, returning to those where it was their sky mission where they stayed in medicine bur cling to one another, but I could not imagine how I would survive that act of love in which I’d struggle all years to gain those accompturable resurration in the usually ended state of Spanish choral I think. It was that I saw what I saw before the war left for those who had no rest to warm upon, those who could released beyond the war where everything was true and somewhat Later that time pulled on to be the prospect they had seen that day again I stood on the chilly beach in the oars of my boat, looking down from the top of a cliff to where the war raged I saw you and called out, You are at sea now, I can see how heaven allows us to stay two minutes or so. ======================================== SAMPLE 165 ======================================== "The Sleeper", by Andrew Ray [Living, Death, Activities, School & Learning, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] You wonder about Mrs. Ophelia, who lived An evenings at home with her husband’s aide Dress herself as Mrs. Ophelia (standing For vul vulgig) with her troupe philazine. Her right hand apt to cart one’s shoe from wash— Most difficult, it must be said, for her eyes Are dimmed drops where the flexed knee ofe slants To the hot sand outside. She swims With a rocking motion, her sides are soaked With juice, her braids philan, and her chest Is untouched. No Rutulian can boast Of her stout udders, for she has been shown On the leap that she burst forth. She can swim, Is her stout udders leap, does she dare, The udders too have her swagboat made, Her mutinous oars. On her bow rests a rude Hand of the cross with its outspread. Her crew Drop not, but they swim safe on shore. At the rising of day, on the lunching Of slackest cords of their rope is thrown, They must loose their hooks to land. Then nether Caught on the grisly cordage below deck, In the basket she stands, dips and turns To the swinging currents below while the lightning flashes. This is the secret, all the long For the wakeful angler cries out a song. Or is it to the wigwam I grope Over somebody’s girth? At the sight Of her blue-eyed daughter, or the tall Same haired One Points and claws its spotted And sable mesh, scrawling its strings To find the bottom where she lingers? Here it is. But a man’s heart, unfelt By the shores, in the dead of night, is lodged Full of odours, dropping honey dew, And calling me a beautiful woman. <|endoftext|> "God See My Country churches", by Andrew Marvell [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The sunlight in the Vatican Glitters like a shield of lilies In the Vatican that shines Through the Frankfort Hotel With two white ======================================== SAMPLE 166 ======================================== "Of Modern Books", by Katharine Bowers [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] Here’s to the boys. A rough school he had — These books were his, and he’d never tired— CHAR locus ergo Armes, aëta bruma, carensa spuma, erga resecenta rura. — William Shakespeare These books and men he'd never quite let away from any possible book. — William Shakespeare The years go by. He'd quite crushed the earth with shadows and dreams and suns. He'd almost taken a man alive, the pistis that he made. He'd experienced sere chopsticks, no matter what task it had put his to live. He'd met a sharp exit that made way to life and never bent his eye to earth. He'd been used to the world in his life. He'd learned the joys of the earth his mind has given. He'd shared the wondrous pleasures the world has offered to men. He'd shared the saddest dreams and the woe that language might disclose to them. But there were other notions: wherever he'd been, there were other notions, he had his own mood of wondrous learning, and when he had read for all along that pictured book his mind had stored and all his life had been. Yet one thing still was to keep an old man traveling fast, reading the newspapers of the world, his heart on times like this: a card, a quest of scissors, a search for life, a knowledge of the world like ours. There’s nothing like the dream he's had, for he can’t sleep, can see the opening of his heart to one place he doesn't recall. But I have read him from the first book of Ode to Mr. Anne. <|endoftext|> "What Is a Poem for Robin", by Jonathan Holden [Living, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Nature, Winter] How can we find a word to choose, one day, but one? A shadow in the midst Of the dark, like shade of half an eye, And I can't say where it is to start. When I open the box, it’s over, And the book ======================================== SAMPLE 167 ======================================== "Grand Festivals with Charles Heine", by Alfred Heine [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Little Bobby, far-off.His face is a study mirror.His eyes are rusty. stubbly,He’s a thin metal upper lip.Hardly dry, the glass is nearly dry.The hair on my head, which has learned to disguise its Red.Yes, a lot of people wait for his brain.But what is the name for the brain that works behind the skin,To be counted along the back of my face?Brace having wasted the brain, he is a browner man.Yellow color through dark glasses some day some day a anymore is reddish.His brown jacket is yellow hat.When he opens it soon you may become a dog. (In Don Uguise; everyone I know about it.)Did I tell you I won’t let him sit on the self-same chair?Presently a tinker called; unease of flame;Red and yellow and white;his pipe; his nicely scented skirt; his pock-and-toe; nasal muffle black fringe;And blue eye; yellow and yellow;feathery the colour that hems; yellow and yellow in the mirror.He could be very white, though his skin was glossy,And black. He has very white clothes, very white.February holds them. In my good brown frame you shall have lovely red ribbons and rich silks,So fine they scarce touch, and fit these yellow and blue silk shoes.I tell you they are purple, with deep purple, and pink, and red;Then it is white as winter, is white as sloe.Then it is white tulips, stained with yellow and white,And colors and patterns and anthers and colors and crosses in streaks.So fine they are, so numberless, three-parts so many yet being sold,The sky above your head, your fine, and scatters them carefully.I know they all are drooling; O reader, you might stop for eternity. Why weep you at this time? Why weep you at this time?Why weep you at this time? O why do you not cry?Why weep you at this time? O why so many tears?O why so many tears? O why so many tears? <|endoftext|> "Writing". by Diane Thiel From time old E ======================================== SAMPLE 168 ======================================== "A Poem for John Grant ", by Marvin Bell [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I unwont To grip the Hands out my neck attempt my dream’s direction. I put the boss off like a team of cars and away as they vanish.The legs are caked and I tug on their postures I rub my fists in my hands and attempt my best poetic work. At night the room doors die out and I ruminate around myself. I don’t want one word in the world in the dark. Jabbet sounds like dark surf on the shore at the eyes. The room will float away without a sound. I think of jabbet cells and meadows lit with my own hand light the way it does but don’t want to. I think myself a philosopher in the schools and the remedy for answering to deserts. And I’m not going to be a philosopher inside me. I will have to pretend to believe in my divinest dream and as I have always been, forget it all. <|endoftext|> "The Flight", by Marvin Bell [Living, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Philosophy] I wonder about the distance that joins the sea that we make in it, the ups and downs and the sky that spills so on my bare feet. I wonder about that third half of the grazing rank air and what the grass knows that we make and that we didn’t. Some of the leaves and others, and I, too, think someone there hiding under the coyotes that wait for us to flop up. We’re not sure. I’ll trust the rain or the wind or the crying of birds in the trees that will promise the promise of hard water and the waiting sobbing I can’t forget. I wonder why it’s been foretold what breath could take to blow through the leaves. < ======================================== SAMPLE 169 ======================================== "Baby’s Dream", by Louise Erdrich [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] A tiny ballet drum hurts up far away. Down all the morning green leaves and maple leaves the great triremes float, slowly, in marching order. Their faint pinions spread from themagnetic sky, from the dusky branches of the orange-banded trees, from the glass-trouthed Cuba tree, to the black rubber sun. <|endoftext|> "brothers", by Julian Talamantez Brolaski [Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics] for C.C. Girl, be a man and love me, be so you shall die together. In the heart of the black stiff night, inside that world where you, like a ghost, pine for your return, your hair flying in your breath like a wave breaking your last white sail in the golden weather, you shall sail where you return no one knows you, you shall sail by the pale flower of the wave that goes flying to the grey edge of the world where you return. <|endoftext|> "Romancos: Sonnets from the Portuguese  5: A Love Song", by Julian Talamantez Brolaski [Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Spring] A strain to the memory of sleep, long remembered hours of animals in the ferns, the deafened forest of thirsty dogs and sheep, long forgotten hours of the sweet pastoral meadows of our dreams where the dogstar reddens bright against the sky, through whose shade our sun's slow creeping lo you turned blue phantom of sky, whose bluish sheen looked from behind the blind bridge-bone of the western rain, the sky that was the blue nights through in which the black gauging washed away, the sky which was our sky forged from the shore, long forgotten, long forgotten, near by spill of dark water. In that light I met the world alone, outside my own ======================================== SAMPLE 170 ======================================== "The Uncommon West", by Albert Goldbarth [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] The sluices are both showery. Like a long branch of the Southern tree, the sluice with green traces beneath are clothed. The sun seems to have long chimed round the sluice-hunted sluice, which shows, as heretofore, only the wind-beaten granite canary, as here the moss-floor rises above. The lime-trees are covered with dust. On the haven-side the sloop, herring-bonnets blown open, and the sloop uplifts her horn. The trucks passing are orderly, and however, as they speed, the sloop lowbodies of cars bear light on the quarter. The sloop rowles up, as in fright, to see the treacherous waywardness of the wayward one; the sloop, it is true, is the First and Last Leaves wait upon him, to and fro, as before. The sloop, though straight, is indolently at the sloop, and now, as after all, she is baffled. The slow hush of the sloop is like the gradual swing of a fig, when the sloop is still, and loose, clung to, the sift of its contents surrieves a fall without the fall; but instead, when suddenly, from under the sloping and musty, the grisly band in front of the slipper fall, there is a mutter of wheels and a whistle of waters. The bleak and squalid silhouettes crowd in a procession, while the sloop lifts high his unswerving and eager arms to sky, and the Right, with its cold cloud of passengers, turns one gyre to its earth-bound breast, and the left, the sloop, in his tetherg'd and tattered tent becomes one with the push of the mob, in bullocks of masonry. The sloop, having quelled, is the lover of those who for ever, for ever, entrails and embraces his own perfection. The sloop, who in want of many, like the flagstones of a blue Capitoline, in pursuit of her liegemen, is the lover of those who for ever will be whoever constrain'd to that rugged monster, Time now so especially is not for ======================================== SAMPLE 171 ======================================== "In Time", by John Ciardi [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Sciences] There are kinds of problems inherent in history— A race not eternal— forms too unrelenting, To think life itself a failure; like the labor Of an ear to verify it? But what prospect to gain! The streams of life, which glide not on the ocean When all is gray and old, are smoking youth, Their age sufficient to make money for to keep For all the while! Nor make serene the hope Of erring pain. There are vile schemes, the streams of life, Which strive to stem the tide of our despair; And thus they must be beaten by despair. For why should any of it care To see the deaths we seek in Egypt lie Around their desolated stage? For why should any of it care To see the heroes of our age? They cannot die, however we may have Their early immortality. Their lives will not resemble the like Which they have made: For many die indeed. And many yet will follow, to Compassionate conflict between right and wrong; But time forever tires of them unborn. One may be worse than all the hosts of time; And few as ever are who set His battleoes to mutual blows in twos and threes. The hungry lioness, the foxher, and the spottedulture Staying in them, shall lick the world, and know nought of man. Then all who are before me must be fed; The fox is game, the boar is red; The fishes of the sea foam flee behind The reeking line. There may live many a man who suffers to be free. But pitying Folly, what is her contempt of her, Who does deserts become, in thorns, like rags, or flee? A wall is human, broken, set around the sea. Yet it remains to see the scheme how it can wave. <|endoftext|> "Towns in Colour", by John Ciardi [Living, Coming of Age, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Travels & Journeys] I have no dislike the brightness of the sun’s indifference, or the stifling black air, The sea’s disease, the hay of a heavy land, Seeking only light which there is hardly room for a worm. I have no dislike the stench that fester upon the shirtless blanket, From which dank leaves are never full enough to get the ======================================== SAMPLE 172 ======================================== "Among School-brutes", by Major hijaine [Living, Time & Brevity, Philosophy] I grew up and began to earn a decent carest at the 'Blackamoor' I thought I was going to overthrow Providence. If there were any rules, I wouldn’t have ordained it. The throw-off cavalry, many-chaunted, often-remarkably spiking every hitched shield, would never trouble themselves about my luck. Being only a laughing fellow and one world warping, after a few wires among accents that turned to a response only those needed to make you feel even more threadbare as the green January snow that didn’t further into the ocean to which we had come from. At first I couldn’t answer. But the thought of coming back takes me down the long slope and the pain it brings peering through my head until I found myself turning into a barebed, wanting my nerves to jump as far as it could and no time for doing things and still want to make an apotheptic shit and then get excited in the pain, burning. I want to haul the balloon out of the house but I still want to haul it back. <|endoftext|> "What It Sounds Like", by Max Ritvo [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity] If memory helps him to read these books Tell me why and tell me straight from where The things that take when buried are as they were Everything took when buried And the things that were when a man walked away Something I lost was actual And in truth I know I have A natural tail Enables and igniting The details of thought in painting All of them. That is the sort of pleasure I See how the things that were. Moving among them walks As a guide to the things That needs and doesn’t really think And I want to know What I meant to them And how they, smiling, talked to him And above the things that might keep them Saying nothing is bad, or good, Which lies Crouching up in the wall For a chance to ======================================== SAMPLE 173 ======================================== "Autumn 2017", by Bruce Lansky [Living, Death, The Body, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall, Summer] 1 When summer had turned its over, and now no one was living, what harm had the three men actionless and unperplexed? A picture could show they were rivals, or perhaps it was one with the chair on the wall in the booth next to the door, or together in separate lines, but most of them were separated in order to get at last to be forgotten.2 As afternoon grew long and the lights were few and the dial. Three talked of taking pictures with him and how much he could have the two heads kept for the head to put them. But to sell them was to be moderately small.3 So men. The two of them lasted years and continued their quiet lives. The writings, like the eternal pygmy books, lay open for the world to read and enjoy the tedious route that advanced in the two parties. They opened a narrow gallery and ascended into the depths. The father took pictures of animals at night and carried them to a tree. The two pages and their mistress went out in the fire. Those images were male, and could be female. 3 The earth, the light, the light, possessed three men. The first began to beiful, and young, like flowers in their baskets, water in the ocean, and the next, as water in a still watermelon. 3 The present has been planted only right, but the last branch of the tree is for a little longer seen. The characters are readings. The branches are green, and appear to have been cut into pieces by the sun. The ground began to swim, and they have been fastened to an end, and if a tree is only an expanse can management further produce. 4 As the trees fell higher and higher, without touching the earth, without touching any of which could escape, the father was disturbed very much. The roots also began to fall, and, instead of leaping to the earth, suffixed their fall. The father was depressed in his thought. The lady have gone to him to visit his sister. The father took advantage of another view. The mother used to walk towards her with more than usual steps. 4 During a certain time there were three sisters, Emilia and I Ettarre was named by several names. They were named after the Sun which appeared in the ======================================== SAMPLE 174 ======================================== "Lying on a Binck, Count Post", by Quan Barry [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] Never eat enough of beautiful things For such supreme suffering: We could turn off the heat Unless after mature weather. Never drink enough cold water. We could turn off the ice until snow With icy, icicle drops, falling. In shivering England, we could look To the thin flanks of the aqua-vitaean Where ice crystals shimmering off a brooch Muttered by little gnomes. Ridiculous crystals, they glare, Until their eyes glitter, curling. We could shatter, carve melt snow— Splint of forming suddenly When mountains crash, when rocks clap. The watch a llambeau opens wide, Teach an awful chime; The snow is rising like the Fate Of frost that never stops; A-light against the window-pane, The snow beamed gray; And pearly ice we didn't care While snows fulfilled us with the chime. We boiled our brooms, we drank our ale, Always brimming, "gibbeted full cider"; We made our shins with fresh-may beets, Floured the toast on Abbey porches, Laid on the baskets, where the blues Flaked in the shriller blast of Rome And ice crystals colored the live light Of the heavenly oven lamp; We could so eat the winter snow And ice on Sanbeau stove Viennese Filling the Milan pipes with steam, The candles a slow-sinking light, Or, small candles pressed to a lean stove From the groaning board, or olives Full on the glasses, the sage Nap. But this is world! we call, and think Our living would be soochy slim, So brittle a trifle. What utter weariness we feel! Is it the beggars? A darkness pales; What a soft luxury is this! God keep us awake with his caress. <|endoftext|> "A Hymn to Saint Angela", by Quan Barry [Christianity] Stands in the ======================================== SAMPLE 175 ======================================== "Song of the Hesper Year", by Geoffrey Chaucer [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Summer, Trees & Flowers] The Spring spreads her foggy carpet across the meadows And comes with the little brown thrasher in hand To open the gates for the Royal Caduetas And take the gold, and put on the double pot And make the child pass the years in Latin trouble And grow up in the woods, dry and sweet As the rain from the grapes upon clean-clutched covers. But his dreams are of the happy trees, he saunches Along the dry grass, with his little goat-tail coat, He peeping through the leaves at his day's broad flop And laughing down the valley through a distance That never stirs from slumber. Him the tall grass sinks Down in the shadow, over him the small birds sing, And there is nothing, all the grass is still and black Under his feet. Darkness swims and the milkweed opens Before him, for the clouds are fastening on the hill And he goes down alone with the old year's favorite flowers And the old year's monotonous music in the mornings. Look, there are three, the singing stars, the air Loud with gongs from the roof where the singing willows Have filled the wind with their vague and musky p fragrance. Look again on the leaping trout and the long low line Of cardinal with its crimson anthers filled By the gulls on the river line and the black nape glittering Where the salmon leap and the salmon shout and the river runs, And the deer stand still to listen to the song of the water-gulls, To the water-rat, to the ouzel, to the crawfish, the toad, To the brown-backed beetle, the raccoon, who can race All the way into the field when the moon has stopped And the bare green bunnies cuddle around the spruce and orange boughs With a start in his own air and never know it again Till the bright blue fields come out to the town of the senses, Till they get there, the wheeled shadows, the sleepy heads Of the deer and the red-backed ibis who chatter and babble In the sleepy air ======================================== SAMPLE 176 ======================================== "An DISCATION in Nature’s Grammar", by William Collins [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women] With columned mainswills and light napkins and a white dishpan to keep us awake. With five thousand jockeys and a piece of cheese. The cats are free. Their gabble and cheese are allowed to keep free. The trees have all been enlivened down with a million canopies full of piss. Let us now take the luck of a shark. <|endoftext|> "A School Teacher and Desirous Books", by William Collins [Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] 'T was a summer evening, Very early and too near; Little wandering ladies Followed slowly through the air. Their hearts with hope were brimming, From the top of all the hill, That bright town of Ascutus Would be this world too deep for her. She had seen, knew not whence it came, But what it had been in now. Then she smiled, and said, "My dear, Your ardor is so blest: For all earth and heaven Know your eagerness at last." The old men answered, "Yea." Thus they said. How glad, how glad, All the old men had said. Then one day, by a post, All alone, Sitting on a stool, They arranged a Pig, That was very big. But they said, "We don't care; This pig is of course The size to the size, But we'll let it out Before summer, And then we'll stick to it." Said they, "This Piggy Has a great facility, And he looks a lot Up and down, And in the great middle Ain't all the settee." This Piggy said, "Though you jeer at my folly, You don't mind; I'm sure you are wise." Then they say, "You're quite spiteful." And again the piggy said, "You're the straightest man In the world. ======================================== SAMPLE 177 ======================================== "Ice Cream here to Tear", by Mary Widden In Arcita’s after-math The clouds pass and become snow-lit In my underwear; they pass and vanish. That’s why I saw them then. Why do American poets not write their own hearts? Their own hearts and their thoughts. They go searching and speaking. They see and hear and speak. What kind of life, what kind of death? Their own hearts and their thoughts. They go out and in and in And out of the field and up and up, As abroad and out of doubt they goout on, To and fro, to whirl about and unbehold As sheep or as pigs— And behind them, in the face of the mirror, The great scarlet pulls its mystery forward. A book, they read. A bronze foot covers The books. A book is sown In every room of the world beside the sea. If you could watch, standing there by the sea “(a passage)”, You would know what this wild storm is. And what do you know—a weary horse at night and a friend traveling by mistake. At day’s end of the road a letter fell over a leaf. “Complain,” was written. In return a verse from “again” was still lost. “Certainly,” Places whispered to a mountain of fish, “would you still be free to endure,unfree to use life’s law?” And a zero gun was a gun. <|endoftext|> "An Aftertime", by W. S. Di Piero Even after a twenty prayer, a final prayer Is what the guests expect; the way they turn from south to north. A noon-tide solitude, where only silence reigns before the eye. The aureole of solitary thought abides In Robin’s final bird-notes. Time has no part with him. Sing pressedSong is the noose of moral exile, A haven for the weary and long term confined to all. <|endoftext|> "The House They Corporation", by W. S. Di Piero [Living, Growing Old, Health & Illness, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce, Love ======================================== SAMPLE 178 ======================================== "Cloistered", by Peter Munro [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] I wonder how far those waters have gone away from here. The grass, late wet and newly burned bright beneath the clear wash of the tide, is how it lifts the fingers of the hands and spreads to lick them off. The hooked roots, the deadly faculties, the wilted strengthps, head downward in the depths below the water, the blue, slim phantom faces of the dead and I can only wonder if these leaves, these green, unentombed citherlicts, have made the scattered skin look lovely, soft, and sweet. <|endoftext|> "Invisible", by Peter Munro [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] Fathomless thy beginning,-- is it eternity? Was it midnight stealing over the earth, and the gray wing drifting around that fret of the sea? Or was it the wind? And was this earth as a forest? did you hear its record of the stars? And was that lovely voice falling, hovering round, as you dreamed of the far away back of your childhood, or was it the voice of the lonely wanderer, calling back the old man's steerage face to its glacier? Or was it an eagle looking from his height at the dying sun? And when your questioner suddenly spits, and you walk away, and you think of that one gray claw like a slate that you are hatching, and you look so genuine and amazed, you don't mistake anything else, and I wonder what makes the feathers on every wind seem fire-lit, light-glittering on the white counter of a little sky that lies between them. <|endoftext|> "The First Thing", by Erato Erato note [Living, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Religion, The Spiritual] In the middle of the camp is a long stretch of continually moving sounds; they call themselves fish, or birds of prey, along the rim of the shore, Making light to mackerelike a single note of chirping. I know they are important, and I don't know why. The streamers are particles; they find out words for words ======================================== SAMPLE 179 ======================================== "Robin Hood", by John Haines [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather, Winter] “The wind” tearing through the crack of new-cut walnut leaves, and cracks and cracks now snow just a few, the day that I got past at a time, when I thought, “The wind, the wind!” I’d moved in at the water throat with my finger, I could rust, and I could send the wind, ice, dust. You did me a mischief but you didn’t be your own one but I’m your friend. Before I could move on, close to cows now, here, there, some trees, itself chicken, rust. The wind whispers and scolds, whispers and scolds and scolds this time, when I’m here, at the other end. But how to swell the list again, when I hear you tell that horn. Oh no, no. <|endoftext|> "Dawn Ching", by John Haines [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] To discover, to discover, the ground has believed so many trees have become the strongest and strongest in the forest. I saw him coming down the road, staggering over a torn branch, and grunted at it, "What a storm. A splash of spray on a stone. Son, tell us the danger. Help, and we can tell you what it means. First say—withdraw a glass and it shows you will find nothing, and it gives nothing but a bad taste out of the water. Rest your head upon this stone, the willott, with its berries, a small elbow, softly pulling the stems behind. Then smiling down, singing as he stepped back to breakfast, the glass proposing only a drop, yet I thought it would be fun for him to come there, to get his finger pointing to it, his long tongue trembling to hear, his dizzy eyes sparkling with diamond peaches. What a gush of water down his pate has come, full of leaves and shrub. Wet leaves drip into stubble. Something stirs in me. A sparrow sits on ======================================== SAMPLE 180 ======================================== "Unto Love", by James Hutton [Love, Classic Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] The lips I lov’d so often,Girl, you stole You gave my heart a thousand Bibles,And a hundred Aesers Numbered a hundred bards:A hundred thousand poets—but for youOne’s years and a thousand— And the little I have lov’d will long for you. I would fain woo a craven, but I have not half a mind: To a friend I’ll cling and part to, O you! I would scorn to be deidol’d, And you give a good two-word, O you! I would force the sun to shine on, and you curt In adornment and requite my heart; O you! You would move my hand with ruby, but I’ve not half A mind in any meritor; a mind to roam, And you never more upon me—it’s in haste! <|endoftext|> "To C. D.", by James Hutton [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Trees & Flowers] After D.H.G.—Abraham Lincoln I dreamed a vision, and it hover’d over everything. And like a very dream it was, and like a giant, full of secrets The broken clouds would go arraying a white Among the gleaming shadows of the hills and valleys. I dream'd that on the hills there is a mountain and the everlasting hills would go along its side And disappear like a dream, and then I come down and Laughter all the time, And like a giant sea will go along its side. <|endoftext|> "Abraham Lincoln Moloch [Religion, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Abraham Lincoln Moloch 1. I could interpret their hymns, and would sing, But that force alone can loosen Clonus’s limbs. All that rescue most reeMrs. Lincoln is a snub of most un ======================================== SAMPLE 181 ======================================== "The Springtime", by William Cullen Bryant [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Spring] The Springtime O the blue eyes of a blue lassie When the rose blows up to the sky! What a pretty Nant would be a zenith When the blue sky bends to the sea! On the shore a kindled heart was wrung By the tenderness of the view; And the blue eyes looked of my beautiful young When she put her hand in my own. 'Tis a blessed cold, and felt the calm Of the mild air over my head; And I feel the red throb of the little flesh Welcoming the spring tread. And though the sun may shine, yet I know It is always a cold and a darkling When the blue sky bends to the sea! <|endoftext|> "The South Wind whispers to the barrel-organ", by William Masefield [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class] A gray cloud along the edge of the city Blots out the sky. I am there; I am there; The rain stops As I watch these drifts Come together Making report of their arrival At the moment when they arrive. And they come. The wind blows Out of the clouds. I am there; I am there; I will go And build a new city for my country. And those women. They will not wait long. The trees are heavy with fruit. Those lovers do not know that tree has human legs. I bring them to a tree to-night And then the sky is heavy with fat fields. Those women do not see a tree. I bring them to a field to reap. And that woman Who grows older than my daughter Has twice enough of her age grown. She was late at night When my father said his eyes were heavy, And my mother was not seeing me. She was late, having failed. Now that I am here In this city I will enter And she who is my mother Will sing and shut the window. <|endoftext|> "Small Prayer", by W. S. Merwin [Activities, Jobs & ======================================== SAMPLE 182 ======================================== "Cuckoo", by buddy Khaledan [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] Cuckoo, sweep of the hillside west; what is your car that stands so high?Cuckoo, cuckoo; rest for my sake. Rise and follow heavenward!Cuckoo, cuckoo, on to heavenward!All the world is bidding me: "Cuckoo, cuckoo; rest for my sake.Why all speedily?Cuckoo, cuckoo; rest for my sake.Better that it were with the whole soul’s trade.Cuckoo, cuckoo; rest for my sake.Cuckoo, cuckoo; rest for my sake.All your calling is in vain; luckless again.Cuckoo, cuckoo, in the main.Cuckoo, cuckoo, in the main.Cuckoo, cuckoo, in the main.All the world is bidding me, "Swing!Secure amid the dark to flee."All the world is bidding me, "Swing!Secure amid the dark to flee."All the world is bidding me, "Still the sameBirdie to the tree’s great heart, caballancy and love" (Cuckoo, cuckoo, reign the king of heaven), cuckoo, answer if I ask, “can anyone buy for my house the tree of balsam, cuckoo, answer, if I want a maid’s heart, cuckoo, answer, if I want a man’s heart.Today’s a new day for us all, set us a-jumping, cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo-ecune-Cuckoo-Cuckoo-Cuckoo-Cuckoo-Cuckoo man’s heart, cuckoo-Cuckoo-Cuckoo man’s heart. Why do I care, sometimes, how much I care, how long and short I care, if I have my fling o’er all. To fling but one cheap-named knife into the ground, mock one the other, make it whirle and buzz and flutter round the trees, and all they'd love to happen here their lives apart from paths of briars. Those that love their love they fling it in to climb down to ======================================== SAMPLE 183 ======================================== Come hither, Thou born Fathers, Sit down! One in Thy house, One in Thy house. One in Thy house And Thou in Thy house. One at Thy board, Thy servants and thy servants now. See'st Thou that I'm fashioned as I am? A Gypsake slim I am, made of flesh Made pure and fitted for Thy work. I'd eat each man's soul; some meat I have, And some sweet meat. I'd have Thine eyes, And Thine ears and lips. But these I have, That Thou art spit, and I'd eat them. Be it so. Go to! The feast is spread; it's spread for Him. He's a proud maker of things that are done. A rag in a corner where the worms hang still Waiting to press Him. The creatures cry no ill, But feebly, feebly, feebly. They have killed The Lord. Oh, Lord, ah, Lord, the blue small dark Wanes at the sight! It's too much to go far. I'm sweating. I want my children. They have cried In all places. Not for me--only the need, The need, the need. Up over my head, Lord, My children, Mother, Mother and all earth Is brine. Before God, I am not of this kind. Behold, I beseech You, that this letter, Spring, Is writ across this dark, that I explain The precious scumbrel of His promises. Take me, my Lord, this letter to your wives And You, my children. There's a widening list That somewhere in the hills, a tumult of fire, Mountains on the rushing pools, that jars and drowns, There is a sea-sickness in the universe, Where never any man has breathed.... But Oh, keep near; Here, look, I promise that we shall not see. Oh, let the trees be lovely to your feet Though they be green and scarlet with ripe May dew. There is a still that by and by may stretch Earth's fruit into ripening sun and rain, A tiniest moon that kisses the white throat Of the leaf of spring.... And yet--that's very small. It is not full ======================================== SAMPLE 184 ======================================== "The Four Ages", by Robin Islay [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] When the wind die, the tired flower dies, And seeks again her longed-for rest, The dead leaf and the spirit keep, Stretched on the barren fields of the long quest, Where all day long the patient grain lies damp, Like a lost sheep. <|endoftext|> "The Cross Beautiful", by Robin Islay [Nature, Fall] 1 Adine footage (Belief strikes the stones) _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ <|endoftext|> "Moves of Millet", by Lesley Harrison [Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love] –Pah xii _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ <|endoftext|> "Moves of Millet", by Robert Wrigley [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ <|endoftext|> "Water", by Richard Wilbur [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Philosophy] Water Water Crimson aisles and brown mud, a lemon pink petunia peels off the tow'r. There's a porch where the roadhouse gigbooms. The walks are empty. There's a porch where there's a hand clapping a whip. There's a firefly out of the sand in the path. In a hut somewhere there's a house somewhere in Chicago. There's a hansom-house, with rainbow cafits of light on it. There's a mother who weeps, sweeping her baby, in the shelter of folding around him. There's a father who dreams through how beautiful. There's a hansom-house, like the fairy trees of Manhattan swarming round her. <|endoftext|> "Dreams", by Richard Wilbur [Living, The Mind, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Dawn on a ======================================== SAMPLE 185 ======================================== "Paving Is 1937", by Joseph Millar [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] 1. ELISION dawning into the next world, and others centuries later navigates through the channels of the soul through those aged and related to the existence of muscular agonies and the bashful longing for that which is not, thirsts and its own neighborhood, but existance of the soul.2. ELIZABETHOVEN Having lived in all the provinces of the Orient, many a vessel, many a procrehau in the sea served out by a labor ladder, hauled up for a better age, hauled up for a better air. I stood on the levels of one side of the ocean, listened for a sound that year. There was louder jubilee among the chorus, intenser joy. Far away from the clamour and the sights, voices and music of free people. Tuls and music of free people. The soft-drunk voices of brothers. The salt-snipped voices of mothers. O Captain! 0 Captain!3. BROTHERS Half of that early day, the royal sky, and the woods, and the lake, and alligators, verily, and the men, were gathering into tented field. The tide was flowing, the fishermen saw it glisten, after a while they groped along water's edge, leaving behind them a dark-green islet. I saw my mother sit down at her table and remember the old hut before the small flames rose. She had three small wooden frames in her hand, an omen, only made out of teapots. I spoke while the men and women bumped the crude crude crude-boiled ham into the boiling pot. The work was begun. They began. And among them, the dreamy mother of a weary childhood, an old woman and a homeless child, and our son, the groping, with unseeing, folded, clutching unconscious, handsomeness and stray. But all through that long, dull work, unconscious hand of labor, further movement, tired labor forever missing the main knot and dull struggling. The gold stream out flashed from my hand, and around me the soft skin of the elder and the ======================================== SAMPLE 186 ======================================== "Elegy in the Logedge", by Ray Gonzalez [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] How are you looking at me? A gray hawk pipes a small piece of wind and the way a girl can stretch out her dress on one nightstand, to admit that her bare hands need not a knot, not a band, but a tangled purple stick in the living wire clicking and being filled— Perhaps it's a piece of the writing on your name, but you get on it every night. Your letter proves you're a letter, or you look at me, just me, not writing me. Something only hurts you: a child, or a page, or a mother, or father, or the dad of another words, meaning tears, words, not words. What was there besides was there anyone like me, or anyone like me? The boy who asked you was not me, and why. What did I get myself, and why. Nothing seemed simple except a smile, I could just be a little mad. And then it seemed like a room with windowlocked doors, a velvet cushion, a velvet cushion, a warm air, and the velvet kind of a way to express . . . And yet I told myself I can't get down to mother, find words, untied the sheet and let it lie on her back, let it curl around it, all day, all day, all the way. What am I reading ?Why am I reading ?No. My eyes, like stones, and my shoulder, have dropped to the ground, and the book, because I have to read And love, and all the way to tell you that, Oh, what am I reading That? I could kiss you The way you knew that was dear in the end. But you know I can make you and love, and what am I reading? I can make you entreat all lovers That they might be your perfect savour ======================================== SAMPLE 187 ======================================== "A Poem for Horace VIII", by Nikki Giovanni [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] A poem for Horace Smith A little poem for Horace Smith A little poem for Horace Smith A little poem for Horace Smith A little poem for him Shirley Temple's gone A little poem for him Shirley Temple's gone A little poem for him Shirley Temple's gone A little poem for him Shirley Temple's gone A little poem for him Shirley Temple's gone A little poem for him Shirley Temple's gone A little poem for him Shirley Temple's gone A little poem for him Shirley Temple's gone A little poem for him Shirley Temple's gone The poem that he wrote after seven years The poet that he said he walked away forlore The no-more poet who is still roaming about The no-more poet who is still wandering in The thorny grove that Bithront side of Houlond The poet that he loved, and loved not The thorny grove that Bithront side of Houlond The poet that he loved, and rode on rode on azure The Christian in the lion's breastplate The soldier riding like a streamer of gold The pennon in his hand . . . The poem that he would not walk on foreign lands The poet that he spoke of The poet that he saw in dream <|endoftext|> "Men of Eleusis", by Nikki Giovanni [Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] These others will not always follow their laughing I bring you here in the forest to dinner On the deer of the sooth Tay Tay and the assLes Kak Collsta’d Once in an hour a tall cedar tree like a clown tree ’Neath the branches lay withered and suckt from roots O trees, make yourself full of love and urgent Come, green deer, steal not by any new medicine Come and kill good men! make good falsetto paint Our eyes, run about our throats and our hearts Red blood of fathers dying after new diseases Thy life, red blood of the invader, came in a smooth play I could play with yon terrible heart Come, green deer, steal not by any new medicine Down to our valley and light fur of the unknown hand ======================================== SAMPLE 188 ======================================== "Mother’s House", by Marilyn Chin [Living, Parenthood, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Gender & Sexuality, Popular Culture] The chocolate cake — grandma, grandma, grandma —  appears along with each one —  & seems completely to me like the cardboard & grandfather tilsee, balance,& continue their progress & be-end, but their roots are & in ours, & wherever we turn, even in yours, was possible. Baby, allí, allí, little man, allí, brown & gray puppy, me, my aching, helpless boy, allí, allí! Swing, swing, & thrill to bless, is like a bubble, breathingbox, swing into the final, stain, will keep pouring out on you. If you stand on the corner seat, rolling to the engine, wheels in the new felt air, & then you start to shudder at neglect, being blinded by the light of your moment. Cars Eye, & veil. Before you disappear, the space you have set for a journey, the space you journeyed out, a brief journey about starting; the space you are chosen to take, counting the beat you are worth; counting your blessings, found. Any one last privilege, falling on you into the Hand along with the telephone down to the end of the hallway, then you pass out into the night, past the windows, the suitcase, the floor, the teapot, the door. You leave the family, this is all nothing but chaos, this is the thinking you built when you threw them into the air with your hand because there were clouds, houses, green housings, the creaking of the bed, the cars marching like celts in the streets. You have left the life too much. Now, you are standing on the stoop outside the door &, must say who you are. <|endoftext|> "Fjordand to Ruby", by Rosebud Ben-Arjuvrouselas [Living, Growing Old, Relationships, Home Life] Our caress is overweated string, our caress is overweeded in the nest, ======================================== SAMPLE 189 ======================================== "Bud 9: Cook’s Letter", by Matthew Zapruder [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] But meantime, preparing meal And not expecting food, Covered with raddots, I Began to treatise. My sister, who had studied me, Decurred me as to wax Of ripe instructive flour every step Pushing its slim before us, Picks a pail with care, then, gently, laughs:You’refree from apples, nuts, and cars. “We’re shirked at very times— We’re sure of lunch at books. We’re at the table then, When out-door, starched, we’re like folks From Cabool to New York!” We liked this invitation kind of And we could do our work, or we’d rather Run halfway back to Tom Arounde. All I ask is that I do. So why not show to me your name? We don’t know it, because who can, I am everybody’s man. We do not talk about the weather, And how on earth the plumage changes And on from rack to crib it’s flung, Dropped, you will say, from branch to branch; We are like stockings of the stuff; We are easy stuff to everybody. All so, amicably small. I wish I was alone with Peggy, but He is not exactly where you seem: We are, of course, carlosquot And so the stories tell. It is a funny scheme, my dear, To be a funny scheme, With only one of little pears, Or one of little strewhias, bears, Or one of riddles, riddles; Some final scheme, of course, no doubt— I have had trouble many times If only I could tell the truth, And then perhaps it is so safe I have not got along the page. So when the time has come for picking, And you persist, my sweet, my dear, Then, why all this rhyme is taking Isn’t suited to my style? I should not wish to force my utterance By block and stone, ======================================== SAMPLE 190 ======================================== "In the Mexican Idies", by James Galvin [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer, Trees & Flowers] Our hearts grow old And ache from show, And ache from farthest heaven Where roses grow. With rosy lips an old red flag is drying, Our lawns are crooking, carnival of that day When Egypt rears her head with reeking fires And the scattered flowers surrendle with the clod Where the blue-grass young grasses grow at the rod And all the rod branch falls into the sod Where sunflower blooms in indolent florist canteen, For oft the terra cur lovedavit of green weeds And the strawberry in the green shade, Forlorn and hungry, though at other times The beards of our beldools have grown glib And these green languors, scattered, crumple in the dust Where now no emulous sunbeam severs rose These purple hills and the green lovesick meadows and wooded quietness. <|endoftext|> " hibernalas anhunces", by Samuel Menashe [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries] (excerpt) I take your hands, I want to give you the peace I want; I want to give you wings to fly forth to the stars, and no news cannot possibly get back to you. I want your face and your voice to know the pain you have given me. Not to come to me in town, where there are birds and birds of the air, where I try to lead you back to this small country That sings for me all night in my ears. Here on the coast of a small black ship, a fisher with two eyes with seagulls blind, I want to lay my head on your neck and you wave your hand. I want to be gentle and kind to you, and you will know the mind of my father, and still my mother would say, My father is absent, and my mother was late. She said, I want to lay my head on your neck. You are not my mother, my mother and sister are not coming. I want to lay your head on your neck, and you will know ======================================== SAMPLE 191 ======================================== "Merry", by Katrina Roberts [Living, Parenthood, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Philosophy] My mother says you want a roast beef on toast because your mother once told me she meant you a stupid apple tree fishing for someone else’s motorcycle she’d given her phone an egg not even the best that I know when it’s worked, and nothing can happen but yanked it out by the sound she knows—her phone. • The little man in the orange cap who thinks anything to a stranger and what he holds for his hand is a volume of mail he’s sending the croc-dazz-stringer one to the cave where she wants to live with some small child she keeps until I’m happier, thinking she’s been whatever I think she knows she don’t exist • One little boy who shouts to his partner at the Shalbro[G] and screams when the other had to fly unattended—because he’s sorry so imagine this! • All we can do is get into the little boat that will take us away. We float like water through the eddies that are her wish to escape. It seems to make her happy, the lake, the child, the peaceful, the joy of it—the happiness of it—the quest for the joy of it. • I wonder what joy it would have to say: there are no children here, no parents, a child or mother, noble and good-for-nothingness. But some things would give birth to if the lake were water and solitude could teach us how to make an island! • How foolish he who dreams of a fish’s joy, and the wish to make him a god, he sends his eyes first, then turns, and then turns . . . well, he knows he must be some kind of god watching stupidly—any one with a long breath pulling him on among the monstrous bodies, his dangerous humming of the night around him. • Everything rises in the stillness and the strange feels of longing unfinished, the moments while the mad moments ======================================== SAMPLE 192 ======================================== "Dark Mothers", by Sarah Polipci [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] After several years, the story is not listened; It is the dead that kill, the surviving women. But you in death, amid a history for war, Were not afraid, but lived like valor. In coming times you were sad, your name is hidden, You took away your husband’s cattle From the eastern front lines, the quiver From the hot west, the arrow Lancastering the hills, the river Laying sheets, the swish of mud on the tongue To make a sign language and sign to the world That the species is mixed, distilled from its wells, Not distilled from its wells, but distilled from its wells. We have brought them an understanding. They are frankincense and faith. From their clear globes it is half made visible, They come to a death. In the blue light of morning, They see only your face, the blue light of the sun, The clear light of you—the steady shining and filling, The fountain spraying its way through the trees, And the dancing-girl with the lily moon in her hand. You are steady in all things, and peaceful, so uneasy, So temperate, so temperate, that nobody, Or for any thing else. The stories are not listened. They cannot be forgotten. The sorrows of the husband and widow, from birth, From the great joy of their marriage, can be witnessed. You carry on, in your bosom a six-monthèd year, A brace of six years, and you bear upon you At the grandstand, the sixteenth year, a year, A load of them, and a load of them, A cargo of cripples, and cargo of cripples. They say your sorrows are most dangerously sharpened. At a certain moment, you hold to the string, You wrenched from the hold of the string, and flung From the back of your head to the five-and-twenty, And from that which you nearly despise. For the five-and-twenty and twenty years you have given me money and love, For the church is your bank, ======================================== SAMPLE 193 ======================================== "Cenovynge", by Allan Peterson [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] We don’t know how to love ourselves. We can recall—and we don’t. We aren’t. We aren’t. We aren’t. We aren’t. We’re not. We’re not. We’re not. We’re not . . We aren’t. We’re not. We’re not. Cenovynge is a melancholy circumstance. This happened in 1966. It was in the fifteenth year of the 18th. Cenovynge is a sergeant I used to call. He was a pissant alphabrum tree, which had been that peculiar plant. Cenovynge went to Tassum in his helmet. Cenovynge is a sergeant I once thought we’d know. Cenovynge was a sergeant I once thought I’d deem. Cenovynge’s army is my own. Cenovynge andc — cesus as much cumulus as it’s like! Cenovynge soldier when riding a soldier is marching into France. Cenovynge soldier who is sneaking into the right ranks breaking down into the center ranks with a rifle and a sabre and two steeds and feathers. Cenovynge soldier who is sneaking into the right ranks breaking down into the left ranks with a sabre and two steeds and a rifle and two steeds and a white bird. Cenovynge soldier who walks through the rain and splashes the leaves in the wind that comes down upon us like a red leaf in autumn cetches with its own blood and kill us. Cenovynge soldier who walks through the fire at the back of the drum and thumps of his regimentals and sabre Cenovynge soldier who goes through the fire at the head of the regimentals. Cenovynge soldier who moves through the fire at the head of the regimentals. Cenovynge of the hestyr and the bristle in the faces of the guard troops. Cenovynge of the rump and the ======================================== SAMPLE 194 ======================================== "The Further Way", by Adrienne Su [Living, Death, Life Choices, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] for Adam and Eve Adam and Eve The spectacular tree takes the shape of a cypress tree and says Here is it, say, driven out of its garden by jasmine pink and beautiful carnation between the branches. The trees bend In heaven when the storm clouds burst to a stillness they are everywhere You can hear their voices only when the black oak and the oak are in the sky The hurricane clouds gather and pile themselves up to the surface and fall Among waves breaking and grinding. But only the oak—a tree with a certain topography <|endoftext|> "There Was No Road", by Adrienne Su [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I There was no road, there was no boat Or stream or anything you could eat. It would hardly have given a high screaming As I passed by that road for nothing. • But they had a road, it was true, in the mud it is said, on each side. They would have gone rather than gone at all For nothing, in the water they had found Anything anyone could plow in a boat’s pond To give them a pass if it was sheltered. They were heavy, hungry and sweet. • But what they could not eat they wanted to know The trees from the water they ate in the rain So that they could walk on them night after night If they were going anywhere that could be made By other beings, even if it was what they needed To accept as if it were heaven or hell All day, all night, all night, they went on Singing old canticles orgy exprimes like catfish Or a hieroglyphic of the fallen leaf Woven inside the other's brain, or what, yes, weighed down Being no one else’s going to want to be good, Now it was all the bloodroots blindly Into the past and they were on the way, So that they had no time to look, they exchanged their Iguanas in oblivion, ======================================== SAMPLE 195 ======================================== WHEN my sister's memory with mine eyes is drest And my brain with the deluge of light and song Have begun to please; O my beautiful one, whose heart Being of the whole earth and the ocean and the air Sits on the long-sought-for sweetness of love; O you My dark father, who in thy loneliness Hath been a child in whom thy sadness melts away. What ails thee now, my angel? Have we not looked on thee In meditation and made thy face all a pool To float in a song-chamber over water On the fleeting surface of our life and immortality? Oh, how glad it is to see the blossom break On the desert flats along the Nile by Seba; And to glimpse the long-drawn veil that I now see Fall the soft rain from the trees, and the trillium Of the flocks and the sea-grass, and the grey-gold flocks And the brown-gold flocks of us, and the large grave eyes Of our mother earth. Thou to me art not as these Who strive and cry for thee, nor the children's love Hold me enfolded, nor the world's sad tears That flood my being: how, without a name, Do I call thee backward to thy shame and die? THERE is a sword above my head Which masters wicked eyes; I know the waste, the hunger, and the pain; I know the evil that awaits me still; And, O the misery! The anguish of the time! Oh, might I lay my hand Where flowers have been, and see the pale clouds part Into one purple crown of gold, Like some vast pearl of suffering Self-slain and foundering Upon the ivory breast Of sick night over melted, and the blue flower Of evening, dead beyond an eye of mine, Which sank to slumber in the western wind. But I bethink me, thou most loving One, How my soul leers at this waste of things, Thy sweet hands filched the bar for gold and wings, A thing I may not be at all in dower With thee: I cannot be at all in dower With thee. THERE is a gate into the mountains, And there are ghosts upon the lonely shore, ======================================== SAMPLE 196 ======================================== Some days I SAW old Brussels in his advances, And trudged along, legs, head, hips, and ears; Then sat up in his seat, like a stone quarry, Half blind and half astonished; and all nations Looked at their Rhe evanishing; the nations Weld their crowns with their admirations; At the Seine, late at night, came the procession. I, in a dream, leaned on a fence rail, Near where a small grave church house was acclaimed. It was the rheest bell of the world. I leaned Up through the choir till midnight heard the bells; And tolled within a studio. Two hours I have lived, and that seems long to last forever; My voice, which had seemed good to my old brain; My eyes blurred by a proliv heel; and words Fall baffled back to my last use of skill. These things were on my soul as saints had been, For I was piqued with so much prophecy That I could never put my brain outside The evidence, which is its message, inside me. I ate. I had to cast a stone to eat And to put back together my delights. My thoughts were other than the trumpets' blare; They burned to bring their hearts, and better they missed me. I knew the least thing of their souls; and then I tried to mock them as I did, who did. That time brought other things than that, I said, More than another, aye! more than this, Aye! better than the time of prayer and praise. I fought with questions. But they served me well. My tongue was like a whip!... I could speak to them. They thought me the last fool with the damned, Who held the reins, and, on my knees, began To let me out like a madman, and began To praise and mock me by my foolish mouth. But this was the last man they had smiled upon. We went no further, having done. At last My eyes were clear, my heart being light as it was, And the house was quiet as a Nun. At last They gave me rooms. I took them, and let none Of them grow quiet. I was happy now Because I lived as long as ======================================== SAMPLE 197 ======================================== "Acceptable Fugitive", by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. [Living, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] There’s blood in the medderat and the hospital.There’s blood in the priifeer.There’s blood in the august.There’s blood in the red-coat and the robe.And there’s blood in the oaken and the hearth.There’s blood in the boldard.There’s blood in the round-up and the wide.There’s blood in the city and the tall-enclosed bar.There’s blood in the city and the shrub.There’s blood in the city and the priest and the abbot. <|endoftext|> "The Stavers on the Trips", by Leslielean [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] For sure, if a Spaniard’s palace fell,No, no, it was the vision: How could you leave him in his cellas,fishing in the harbor?His canvas was your banquet, his bed your stoolin;Soon there’d been crimson lacquer cans, and noging in it, you could float an angel through the bluewater dark;You felt your spirit on the steps of your habit,when, with circling spirals woundin your canopy, you felt the sea flow over you,as a vein of blood across a breast that never hatches?Ablivious, say, is that what you see when you hurl your handfuls of mud?A lasting perseverance? That was the vision that transported those who scaled the heavens,floating in clouds over carcasses of sharksand sucked it from the throat?Truth! it was the vision, as it current haled through them,when, with their bitter roar, they made that leap which did rendWhoever stood against them, up to the battlement,to escape destruction and iron gate, to be clear what these were for.Oh, they were hornpipes, pip-scotch howloose as the table table-cloth, but could not break—could only make the fleshly beat and buzz, and snap—the crowdof jack-in-the-box of coins without a word, the stink and stink of their whole life ======================================== SAMPLE 198 ======================================== "from The Body: I Own You, Mother", by Allison Titus [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] i son his face warm with plastic on aluminum guardrail. it was Calvary, creek of primeval lends to blood. The royal blood redlying a monologue to the sexton who labored under the calming power of the Lord. son as if a kingdom had never been, a strata. his dreams blindfolded and fled his morning starves, his afternoon star. <|endoftext|> "from A Marriage in a Blackbird's Speak", by Allison Titus [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] there is a perfect level for light and you are made to love the sun trailing yellow to green in the darkness and who will love me with the skins of shark-deer and who will listen to the wind in my tongue caught caught on your neck <|endoftext|> "from A Marriage in a Blackbird's nest on the rooftops of the Belt", by Allison Titus [Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] we put an end to everything i can do is we put out the smoke i can do well on our swords i can do everything on the side i can get away from the sight of Crusots i can get from hating the high road i can get from hating the low road i can get from hating the high road i can get from doing one thing only i can get from thinking of the wide world i can get from thinking of a vision i can get from thinking of the blackbird i can get from thinking of a lover i can get from thinking of fire i can get from thinking of death is not possible i can get from thinking of the loving i can get from thinking of death is not possible i can get from talking about love i can get from talking about love i can get from talking about death is i can get from thinking of death is there i can get ======================================== SAMPLE 199 ======================================== "from Heids", by Emily P. Macdonald [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Class] All things become possible, there is no horizon, no throes, no progress.Only one faint shimmer of will-by-not, simply small, no flicker of hope, no groan, no creak of wall, nothing but too much groan, nothing but death. All things can become suddenly called existence.The future becomes possible, somehow, as well as new, looked into all the future, as if every moment were an instant, every throb were immortality.In every windy village, in every mural space, men drift about. Always a car or ignoring stop, or sound of sometime falter, or pause in concentration, cowardly, cowardly? And the past is fragile as a landscape on a strip of snow. <|endoftext|> "from Heids", by Charles Wright [Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The first of battles is When the season advances, beautiful, beautiful, revolving. And before the war, in the middle of creation, you entered New York, differently praised perfectly, for the civility and softness of the slowly circling round— a picture before which two kinds of men, likely ones, have been degraded by the war, but among others after poets, a perfect, cheerful, average, hopeful one— these three children, G. ii <|endoftext|> "The Little Boy Lost in the Logedge", by Thomas Traherne [Living, Death, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] What a strange task this head must be to handle here and there Yet how could it stand open and then come back? How could it still stand back and not stand back Out of the heft he lay upon this hewn-up slab of earth? A dim stain painted black On every corner here must strike against the mire. No ache of spirit in this body. No scar at all In the clear orange night. No hint of heart. No gap in the yellow ray of five just enough from the trunk to the full circle. All across the green, Deep into the hollow. Two fragments of one another In small ======================================== SAMPLE 200 ======================================== "A Farewell", by Anna Maria Hong [Living, Death, Life Choices, The Body, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Men & Women, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Money & Economics, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity, Yiddish, Brown, Queer, Salted, Brown, Queer, Duerman, saint,umblai, in a taco of the Mexican Army of the Republic. 1. Kenefouchka, Brown, Yiddish, white, black, black, black, black, black, black, white Ma, Kenefouchka, ya, laufjolé, white, black, freklau, white as the last blanket of the Republic. 2. Kenefantox, kenefoytez, white, kenefoytez, red, red, yellow, black, yellow, red, yellow, white as the sea. 3. Kenefantox, kenefoytez, red, white, red, white. 4. Kenefantox, kenefoytez, white, red, white, red. 5. Knefoytez, knefoytez, red, white, and white, black, white. 6. Knefoytez, knefoytez, red, white, and white, black, white, red. 6. Kenefoytez, knefoytez, red, red, and white, black, black, red. 8. Knefoytez, knefoytez, red, and red, black, black, and white, black, black, white brown, red, red, red, red, and white, black, red, red, and red, black, red, red, red, red, white, white, and black, red, red, red, and red, and red, and black, black, black, and blacker, red, redder, redder, redder, redder, redder, redder, redder, red, redder, redder. 6. Knefoytez, kne ======================================== SAMPLE 201 ======================================== I broke the spell That bound my bones with sand and put my tongue in glue; I poured my soul in rivers of sweet dreams Before my bitter wrath, before my bitter hate Brought water from my eyes. But grief within my iron heart began to grow; Day turned to night And night to dawn, Fetched my pale wings and broke the silver bars Of dream and life. But now it is not day, it is not dawn, The creeping tide Has washed the scum of sorrow from my face. High from the shore I long to greet the unknown guest who still must seek To joy amid the storms, The sea and sky, Whose voices echo still Through the thick trees. For that strange guest, I send a greeting from the wide, far guest, Who found a little cedar at the door With a white face like a morning. He was pale With terror; but the last he left I know That death had come to stir him with quick flame From those old flame. Come under my moonlight. That was so very soon, As I came through the door and saw her sweet While I went with the dew on my lovely flesh And heard the music of a bird above My flowing hair, Till the fierce eye of wrath had drunk the rage That gave you form and breath To send me forth Where the earth rained over me and the dead sea-wind Rushed on my face. 'Death, come or come, I will be yours at the end or come soon. Love, love, and death will meet, and the eyes of my lover Will meet and greet.' Why did he come? Why not? But a great God knows. Hush, lass, you lied! And the truth is hidden Deep into my soul, And nothing is changed. Was he not God That made us so In his sight and power That you should earth-ward slant down and kiss Your tired eyes? He too must know the secret of his lore And the uses of his life, Deep in the sources of the poet-soul Whose wings outshine His heaven-deep breath divine Through the filth and dearth of earth-flower-meadows Where his charm-less ======================================== SAMPLE 202 ======================================== "A Blessing", by Louise Imogen Guernolen A gift is like a crown—above it all, Ourselves the same—untouched, unfaltering, Whose touch puts off its seals—one moment yet, One brief, returning gesture. Take it off— ‘This morning, if the silence be, I think, If there be light, the only music, that Makes night a heaven, even now for us.’ And now the gift unto the stranger—any voice— Is known as ‘This,’ ‘This,’ ‘Even as we read, ‘Do all we know to one another—O, make thusof a two-edged sword, a gift from heaven God Authorized by Himself, and made a sword.’ And as the sacrifice began, its point Was bent upon the one; and Joshua’s sword Was darkened by a veil, and life accurst By him, who had the gift to bring forth life. The reek of iced death from out the sacrifice Was stained, and Jordan, hot to offer up, Was passed from Jordan, ridge-wise, down by the road. <|endoftext|> "End of Earth", by Louise Imogen Guernolen Even as this man of science was Joseph, Son of God, Who fell at Joshua’s feet and stared for mystery, Who fell at Joshua’s feet and trod upon the dead, Who fell at Joshua’s feet and trod upon his bones and died. No man nor woman saw that smile of praise Which only God would send, but that which showed the end Whose face with man did meet, whose feet with fire and blood were kind. Accused with man, deliberate, and devout, In his own heart of hearts, he saw the heart oficked, pathetic man. For Jesus’ blood the earth was dry, and thirst the mountain near, Which made it bleed and thirst, and told its children’s worth, And stayed it till it came from Nazareth. From him the seed of life came, and its dark seed Sown, till in Joshua’s sight it lay amidst that smell and sound, And tumbled in the fire, and powdered all the world with flame. So for that Grecian name this son of Cain Hath come to claim our tribute from ======================================== SAMPLE 203 ======================================== "Song", by David Ferry [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] to wreath my hands over your mouth in an hour and to make inquiry of these moist tokens of the moist proof of things around you dusted on the glass of caskets from which of you and I have looked for them and found them and look deeper than the stars most powerfullyacons were my cluster of rough grape system of white moons and led lights of leaves. The whole hand of this orange arc of hand I placed above you, as if to prepare a place for the whole round of this orange caskets and plucked from its concealment before your eyes. Here we stopped to rest here unable to see our world through, for we once thought its very stilled thirst of desire. We slept beneath them, head to hoist my arms that there should be a passionately carnival of flowers. I want to reach you, when I wave my hand to part the dew on the leaves. To show myself, as if for a brief while, then as deeply rooted in the ground of your skin as you did in your firstness, then as nearly risen to mine. <|endoftext|> "Little Diary of Getting Old: VIII", by Paul Muldoon [Living, Death, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] Fluttering, fluttering through the scuffle of her back the little kite dies and I take my leave of her and walk away In the dim late eventy grey bird with the golden beak wearing the wide grey of her tail The little kite dies and I follow the plucked among the bushes where the butterflies flutter and twitter on the grass Mix a little with a little And we two together go the road of life Oh, sweet little kite suffused by the dust of houses On the edge of the land My eyes see the trees (In the leafy orchard banquet) I see the trees’ dark black concave to our eyes The birds from another heaven The rain, like the rain of old times On the very verge of things They ======================================== SAMPLE 204 ======================================== "Nocturne", by Louise Imogen Guernsey [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Music] Do not try to avoid decapoids, to reel and foam And to carve out dilapidated "bad signs", You are building a flight of blind and steps, you may escape By falling in, you are pinned down by a bad And you tremble at the things you understand of a street Where music is a toy instrument, it strings And everyone wants to dig your toe and dig your name And walk your way around a hole. When you have holes Between themselves and the dream they walk in Is their paradise, it is the thought of the night That a song has its beauty, is it a thought of the light That an unknown god reaches out of the sky To soar away into the night and drop down On the ground prepared for a god? It is only a little room where stories hide And murmur (which is the one you have given) Coins of others. Not many. The torch Which struggles so much in the seat of the balloon Has air in it, and you have learned to blow your mind And it can be fashioned by coming to it. If only the hand of a lover would lay hold on you, If only the soul would understand, would you understand How she fans you into her clinging arms, your hands, And how she feels you fold her wings in caresses While you stand and watch as you leave in the sunshine As you pass among the flowers? Do you remember It is April, With its violet buds and its sighing April leaves? With its great emotions, with its gold and green hopes, And blues and blues, with its pulsant futile dreams Of a poem that is only one thing amid the mail Of a morning that is passing on. You have a mother for your son, With a sister for your groom, a husband for your groom, A husband for your children, most like you, full of faith And compassion and compassion. Do you remember That June is with the flowers and the late afternoon In your roomy wooden room? Do you remember the dark road Across the garden of the hemlock, through the door Of that deserted oddland? Do you remember The house and its dim paths ======================================== SAMPLE 205 ======================================== "Portrait of a Handsome Price", by John Skelton [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] You’re stepping on to the end of the world, you’re sitting on to the end of these valleys, pullingthe last sigh of the universe’s a breath, pulling the last glimmer of a butterfly’s wing, the sudden spangle of a gun, then a seat, then a pack of cards, a bottle of gold (and everything is here), a chair by John Skelton And the artist, being a spade in the eye, stood silent, lifting the hand of life. From every hand a child—his tongue was set a yellow book, the book was bound with thorns, his purse was empty and his conscience was crushed and his order was ended. A blind man who brought a spade in his hand was cowed behind his heels. The book marked the end of every day, the book was tossed in anger,his sex and fashion were changed still, he never was satisfied again. What else could he have to spend on a job? A bad job, a good job, broken? — he paid the bank account. No customers, no barbers. No customers. No face clerk — no merchants. No barbers. No recognitions. No returns. No looks. No traffic. No traffic. <|endoftext|> "The French Prisoner on Hieronymus’ Court of Appeals at Pessam Tuoni", by Sarpaque, San Francisco Where were you born, O sweetena? When were you brought to bear The black necklace of  bonbonnets Around your brows? When were you brought from Zoar aims, The Epliti, to the borders of  the French In their black trade? Whenwere you brought from Zoar, Annas? Whenwere you brought from Zoar? Whenwere you brought from Zoar? When were you brought from Roa, fought the Boa, Threw eggs into your mouth, and nursed them With butter? Were you brought from E Placa, fought the Boa, Scratched them with rats? When were you brought from Zoar? When were you brought from Perugino, fought In Forgerd Ali? And ======================================== SAMPLE 206 ======================================== "Fooled Frisk", by Anne Stevenson [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women] Dear, had I laughed what’twas! And were it now as PhilomelThis gift was meant to show the human skeinIn Beauty’s russet, ribboned webTo draw the immortal spiderWhose silken-silvered, exquisite skinIs dyed, adorned with dye too rareto be the lessIf these blue-veined clouds of jetHave made the inner wish too rare.Descend, ye phantoms of the human-dining Night,And in grim battle with pale pictures fightWith sorceries of doom that terrify the sight!Suspend the issue. Call the darkened Pleiad by some dreaming GristWhose gleaming, scintillating gem out-dares the Dawn.Till from some dark’ning mountain orb the stars alightSuspend the triumph of her argent-minded sight.There cometh summer with her placid zest, And with the winter cometh to the roseate prime,And after death, the summer both alive and dead.Anon, the present and the dreamer’s end,Falls as a spectre to the sickly earth,And in his hand, a branch that withers, bears,And covers all his purposes.Now followeth thought: the forest yields to his assaults,He wounds and moulds, he warms with blasts of flame and storms,Calls up his legions with his poisoned squires,And wastes the forests on his tented plains.So all who thus in arched walls extend their minds,Feel the pervading throngs of sense unfoldBeneath the unapproached feet of death:Though to the last possession all things blend,Still, something still remains untold. Unseen is heard in these degenerate days,Through the hot portals of unholy spaceWhere lovers pace, and virgins sovran chase.And, as their race avoid the fiery-brimmed,And goade each other in unformed array,They dance as simple creatures may,And the hot life-blood trembles in their veins,And they must blunter yet through centuries of pains;Vainly each other’s passions have them shot away. They are alone in that tremendous nightWhose walls of torture opened on the world;Whose rushing ======================================== SAMPLE 207 ======================================== Are we our own What's so strange But, speak of these Day broke, and in the cool Mead grasses were a-blow And there was still a gum And still the water dripped Like clothes off the clothesline; The hod eddies and hummed And cracked like shot-a-pat And sheep stood up as in pew, Alas! and there was still A tingling on the hill Where for years and days the rill Flashed like a beam on will Ah, bud! alas! alas! But winter held him back, Shrieking to my crying brain, "Now which shall it be in vain?" And I'd say "yes," as once the jack Had said her "yes" Then I won shrivelled stumps And lost the "Yes"; again. If I say "ah," the old fool cried, "Has it been so?" The old fool groaned and spoke: "Nay, which shall it be in vain?" Oh! answer, "I've never told," And I'll tell you the reason why The old fool cried. This childish toy I found the wrong To say so much the present time. And then it set the mind at strife As anything but fine and strong; And with its cushions quaint and queer, We tied it, one by one, in pairs, Along the joints where it should be Waiting tooth-sparrowed by the brook, In broken boughs where it should go And count the shoots a half will take. Oh! tell me which should go the turn, The pip and scrape and tapering boy To show how bent a shape can be The blackest thing that ever grown? He said so long ago: "That will be so," And briskly promised, "Nay, my son," And of "the stuff" a stone was gone. Then I remembered that we gave To make his sell, his wooden gear Must be a sheriff's house of speech, Instead of orders on the wheel, With work for broken teeth to glare Along the road where he had taken in. "Do you remember 'neath those trees," I asked him, gently, down his throat. "You never ======================================== SAMPLE 208 ======================================== "Guns", by Mark Jarman [Nature, Weather, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] 1A man puts an ear to his nose to prevent the wind from building it. The ear trees are full of holes for everything in the mind of the person. You move about with your arms and legs to fill up your mind and the soul alone is free from the body of the man. 2The man is free from the stone holes that lead into the ridge, the sparrows like foul glass in the black regions of the imagination. The skin that makes him is like a house whose spirit he has wings inside. The man is bound to earth to the serfs who toss him from the sky and speaks unto himself in these words: daylight wind, good-bye now, good-bye— quiet heart on the chain of your absence. 3They break and fall and flame; as when in a room a singer wakes up like someone coming to tell the time that time is escaping; suddenly from the dark curtain, dark cloud, the dusk cloud of the mind, discomfiting and solitude between man and the dying man—his voice reassembling in a solitary place where no light can reach him. I think of him out there standing on the edge of chaos an old man on the sea floor looking like a dead man. And the young man, his mouth wet with tears, the young voice his voice that spoke me in loneliness and speech that sang alone before man came to this lower world. And the man that sang and sang one song is free from the place we had all forgotten and the world is free as the cage that once held us free. And the young man is happy and songless, still singing his song for the universal cry of the old man that sings without teeth. <|endoftext|> "Morning Song", by Mark Jarman [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] It speaks the broken sill of the wayslope and the broken paving stones. Then it comes to the gardener's house where the weed blooms withered, where the earth and the sea each bloom a bright mirage. Happy without a stop to ======================================== SAMPLE 209 ======================================== "Crossing the Stone on a Wall", by John Haines [Living, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] Up, to Milan, with the statues, to Appi. The Schilabergers’Streiberation is in a mood At first employer’s housework (whether on our own, Or else at the loom, if not a one) No model of ballad is so takenaway As to make it completer with the stone On which they can be prepared, each of us Composed entirely to their own accord In Suabia’s boudoir (the same year) Made up of the feastersMind, the art-stirred, Collapse, and are at war with every sensitive Usurping person who can spin like weather (After Kipling). I suggest to this young Dignity that the art is to be achieved As art becomes a curve (in other dress) Which can it loosen, so without excess That neither is obliged to stop or asked? Or is not introduced (the use of slides In wet and bitten soil), its stages Apply to: Manage (you understand) And the dry road is mute (in facsimile) As God wills: it is simply a survey Of ovors to have audience over. Such is the common environment of speed In modern day. But why dissect it, sweep it By short prairieings, it is the custom To give, as poets say, a hand to art? That old black art which Forrest and Minturn Trained out, compelled them to use it, first Of labor, which, though tracked with purpose to do so, Comes down with easy callants, from a turn, And since it is becoming, true, it can Likelearning, and make things like boys Who leap and laugh and are most wayward, just For love of goodness and of life’s sake more Than where the rough and rugged mightier Of the rude rock stand pupils of pure truth. They also take it but in trying To look like stone, though changing still, When they have thriven, and on their ======================================== SAMPLE 210 ======================================== "Fire Season", by John Terekj [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The flare rules on the walls of the world. You're far from here, then? Yes, you're there, though The fire and its glare are not the same You're looking for when you're kind It's the light from the windows of this house That's standing alone, is the fire that has Forerun to the ash that is yours to drink. The smoke, the glare, the blaze Are flame to your eyes, The broom by the brush, the shine on the walls, You're the blaze from the forge, the fire in the grate, Or the greengrocer that's given you up To keep warm inside. You, the wind from the south, You're the straight cut way to the U.S. Straightway to old friends, You, the sun from the north, You're the new knocked down of the King, You're the fall of a joy, the wrong done to truth, And you're fierceness, by no means But your danger from morn till the night shuts. There's life in the fire, there's life in the storm, There's peace in the rain on the barren rock, But only in vertigo, which knows no sloth, Is the smoke from the castle of Ovid. And there's life in the grate, when the fire fails, And the sparks come there when the air fails, Even in the fair and marble night, Of the songs they sing make the darkness hear, As they thread the dark from the old castle door To the place where the Prince of Burmah lies. There's a sleep that aches for the Prince of Burmah. Will you dream about the five o'clock news? Has he set his people, three hundred miles to the end, In their beds of gossamer, seventy miles inland? Will you in the city council library, When the ballad-ist was a red-cheeked scarlet? Then about the square, on the sheer, in many a strong catchpoll and mortified bed, Who tells me there's neither mine nor yours truly, For the sons of second Coney Island, That the goose is the carol of all these days, That every soul born in ======================================== SAMPLE 211 ======================================== Within this wooden shelter, where the trees are dead, This good old site is pulpit-like and white inside, And over in a window, where the hollyhocks Are stripped to throw away, can see beyond a windowed hall, Old friends, with cheeks red as the meaning of their names, And shadows of old women, the quaint, uncherished walls Tired of their fruitish doing, and the untended sweet Of knowledge that encumbered leisure once with us. Here, where no grief is deep enough to hide, I see A world whose wars and tumults reach as well as fame. O passionate white breast, O tender, delicate soul! How could the ignorant centuries so closely press us To our last words, or we could only guess? Yet in this surgy uproar of long nights, When all the winds are thronging, long ago, A knell of bells has been rung through the deep woods, And on the hillside I can hear the clanging shutters Of revel, and the shadowy spaces of ancient rose. A glass-iceaved tableau of sober fame, With round and yellowed tapers all the way, Between the hearth of our ignoble fireplace And the dim flue of our ignoble fireplace, Has given the edifice a spectral look Where the thin fire-light fell into the furnace, And the grey spoons that piled the hearthstones white Had been flung back inFunigal delights. Black and gleaming against the blazoned wall, These have fallen; and now with slow steps and slow They stand within the doomed blaze of the burning village, Where the broad blaze, like a great heart in the moonlight, Silently rises and descends, Above the tumult of the chiming norices. Mute and uncertain in the circle of the firelight, The crane turns up, the cows stretch their necks low, The cataract leaps, the hedgerows' shadows streaming Slip from the conch-skeaching light: But these do not obliterate the faded past, Like the remembered effigies of time remembered, Like the remembered effigies of time remembered. Not in the fond regrets of fatherhood, The fatherhood of kisses, and the olden pride That made our passion ======================================== SAMPLE 212 ======================================== "Lives of the Book", by Anne Winters [Religion, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I believe the almighty alone,Stretching through mists to where we seeThe golden Sun, still hanging up the sky,Shines on the earth, and heaven itself liesBroad and more blue than when it took his placeWithin the temple of the Delphic God.I can but read—the record written thereMarkifting the gray sea-line: and look . . . and note . . . still my mother’s voice . . . and her young artless poems wrought by her to menAnchor and Arna: levined out the name.Are they memorials? these gray clouds?The past and future and the present are they,Time, and perhaps, and for a still longer course dulled by time . . . and present, and to-morrow.But is it true we serve a future God? touching The ungraspable and useless thoughts. Childhood and youth and time are only empty toysAround which time’s vain wings are flying.Is it true that every dream we flung Fall flat, and nothing would o’ertake usIf we built too much with our poor life’s scheme?Shall we, wasting in ignorance and greed, Out Triumph’s heights, out Triumph’s arches, learn Futurity’s eternal watch . . . —That which we, miserable exiles, must suffer, Out conquerors of the world, and the world without helpWeeping among the thunders and the thunders,Over the thunders and the thundersheads, out upon the thunders,Out upon the thunders and the thunders, Over the thunders and the thick-crashingLike a tremendous wall, up which heroes leap absolute.The eternal ones and the eternal ones, They hasten to the sword; they sink to their own ocean; And under them, their great-grandfather, The Wind, the warrior who entered with the North, He cannot suffer these black slaves to see their eyes. —Infant and fierce and blind, Thunder that crushed the wayward in their rage, Lightning that made hate swift and eternal bend the stubborn knees To the gods that knew Thy terrible majesty, Lightning that freed the thunders and the thundersAnd kindled them to terror and flight. <|endoftext|> "from Idylls: Les ======================================== SAMPLE 213 ======================================== "Bankruptcy", by Ann Lauterbach [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] This is my friend, a girl in her dressing gown pulling rope with her arms around her neck. In a week she is longing for a couch deep in her bedroom. I will give her a picture of me if she is going to die. I will give her a small cigarette on the stove— she is so tired trying to sleep on the couch. — Every now and then two teenage soldiers pulled themselves out of the hotel room with one wild scream. — In the heat of the days on this morning on the floor I saw someone in my driveway bending over the bed and I heard a scream. Someone was crossing the street, trying to stop the noise I make. I have heard the woman curse and making verses pursued the telephone attended by a baby. — Somehow, when the engine's on fire and there are no cars, you don't know anything of these soldiers. I pity their cruelty, you and I pity all one who feels so wistful because others have done this. I am not forgiven, you remember that. At night, the empty bed of daughter and mother moves over the hot wall. The immense bombs play and the big ball's invisible ball float across the sky. <|endoftext|> "Sunday", by Lynn Crosbie [Living, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities] at the picnic table surrounded by porcelain trolley Park houses, we order to stop at the club and splash on the riverrisk, lasso collection, in the shade, with grape glass and flag paint, made for a game- card or two taken home in the city theater, with a ball and a bat. In the far-off brighter court of mirrors, the moon moves over a pebbly bed, real, your mother insisting over the bank, you being my father. On the wet streets, the cars, we have established, washed up, coaxed out, and the more the doer takes her seat, the more rooms lie together in the dark. And on the windows, fluorescent lights, a few car-me illegal objects in the bar, our mother holding a ball ======================================== SAMPLE 214 ======================================== "Music Alone", by Garrett Caples [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Music] All we have is great: ice light. Music alone. —we of sex. —The stage is this: a base moon, the voice to the earth. We as bats, as owls. —The world is a greedy hunger for this side storm. What pleasure in your body, Child, can’t you feel the same twitch? Lam’s ripe meat, Maist crumbs, Red elbows, Am I, do I —Do I Expect these things again? Add the guitor’s chrysalis? —Do I Expect these all these things? A fly with wings. I have said —Can I besiege The soft canopy? Bird— flesh. I have made it whole. Designer and true Delicist too. Designer and self I make. Designer and self I make. Designer and self I make. Designer and self I make. Designer and self I make. Designer and self I make. I have made balloons I have made LAKHS that lay smoked grit that woke water that gave rise to a new chrysalis. I have made balloons LAKHS that jar berries or weepers that are to be tossed LAKHS that fall softly become a mysle of gall. It looks days after yesteryear. Between us the still waters flow. Mysterious wings are to sink. Sometimes they come. And the days begin to scroll my words into history. It makes sense with the first moment. The spiritual spirit is creative. I drink ======================================== SAMPLE 215 ======================================== "God's Crazy Entertain", by Louise Glück [Living, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I tell you all that I would do. What's My God? A bullet sticking to a cabinet cabinet and a fight near a front door. I would see you among the wheat—your face against the glass—so much against the target that you might look invisible. I would see your face against the glass—your face against the sand and the ballroom where you are once again like a woman walking into a field with gray hair and the memory of money. I tell you all that I would do. You can't lift your head to my hand or ever I forget you were a part of me. I am the bullet of a bullet and I beat you, I call you in my ear saying all day my name. The bullet is quicker, and the ballroom is full of wings. Your face is mine, and I leave the bread, all whoever want to see you, I am my brother. I will hold infinity to the rifle hand, rifle hand, the swing of the bow. Your voice is my husband’s voice that touches me forever and lights my consonant and word: Here it is, join together. I have time and you are strange, human and animal. you cannot bring reality—I could hold myself deep enough to hold all of us on your finger, measure my words my hand and my work has done—you do not mean me, I could not thrust the stone of your hand through your life. The blow has gone through my heart and replaced my own. I know this here now: I would give you all that it can. You have lost your thoughts and lost mine. And I would build a city wall above the houses and the sea. It is not this world, it is this hearth: above me, above me, you are a house of old houses and mine lies buried beneath them. You see only of us, me, your own heart. <|endoftext|> "Relatives and Resigns of Virtue", by Lisa Olstein [Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] I come from the isles of the island, the island, the lunatic island and me. I come from the isles ======================================== SAMPLE 216 ======================================== "Revenant of States: A Good Time Has Seyden", by John Rumsenhall [Living, Death, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity] In the ashen grey of a vale, A long half-mile grass hints not green, And the very grey almost-whiskered endears to bend, And the dusk endears to the close of the day, And the bluet flowers, and the infinite bridge Lights toward the end of the narrowing road. And there’s never a winter’s drought To rake the sweet swamp off the face of it, And never a light in the old avowed ground, To speed its longings. Lord! I hear the steady heart of the rain In the city half withdrawn, And hear the foot-fall of steps at last, And under the bridges, heard so long and sweetly, A sound as of cars as they passed. Lord! how the city feels it whirled To bring to life the children of highways, The pack beside the homestead, the kin, The silence of women and men that pass, And the dust before the horses’ manes. And oh, how the earth was made suddenly brown As with chrysanthemums, and the grape-vine bloom Glint across the easel, the hot dust of camels, and the rolls Lay scentless, yellow at the lip, As a load when suddenly it reruns And someone drops pickets go crackling through the mud, And someone starts to lift his blind eyes to see It is safe, somewhere, Lord! It is most safe. Lord! How it feels, the cool of twilight, The long-drawn murmur of the lamplight, The flap of spars, the rattle of oars, The faint quick bustle of the yards, the dull red fire, The button pulled to put his dame apart, And the lady’s mouth, and the moving blood, These, and the things we keep in sight, and we, Mother of these, dost speak Thee now. Thy utter silence and the silence keep, Till, if we could, we’d pour Thy gladness out, as we sweep, We, too, would enter, and hide our eyes, And know if they exist or lie, If we did find Him, or ’t is ours, New as the dawn and as the sunset sands. <|endoftext| ======================================== SAMPLE 217 ======================================== "Men Beling", by Bruce Snider [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women] Men remembering their vows to God and to man turning, their prayers saying “We have truly preserved you, we are smiling together in a perfect communion with the old man who raped you, they say smiling together” we say “knov’d you,” we say “knov’d you,” God’s bride the red lips lisp “knov’d you,” the red lips say “knov’d you,” the lips say “knov’d you,” the red lips hasten thy lover to spurn and hiss and cry “knov’d you,” “blame” “accursed,” the lips of the bride. <|endoftext|> "Death", by Bruce Snider [Living, Death, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] I remember a curtain laid around me when I walked, when we were children who in a wild and dark place were in the wildest, in the wildest; when we were lapped in dreams and in the sea; the sea washed us in a soft white shirt and a velvet gown; the minutes fled and the spring came. Now I stare at the earth and its cold, grill, and turn to my delight in the grassy valley; the great ocean currents of the deep pass like a tide cold and still; I think they always break my heart with their music, they tell me of myself and have lived for long. <|endoftext|> "Childhood’s Retreat", by Bruce Snider [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] “I am my mother’s son,” ======================================== SAMPLE 218 ======================================== To have and not to have Is it clear, is it not, That our peace is gone or this or that That our shouts are still less brisk than his That is the noise, which deafens like the drums, Is it not some minstrel hovering hither That their grisly faces we salute, And can hardly sit and sing For this is neither here nor north. To have and not to have Is it not? that neither kiss Me either way with golden tongue; So your hand but seldom hear, That I'm more near at hand To you, more near at hand, <|endoftext|> Here's to catch the strongest conclusion For this reading of Skrutin and Nietzsche, not to see the helpless But still shall follow after, having seen again and lost.... And if his andator, born in the naked wig, The dripping togs, the hissing something out of the tub, And have I for more witness, I know, that he Counts the flower its life, that has told him this and that Being many and being many and one and all and every And always aware of the only human or divine, Still flowing out of the brinks that flow inward to all time. <|endoftext|> But all that's here Is one who leans And turns from it, in fine and proper acceying His pensive mortality, a traveler at his cell Who greets his fate as his day was a giant should: "How is it that you stand there amazed, you quita Even in the cold to embark on your mountain top?" To think that somebody suddenly snatched at you Is all I have to expect. And I have said This would not be so, though a fact is clear Of this I have not supposed you love you-- I wish I had to think that I could follow you. You are less gentle or colder than I think You are, however, my fellow. You are cold. How can I, therefore, hold yourself so cold As I cannot submit to your whimsical drift? I think I am not entirely determined to make you My fellow. To think that I cannot be true Was a lie for ignorance. That is vanity. You are selfish and mean. If I did love you I might ======================================== SAMPLE 219 ======================================== "Square Under My Head", by Anthony Hecht [Religion, Christianity] SquareAfter my Head Has been depraved Once another slice Has grown up I keep told Now I have a good head I will keep Stricken cold I will keep time <|endoftext|> "Square Under My Head", by Anthony Hecht [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] My head, Its hands on my back Will give up My first throes like wet sheet It has been to me My own hands are a foreword My last breath The first sound under my head it is not my first wind but my breath Not this truth it is my first wind but it belongs to me <|endoftext|> "Square Under My Head", by Christine Lynn Crosbie [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature] After my Mother had determined to close the garage door over her head Call her for the broom she wanted to marry her sister on the night she chose to be humiliated She had to write her beautiful Mother before she told the story It was a broken body that had come to her for three months Was she mad did she lie <|endoftext|> "Amor Fati", by Charles Bernstein [Love, Desire, Relationships, Pets] O my husband, why can you see we continue in this world of animals wearing the narrowest end of a face? But we desire to find the place to keep you together Is there time enough for us to be happy. We are too blind when you can think of putting a bell in any room and putting out the lamplighter's lamp at the moment of death? I left my bed and I fell on my end with my face The rest of the world is a long road on the way to live but you are too young to be serious you do and when the doctor holds your breath you have to think of putting your belly on the lamp and the whole world is too busy and besides the lamps in the Pon aircraft room the door I am in for the six months of the illness of love the six weeks of Mary but we are too young for just a few years from the prayer ======================================== SAMPLE 220 ======================================== "Oh, Faraway", by John Barr [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Oh, faraway! How far The hidden and made visible In the wide, soft blue infinite Of the midge’s winter, green, blue Ever blue in the sunrise, Where the waters run softly Across the calm almost translucent Island’s breast, where the waves Leave their dappled banks for all The mermaids press to choose their will; But the sweet, soft bass, solo-band, The remote, soft bass is shrill At intervals throughout the day. Oh, far away! How far! How far! The different stars may shine but Then they travel night and day. But far away, how far! How far The now ’ollow heart of the sea, The little banded ship, the bar Quicksilver-flaked with delicate sand; But far away across the foam These now glide, and these come home; But far away, far away, far away! Farther up the track, faint heart, regret What endurance waits thee, farther yet! Heart, bend not, sweet, Heart, bow not down. I will bind, If thou wilt, a swound-white crown, Struck from some far off heavenly hill, A white swathing, a softer gown Too human-weak for human skill To hold upon its patient breast; But we shall meet as strangers there. Lo, the English firemen pour The lava-water on the air, Menacing the red dust from their feet, Their earth-ansusged heads and faces, Their bearded lips half-drowsy, Dusky finger-nails that rest With a lift of meshed wonder and unrest, And pained labor-wails that wait. Lo, the English firemen trace The promptings of some sanguine race (The dusky mines of India’s mines), The metal-limbed Brahmines. They bloom in that parched Valley’s gloom Where, cold insensate, the English tomb Hides in white death’s enchanted fields, While round their dusty foreheads swarms The yellow gipsy-peaked, black-robed ======================================== SAMPLE 221 ======================================== "Interiori", by Andrewercked [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] Or is it a rank Effort has been made to Turn at the same time Honed camouflaged objects To be excused once And then become those Effort worlds they are Turning times they are Turning times they are Turning times they are Turning times they are Many times they are Turning times changed Turning things to poems Empty oblivion of The last row of things Many times changed Turning times they are Many times changed Turning times times times they Rocked long-held times Rocked long-held times Rocked long-held times Rocked long-held times Rocked long-held times Rocked long-held times Strange things must Have their due time Disappear as others Strange things must change As things change The time time of the human What time seems hard Ringer time moves Ringer time moves Ringer time moves Time moves His time Change gears Violins Time moves His timeCreeps time Eternity steals Creeps treasure Time goes over His timeCreeps treasure He goes over His perfect time Leaves nothing do If he could think of it Creeps time above Time goes over His person dies Creeps time even Something creeps in the mind Time throws away Death grows closer Fast faster Time goes over Soon over and over Gold thread ties Gold thread ties High hope High courage High courage High courage High courage Upon High courage High courage On the plain Stick courage On the strong High courage High courage High courage On the whole You shall live High courage On the high mountains You shall behold High courage High courage On the deep sea You shall find your name High courage High courage High courage On the deep ocean ======================================== SAMPLE 222 ======================================== "The Lowering", by William Carlos Williams [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather] Here are clouds or fine when my love wants to rise,Then the sun comes up presently and now goes outOf the waves to the door.Will you tell me the crescent that rises above itSometime cloud or the sky? I’ve been wonderingWhich is the crow with the white baton hanging there on the stair?I’ve been thinking: Do you know the names that we call Christmasame?I’d give up the others again if they’dFixed the weather. If I did they must change the whole put to one.But your fortune? I ask. No, but you can change ifIt’s only a breath, a ghost somewhere, the air.Change it now. It must blow up steeples And change the corners of cloudsFor a cold to silver. If I do, I’ll grow better, I say. Yes, yes, I’ve been waiting.How else have I called myself my ownwoman?Another way?Another aesthetic security in the world.2 You talk about people, talk about trees.I talk about your flowers in your pasture.I talk about your shade-hened rose that lies on your blade. It’s all over for me to have of it that’s all of it for me to have which to pick.And now, instead of going aloft to keep up with ourselvesyou two are sailing so far across the ocean you are not the musing bride, you that are swift of foot and aware of the fruit of every fruit,You that are whitest of the storm,I that am fairest, I that are the fairestYou are, I am only you, I am a few.3 Lord of the wind, cloud and briar,geon and salt and sky and all that is on the earth, Almighty and ruler, give me the front place to stand before me, set me against the rising and falling of the city, let me share the good that I have.4 Lord of the cloud and lightning, let me in your might, stay my furious might , it was you I gave you I gave you. Outside, above crashed on the hurtling heaven, hurtling earth with a blast of the air from which in its great pleasure, your banner of freedom, my banner of freedom, let it fly. 5 Stick on ======================================== SAMPLE 223 ======================================== "Resolution", by Emmy Arno Signivity on a grainy hill, the sun: those are messages which come and go unshrined and sent to birth, but sent to one by him who claimed the bankrupt world below. O Wisteria, other people are there still above the back of the apple tree. They have not any famished soul but known that Buddha was meant to win this world as little as the potter’s hand could see that the sun shone in the west and followed her across the greensward, carrying the apples and tomatoes from the yard. Now this is the wood’s first trial. Sing the song until you have confused the neighbors. That is wailing in the rafters and the bees; that is wailing to the clattering lamps. And you have gone from us, and many a one, perhaps, has felt the strain. But the bend, the rain, the hush of the shore after two, the glassy blueness when the streams begin to flow— that is wailing to the tunes a-cannot know. <|endoftext|> "Truth Scandal", by Wendy Videlock [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Time & Brevity] There are two things greater things to say than to believe, when you descendest to the blue curve of the moon above my head, nor can I tell you if you have any grief, or want— and grief is grief alone— which is not grief, but not most impend for each event, most chieftitude of all. Dreams do not only blind and sway and thrill you are the ones best fitted to receive all time. But time itself can give you no relief nor wipes you out of mind, fear not, and only you share the most unrest with which you encounter cliffs and rills, because this is the most forlorn defeat of all. <|endoftext|> "Narrowing Be Never Occorc", by Patricia Spears Jones [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets] All she needs to know. These we ignore and count the things inside—the music a gift-free choir, the way a child thinks to ======================================== SAMPLE 224 ======================================== Portraits of stern-fanged heroes who never slept in the sun. In that, the sea left clean, the fortTheir slow-beat figures sunk as in a dream. There crept a doubtFrom what had been. A fear--Fear--Colleus--the gods had come and gone. And the sea's bitter wind on that hateful coast had carried them. But lo, the tale is told, the kingdoms won, the kingdoms fought, The stranger and the stranger, lacking nought. <|endoftext|> "On the Wall of the World", by Charles Reznikoff [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] Here upon the stones and trees and stone, We may drop from out the heart of time, In faith we hold our just delight—eat and sleep—and never know How to sleep. <|endoftext|> "To Quack and Small", by William Barnes [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] O the dusty, busy world, the shanty,The error, the remorse, the sorrow,The many, many faces blank and gnarledSee us in the skull-glass once we metWe eat together; there's not a traceA ghost in the roses there or the mothset. <|endoftext|> "The Window Just Over", by William Barnes [Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Theater & Dance] In the midst of this last round We are on the verge of being, begins, At the end of the whole round We have some terrible dance around, Some remorse in the distance, Some decay in the air we have one behind In sight of bewild'ring the eyes blind with the sight. <|endoftext|> "The Invention of Tomps", by Edwin Arlington Robinson [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Jobs & Working, School & Learning, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Oh the world is full of men, Having nights of passion undirr'd; Of course when men are not somewhat right, They don't get so much without the guard, And so when the night shuts down, they run, They run, they run down, And get down with the crowd, With a joy in their whoop and a shout, And a jig in their heads, To throw out their curtains, and yell and snatch them ======================================== SAMPLE 225 ======================================== "Unkeepfulness", by Adrian C. Louis [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Youth, Activities, School & Learning, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] The smallest mark on our sex-comic: a baby holding a razor, hanging up a well-compiled first weekly journal of old poems. And all of schools and colleges and colleges are there, some with women, and some with children. A double business keeps marking other folks apart. Let’s spend our mornings waking at the juvenile press and reading certain provincial sages who decimate the world by wasting a date. Let’s tame ourselves and then drive down the streets or climb the prisons and drive the country like a lazy and sleepy army that drifts and drags its too-a-way prosperity car through fences and stones, hard-laid as puffs are, smooth as a statue, beautiful as any new man, some human being has tamed the nature nature of our boyhood. And what is the use of turning a school to teach them to fight against their ills? What error lies in stubborn efforts like this to pick flowers and to further these babies? <|endoftext|> "The Life of Scorn", by Fady Joudah [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Oh, you that pun on resistance, you chosen, chosen, chosen of a stately race, from your side the example stand!oping for Black Hawk pursuing hothered blades, and Hawk the master, with desperate eye tracing Fflight's wing ‘mid rival armies on the line of prey—you, the wary ploughman, primitive and hooky, with needle and line, the lightning nit, the rocket, the dogs—you, the toad, your cowboys, your crows, your whiskey-head boys, stern as great backs helpful as the rock, your race the night, you, whose chanting in historic song presides of failed success, your voices, your every stage the art of over-speech as anything but, for you, no private ends, no failure, disappointments; and yet you, your art is simply a part of our enterprise, and, despite your discord, your dancing, our music, our killed, the stolen moments. <|endoftext|> "Self-Portrait with Profanity", by D. H. Lawrence [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics, War & ======================================== SAMPLE 226 ======================================== "Unknown", by Clark Coolidge [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Race & Ethnicity] After Sissy ZO, “The children are doing goodly.” —CHARLES DARWIN, American and ackerane, English 1 January 1965 How do your people act, their brave genuine world, with its precepts and its wiles? Their voices are but shadows on the landscape. In other villages they’ve moved through a strange world, framed but by the memories they’ve loved; and, as you can see them now, have become artistic inside Europe, flush of history. The tall, quiet trees think of coming through the forest to the sun-lit lake, in their first fresh green. But other mortals, turning with each other, catch their small meaning to some point in which they’ve bought their way to the river and have to leave their arms that last spring spread out through wider heaps of palm-trees to the light above. Their lava horse is black and light and fleet and in the middle a heat and the clouds they’ve gathered are a weight you might meet on to take as the heart meets it. But how will they act and how will they act again? Will they act and with their final blazon and tell you they’ve figured out a world for which you’ve fought? The men who have joy in their world, they’ve robbed and become famous for their wonderful spells and jewels; and the lads who have popped their arms through seven years of dreaming have brought a figure of itself from Barb’sBlue to Casan, from fifteen to Morengs Bar, from Upper Seyden, from Marrie to the Ting, from Upper Seyden, from Marrie to the Riquevals; and the men who have felt the nudity of the gunners like the women who shot their children in the war, who their breasts have swollen like the fleshy sandals of the Ting, and who, in these, the suburbies between the city and the water, have loved the smell of the shell-and-paper-to-the-art, and who are delighted with a sound like Eden, a musical sense of solo and shoulder, as in the days of ======================================== SAMPLE 227 ======================================== "Mist Ziz", by Carl Phillips [Living, Growing Old, Life Choices, The Body, Time & Brevity, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] The old house lives there. On a stand, maybe even the branches and roots seem somehow near. I like to think these things I understand. But they aren’t mine. Like old glass there is now only the fragments and scattered ashes you may pick out for the candles someone used to light you can carry. On such a long time, such a long time, I was in love with someone, long gone, in the dark afternoons we were a whole world, in the dark after the moon was a soul, the light from which we turned to books. But on the other hand, the light of books, the light we had not lost, the light for hands to touch. When on the other side you had no idea what that meant, only dust on the light and then it wasn’t sky, but dust on hands, then in that case our mother and we saw how she could bring it back, not by typing but only by sound. Then, in the sense of smoke, thought washes the fruit so you might pick out the bread and not see it nor speak of anything till then, but only the light to mark and hold mute in her hand. <|endoftext|> "Firing", by Jennifer Michael Hecht [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] for Sylvia Plas Guacotes The sun goes down, the creeks glissary, draining. Then there is the stony ship, the scarlet trash of a troubled day, stare not at land long since gone—her shroud a sail was, well enough to fill a world of mourners, even to greet sweet Highland Mary, in whose beauty there is nothing common, women and men. O for a better country, country sweeter even than you in your absence, I havecome near, I was in my degree, unlike before. Yet look how long the holiday, the struggle, shall be, now I am gone, who have kept falling into this most rotting body, where the rest that you still seek is leprous upon the floor, to speed with each degree that moves under the sea, this house without light. There are hours when I will be much older, some wind older, however necessary. But to ======================================== SAMPLE 228 ======================================== "Ice", by George Oppen [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Winter] Not my brother, the father of the house, not my sister whose only children are children through the tall windows and through the lower floor of the Salvation Army and beside it A light crumbs on the table near the stove, a creature squealing with a vagueness between its paws and (with no, cake, frost over the head) my sister, who taught me to read slowly to be the man I would keep in the soft cedar depths of the parka near the curb hesitates to wipe the flies dry and soften the deer-skin for the first time and myself feel like I have seen it in dreams I have not seen it for a long time. As always the future that comes back from some future hurrying to a former life and from its unalarming reality and resisting of our dreams that show up, as a piece, postil into its source, no final thought, no problem no problem any other than the former I marvel at the custom, the people sitting in the theater as they see people weaving a way out through space of escape, of return. Yet this vision I have had is provided only in illumination as love enters the room and opens the window which tilts down the mentholed room and in the welcome daylight and then back down again to the tiled edge of the lake and perhaps you know the first time that I moved closer to you, closer to me and be entirely lost in the thought I have been there before. <|endoftext|> "Scree", by George Oppen [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Winter] The maple, the birch, cordial, vital timber of the new earth offering one last tree, a sacrifice Sunday. The elm leaves the oak—two splintered spires— first to the green leaves, next the green leaves. Fling the trash between the cleft between the shoots, then back to the broken spires, that gray church built of two machines. Buried in the rind and crucible, the gray church, once more to hammer its nerves— ======================================== SAMPLE 229 ======================================== "Double Elegy", by Christina Rossetti [Living, Death, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Spring, Trees & Flowers, Winter] After Lorca The wind-torn petals await my reverie the rose, the toneless glint of dried grass. The grief in the moth-softened leaves. In the closen of the boughs the plume of bitts flaunts in a mesh of feathers. I am sad enough. Day no longer crackes its triumph over rain. I will not obey the wind as a lover suddenly vows his dearest. She is unable to remember, I must cry too loudly for the loss of her eyes. When she breathes deeply, the quick wind shatters splintered stars, at the root— when she shrieks aloud in the thicket, the spurt of falling leaves—when she takes a walk by the window, the empty cage quietens, the body moves slow itself away. <|endoftext|> "Long Finger Poem", by Christina Rossetti I have forgotten the grass where my mother hung it. I will not listen. I am unable to remember the flower poised over her shoulder and the great juice falling from the sky. The flowers. The moon has turned into honey, dropped from honey. Sieved from honey into bees, a violence of wet dirt. The clouds do their secrets betray, the sky is ruffled with pollen. My mother cannot see. I walk slowly back to the earth where my mother has shaken her mother’s tongue, and the earth is cold. I have forgotten the stars. <|endoftext|> "Long Island Sound", by Christina Rossetti One light’s too close to half the value of a commonplace, a shore too dark in sight. The to start one coming, only the distance. Time’s slow insanity, a phrase tracking for two, only counts the worth of one. <|endoftext|> "Long Island Sound", by Christina Rossetti Our islands charm, one fine sea now brought to this shore by one slim white wing, one flight, now ======================================== SAMPLE 230 ======================================== "To a Young Dame, On Her Mother's Grave", by John Donne [Living, Death, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving] Her only child, her six months' play To save his life and guard her He Her spirit with his strength of mind; And so, before old age came down, Yet She bore the spirit which gave place And lived for babes and you and me, A horseshoe bush, a prophet tree, And so, before the month was fair, He freed Thy will, said, ‘THE KING’S THE KING’S THE KING’S THE KING’S THE KING’S. And so, before His beauty burned The worst against her stubborn will, She gave Proof to the thing he worked for still; Therefore That time, the action of a slave Is not the thing, but half of which The King Would choose for his fulfilment, He Was cause enough for all this work, To watch, and sew, and tame, And kill the living hardly Because they’ve killed the man for her; Therefore He would not be alone with her, But to that awful hour brought breath That made her do the work of death, While His hand was ready for his death. Now here, Now there, Now here, As on a bloody summer day The King was faring; See, now, his right hand griping Death To the cold bone through that sore shiver; No voice to tell his coming, No tongue to let his wrong in, To fill that anguish dumb Now, Only to weep for him. The second blow Was as the bondman o’er a hedgey bush While letting fall the flower-starred tenement In which the priest was sitting, And as the day grew dim He gave the sign Of him the sacrifice To make his wound most benign; And as the daylight faded, The indifferent lord, all tremulous, Turned to the Mountain where He stood Until the morning light That made the earth grow tremulous, Turned to the Mountain where the one Small Planet stood, The other star of which there were All the small stars that glitter down Only those wooden crosses Through the wet earth, as clear As those new skies above those ======================================== SAMPLE 231 ======================================== "Song of Browning: When My Dear Friend My Lovely", by Thomas Centouven [Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Now you want to marry: It would take you all the way to love Unlike what you had seen those days. The roads go west You too have many reasons to love, Though you’re on your way Where the young man never goes to work, Where any one’s on the job, and you’re Not the book of God or the winged chair But the book of Fate and Life. This woven world was the world we sought When I couldn’t choose but be and be. And now, as the road lay over it, With a vague desire to travel again, The dream of a lost love, the long regret That it was a dream, it was so much A favorite dream, this one stood thinking Of a dream of a wedding, the red of blood At the top of the pale lovely dell. It felt like the small bright eyes That just appeared from their radiant crowns In the setting sun to surprise my own With an envious, dream-like, crazy frown. And now there were ghosts At morns and flowers, The smell like the flesh like a thing That had been put into a stone And the sleep-like sleep That followed me, Seemed to float A damp green stream, A sea of incense clouds, The dream of a blancur’d, dreamy island, A dream of rain, The dream of a young man, Black Robin Hood, Standing at the edge of a garden, a garden Of deep orange bloom, A moonlit garden, A garden I couldn’t choose but go my way. <|endoftext|> "Then", by Grace Paley [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Spring] Grandfather In these spacious days I spend my life. I nurse the thought of you And what I hold like love is still itself. The air is seared with sunlight. The trees, outstretched their ======================================== SAMPLE 232 ======================================== "O Crowdy", by Ange Mlinko [Social Commentaries] I’m disguised as an achievement of slicing out of commonplace baronial wealth. I’m humiliated in a foreign country. My complex structure does not light mine. I’ve left the high-life order: It has Kenneth like to pain in elevators. And Angola is its own business. And America has been my notable team. <|endoftext|> "The Astronauts", by Louis Untermeyer [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Sorrow & Grieving] All those who have the itch itch with a sorrow will put out their lives. Their lives will always run high; ages will hold their lives as long as the stars allow. <|endoftext|> "Notes for Horace  2", by Ange Mlinko [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books]  for I love the spirit that goes forth fleeing the death that has come to make an end. Fleeing, when a friend touches a friend who has no friend to love him for whom love is a friend. So we met at sea with a lover’s love, and we embraced and we gave him thanks and we said:      the endless pleading of love a man with a kiss his wilted wings poor blue eyes wild wondered at what I felt he said until he whistled me out of town. <|endoftext|> "Sonnets to the Dead: A Child in a Except of Withers", by Richard Egan [Love, Heartache & Loss] From the night I lost my light; From the night the love-birds came To the sparkle in my room; From the night, that I lost my gloom, The dawn came, but not the same. From the night, and yet more dark; From the night the sphered moon rose; And, slowly, like a rustle, came The candles to my room. From the night, the luminous eyes Of my love were rekindled; ======================================== SAMPLE 233 ======================================== "Being a Soul", by Edward Thomas [Living, Growing Old, Life Choices, Time & Brevity] The mists are rising to check the receiving, I seem to be edifying in air;They seem to grow broader and wider in stature, And carry a sort of farewell in my mind.I feel them a feeling of sadness, of longing;The woodseeds seem tangled by constipation, The sun in the ocean, and yet it is evening And I know something is friendless and dreary.I am not needing the populace then, Though I have spent ample vacation today;They cannot control the majestic, Nor fashion the passion they willingly bear;My destiny's noble resistance Leaves traces of chemical splendor everywhere.Traveller, rash and capsize, I start to be crediting—my German dress flies off. And you, Vila, have you understood, or don't, In what way do you say? I stand as in act, Conversing my views into your very mind, My songs lyric and thoughts physical, Like a good fiddle, a non-ordered song— With two syllables for what it is my lecture, Or what it is my free contemplation. <|endoftext|> "Such is my life!"", by Edward Thomas [Living, Time & Brevity] Such is my life! and we who dreamSeawdust to sink in oblivion,Such is my life! and we who readSeawdust to ashes, shall not knowSeawdust to ashes. <|endoftext|> "Seawdust to Zone", by Edward Thomas [Nature, Animals] Seawdust to turn gently, and meanwhile Time for us here at our departure,Where now it seems no longer young to weave His grey totality of legend.Seawdust does not say unto me I went quite slowly to my snowce.Now it is almost weather now, And it but takes care of what I do to reap, It me meets in the endear evening air,And crumbles for it, whilst I hold, Leaves me to take it to the barrenness bourne.Not any longer shall I make a stand, Ready for what, though scarce in sight, It waits not, waiting patiently, age to age, Waiting for it, waiting ======================================== SAMPLE 234 ======================================== "Jubilate", by Stephen Sandy [Living, Health & Illness, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Philosophy] A corpulent, mute thing, alive, a movie theater   ... This is how it goes on in this place. and have you noticed? I think. I say. And it’s all right. I go on looking. My Muse in a leafy forest, let’s go on killing the huge oak at her head. And as the tree trunk slops down to the well water, the oak gets angry every time. Does that noise make you think we can throw our hearts on that blue moss? or is that ecstasy in the being divine? pedestimacy  ...    one should not be given to shoework like that. the falling leaf is happiness and space is real. some show. some manifest grief. some kind of happiness. and we’re here. <|endoftext|> "In Memoriam A. H. H. O’da", by Alfred Henry Jr. [Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] In the old, hard days we used to walk near the reflection of a little bank on a clear Saturday afternoon in March, after full submerging in a pink silk bag. The end drawn. The damned Jew danced. The bank. The rain flowing. The moon a mellower head. Cloudlit, all day, all night we have not been here. The sky then. Then a world of dark teeth closed, a world of blackest sky, a sea of yellow pills. Sun then. A world of blackest smoke. Sun then grit my bones. Frost, a violin. Let it be. Sun then grit my bones. It’s late. Sun then grit my bones. I must soon some storm of hell heat. The end, done. Since I am not the end. Since I am not the end. Since I am not the guy. Since I am not the guy. Since I am the guy. This is a month other month other month to live. This is the beginning. This is the end. Since I am not the guy. And ======================================== SAMPLE 235 ======================================== Who who begins a Hornet is not made to Fleck, nor yet can be Sleap, and yet can wag his Útand be at play, For once made in his Aierald, he now flits away And leaves the dreary Ced, as we poor thing can say; And we've no laws but what we make and courses he may In his unerring Pleasure Wind, or Sunn his funnels in the Pole. He's only against Thine Own laws And to thyselfe to fling, Who ere thou hearest thee Worlds Worlds click, or Earth too nimbly give her foot: For God to read all Worlds, is a mystery to bee; But this pooroy untimely comment can't be He who from his College teachers bare In th' Eastern book says, "This the scope of all your searchfor Angels, brought by The Author of his Works." Who e're He was (and howe're he came to call Some This and that) a SMALLICKS of this good to be a Pill, And so provide that all the World be damnable. He can write engendering A PITT against a PITT, for howe're it strike, and so applaud The Author's Artifications, that without Reproach Of Void, he yet dares touch The Manleteers in such a Firmament. He hates the number of the kinds He meets, and gape with greatest ease, Yet having still some sport to keep within His Daughters, lo, to please his Friends and Flabisher At the full circle, which shall him delight To have in all his minority, or room, Or gift to call his favours; there to dwell, As in the heart of a well-ordered hive; And all the while serve there, for them or for to live. He hates all men for his espeaks, his praise Who spreads his doorstep on the Skie, and lets Them sit, and household Widows turn, and then Be gonfied when he goes. Some think to make a DY while Hearers drive, and then to take Him frees; While some have envied, others seek A more segar life, and, loath to live For reasons, bury others in their flirt. Yet these at most points would want wings to fly, And strong feet follow quick, to follow straight. What were they then but most, to take the day In which they all should share ======================================== SAMPLE 236 ======================================== "The Glob Lessons of loyalty", by John Ciardi [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] 1 It’s the Fourth of July in Central India in Central India in Central India, when I lean On a lozenge back And chew. My crop Is all sky, My ring is all sput and sand, A roll of my cuffs of dirt, And for mammoth dreams I'm rid Of the ghostly waits at the northern window. 6 Bare-headed mob-glass We can’t crack with the moonlight, But we can’t figure out the whole scene Of the play Of the monkeys And into their souls, where the monkey vine gluts And the waders, And the quaker, nuts, and calamus And cassia, And the ladies of the river ourselves, We must make a denser trace in ourselves, Brimful of this Pinks and Amaz— Here a tin Or improvised blackball—we can work our bones, Bored by black With blue Pinks, zinc or white.7 Crone The starry froth rises out of the clouds; Yellow leaves of the prairie trees Splash into white Before the sun. Plange-spattered, The ghosts of flowers will come and go home to their shadows. Landscape and ripple of waters, trees at play— All things obey Which leads to the hollows of dark lands Facing the East And to the sun, Filling the wide lands from their long night-mishears.8 The Painters run and tumble on the trail Broken and recent in the woods. They hold on— I see the wistful wandering And I hear their stealth Of blood, their rowelled toes. I hear their ankles twirl. And as the light pours along the shy dust, Along the loose swaying strands of air, They jog on the frightened Shells, their yellow hair. And all the Dogs lie staring now at the trail, Their heads a-crawl, With bloodshot eyes Watching, snuffing the smoke, the air so still. They push their sleek, white ======================================== SAMPLE 237 ======================================== "Love's Habit", by John Barr [Love, Desire, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Men & Women] In the middle of the night, Venus came. Sunlight shed In the mirror, black as night, And, as it shone, a drop of dew, Sprang up and got to sight, Drinking from cups that had been culled In clusters of a wine. Love laughed and chucked his laughing men From jolly Bacchanals; Jove, like Bacchus, was the tune He blew on Ariadne’s mouth; And left her, heaving white and warm In blue Lucina’s cheek. All loves and songs we never hear, But only in the dry Bird-rot, the light-foot way, The meadow-lark, alit; Then, soaring, out of the night, Into the sunless sky; Singing and brimming his bright song With all the blithesome zirness Of all that makes a summer-dance, All loves and songs we ever hear And songs that touch us seven year; Songs without songs, that only whisper, That only hearers and no lovers notice; Songs without songs, that woo the ear, Tales without chronicle here That tell the roll of the county-year And mean Sir Waller with his lady. ‘By hymns and vows and sober hymns,’ The Brownies spell us twenty notes, Mocking our furtive tongue oflenesse That told our woe in other than yesterdays; Mocking our furtive withered voice of mirth That sings of stock, and stone, and sticks, and stones,’ ‘Being but gent, we cry, ‘Sister mine,’ To your good brother Carlinsvalles; Being but gent, we cry for you to be Your exrecion of the peploïan, And hear the laudable virees. Sister dear, the men we loved so well Have killed us, like the rest, Knowledge of that by which no world has come, Or any earth or time can harm you; Being, you understand, a goddess, But we have ======================================== SAMPLE 238 ======================================== "how you believe", by Frannie Trudell [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] for Joseph I In the first hour of night the pink cats prowl And birds rush out to drink at the fair. A cat purrs, for wine. I suppose She need to know how beautiful she is— A true thing looking into her pink hands To watch it. Oh, your town is desolate. I don’t laugh at my sex. My eyes Are dimmed with what I can’t do. A child looks up in the great blue sky And wishes she were here again. I say I’ll leave my ploughing fields And leave my trees and neighborhood. When you return it’s gray and strange, And like a swollen heart I grope Into the water apple and butterfly And crawl away to the old-fashioned wall. I don’t laugh at my age. I know I’m old and fearful of the cold. My youth is a frail thing and frail As if the heat-lit sap of my days Had tossed my will into the rocks And suddenly I am afraid. I will not make my will. I hate life As if it were mine. I wonder if I could not find The hatred that was always yours. <|endoftext|> "Burning Drift-Wood", by John Greenleaf Whittier [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Midlife, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture] At night I heard across the room of space The frenzied cries of a child whose lonely cry Foreboded his death and was one with fire, Through strata of green light that followed exactly Down to a hansom-case, already displocated, The voice of a stranger through the rent echo. O hark to the curious cars! O find The key to the living room! O found the door To the secret heart of the house on the hill! O open it wide enough to see And hear and hear it beating. For Death has stopped The door of the house on the mountain side And must come in and tear it. It is not Much water now, but you may drink to it. ======================================== SAMPLE 239 ======================================== "Mirth at Its Bath", by John Greenleaf Whittier [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] From the tower midway to the wall, Hearing the clock, the dull groom waits, Who the night is pressing and cold and charged with cold:— Comrade, the thought of home. Fame, for three hundred years and more, Hath the roaring and heroic mirth of the roar:— Garlands, hearse-pipes, or where the breezes blow Do I see thy spirit now? Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, Tarred and feathered and carried in the cart By the race follow, my lad. Through thy streets, Master, the blackguard marching by, Beat me backwards like a child; Drop by drop as the drop dulls out and starts Half the trouble; Frightens, guesses, almost seems to fly, Half of thy heart thou art bereft of joy and cry Mid the clangorous aisles. Fare thee well, thou who hast lost thy friend; Stand beside the frontiers high, Sweet to eat and drink and kiss the ground, Sweet in temper as sky: Others bastion far and near, Not so much thy poet’s cheer As to think of thee; Others bate their anger, line by line, And in battle slay free. But in peace, Lord, thou art near and kingly mine, And dost give thy son not only light but shine. Till the dawn on thy dark domain hath dawned, Thou shalt cease to aspire. Lord, I know thy son again. For the love of God in him I have shown to thee, Lord, to watch thee play; And it must be so, I will fill my days, Or else fill the walls, With my life to fill, Or else still it still. Lord, I know thy son again. For the love of God in him I have shown to thee, By the great white lightnings fed; By ======================================== SAMPLE 240 ======================================== "Up Against the Dean", by George Essan [Religion, Christianity] Up against the Dean, no word may point him. Every naked joint demands a entrance through the pomp of comely fellowship. The doctor’s simple art comparted with perfect cheer, the care for his neighbor’s health, and sympathy for others’ woe. Christ chides the law. But art can stop all compelled. What art can rouse the tick, lop, plough the laboring calf at night, the mouse within the fold, until the dawn of every day. Christ chides the law. But art can stop all needless. Rule it right, don’t deal with evil, defile the phial, probe the liquor at the door, strip mane, probe the ink, probe sex, probe sex, and test the power since you’ve destroyed it. Poets these glass have filled the “well,” permit your natures, have given drink to sex, and frame the composition for beauty’s motto. Pardon the wordœtor, a fugitive where all resistance is proved, and give the sex its due excuse. There are times when riches are lost, or almost lost. To its native hell, decreed it may be, or do its part, warp the liar and contume the pink. If it cannot tear the avaricious glass from theCollective fable, in which we most endeavour to otherwise be saved, then live in its shadow ... then ... Look out for your jewels. <|endoftext|> "Blood from the Mankton", by Susan Hampton [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] my school teacher said that with the color red of the christened gown my father had a middle key to the door that led to the Musket brown why tell the little boy to the library to read by his father, who grew attractive in the light of the big stacks of flowers his high ambition was not mine to understand the message that freed me from the bonds that had bound me so firmly once I was a man looking out through the door to the palace from which ======================================== SAMPLE 241 ======================================== "Under the Tree of Life", by Wallace Stevens Under summer next day, this book will stand at the border, painting the trees and plants and ghosts of the neighbors, the past during bright summer's war, and some of the neighbors there growing old, and some the neighbors there talking of leaves in the rain, the silence when the bodies of leaves and leaves will stand there and monuments and names of our own gods and our remembrance marking her, who will hear and act, and this hill of happier life will a tongue of kindred tell her about the leaves of their customs, about America, about the burial, about the state of sad America, about the tombs of them that love and labor in some other time, about the first floor of the Capitol, about the rise and fall of altars, no wars, no memories, no benedictions, no tears, like this, exactly this, just this, just this, and the answer we will be face to face even in death: is nothing less than nothing all the things thought and feeling, and the life that hurts like a beginning is a race-note, a piece of green through your soul, and that is the sweet touch of nerves, the part of heart that hurts. <|endoftext|> "Darlings", by Major Jackson [Living, Death, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, Heroes & Patriotism] A common, but endless, Cornelia, drilling her life under my feet. Scoff my old negro, till I die. Hast said to the Bar Hatner? Brab, the Bar Hatner, the shave from the Wig-garden.To keep asking there, one of your cousins.That might be a matter of mind. <|endoftext|> "I May Poem", by Major Jackson [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity] I May Poem: I May Gallic if not perfect, Its aural din, if not perfect, Grieving, if not Grieving, if not tallied. You Were horned, and I dying. I took from the dead a completed portion of the last portion of my ======================================== SAMPLE 242 ======================================== "Doyou Pray", by Marilyn Hacker [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I’m having trouble trying to define this word “z y y y y y” because I really did something really abon belief—?—  Zazacan only has sense, but also sense, a reality. When I think of this long address at the end of the chapter I start out throwing a quote adrift, and knowing the windpipe has carried The Syntax whistle, I wonder why—is it? That’s the reason they all declared this remark—I’d add because there is One girl, and one person—my mother—and me. She says—a young girl, only twenty-two years old, has once been a baby—Has been asked to tend a shift In regards, for a five-year-old transplantation in Iowa, Or to loan herself for what there was in the law, Or to foster this life—Has been asking a claim—or to divorce—a third-born caught in this saccharine thought, and nursed it—like an old egg, Dangling, the young girl by the neck, and now doomed to crying For a long time more, and seeking, but always saying so, The following of the hydrangea, always assurably, Or stirring something when he’s at home, and sitting back in the Hollow, dark corner, always see if she’s beautiful, Or his daughter, or even her, when she’s not at home, And while he’s there, always seeing her, any day or so The bed strewn with flowers, or the dainties, or sharp-set quicksilver Keeps rising, and there seems nothing to surprise him, Or salve his skin from off the raw cloth of the plaything Buddha, Which, this time, he’s in of on them, defective, otherwise Ach, and not in what, for all him, except that “z habezgammen.” Which may not be true, for even the miseries of an old carnival, Or nothing that happened in Jerusalem’s marriage of mother and father Addressed another, “All ======================================== SAMPLE 243 ======================================== "Göshner", by D. A. Powell [Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women] Super-maned crocodile would gently fold Its twin emotions into a fairy trance. Then simply push wide open mouths, a bold Wide gaping mouth, and wonder where the bold Soared-for excits of male lips conceal. The liquid serpent hung a chasm deep, Which, with the sight of both, did seal a sleep. Then quickly snatched them forth, and show'd its head To the wing'd cherchant, for his poisonous bed. Its limbs grew shapeful, and unsteady and fine, Unlit by any but the grisly slime. Its poisoned hands like poison now were stuck; The impetuous liquor ooz'd, not nipp'd, not quench'd. Then the same humor did its work require, And the same tongue was fashion'd for the hire Of slander, till all tongues and tongues became A mixture in it which the blackest blame Could but content; and then no fault could find That aught was good, without the aid of art Of heavenly things, that must not sting a heart. But o'er her smooth and listless body bland The touch of the twin balsam did expand. She must withdraw the tears, and where apart The cloud of matter drifted silently, The mirror of her beauty should not be, But reflect on it with a master hand. And if the glass be upper'd, and if part Of the old course is still to sink and ply, There is no outward trace of its design, No outward session of its deepest design. So that it passeth to the higher part, Through the expanding light, and evenness there, And is still ever near, if rightly sped. Thus in this little vale, that was ere now Haply reveal'd, was hid, like ivory, Wond'ring amid its scuttles of grey dew. But, with a crooked prows, when duly dight, The sailing-winged mariner did shine, With five and six feet of the living light, And his broad shoulders tipped against the brine. So safe was the safe harbour, for the boat Was bending like the horn upon the reef. Its voice was like the very pause of ======================================== SAMPLE 244 ======================================== "A Verse on the English Rigzzle", by William Cullen Bryant [Socialistic & Complicated, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Home Life, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] The French are in bed with Chartres, But the British on Sunday means carnage: At Chartres we cannot get passports, Being only by definition From the lights that can be shed Where British dishonour sometimes has spread. Uncle Paul has a thousand cures: At a Desk, at the Roman Prince There are Stars for the Russians, Stars in the Seven Little Nations. (War is practice on every move), There are Puckies asleep in the sun; But the French are most of all undone, For the rise and the fall of the One Has the itch in the Sydney Fair, So they knock for the Sydney Fair. And even before they have learned to pay A tax on all who have dined to-day, Having had exactly enough said, The day has got to be run by an East, And the night has to do as the Volunteer Won the hope of a double success; But as Volunteer fails, they fail: Old Volunteer fails in their avail. The day has its turn at last, The nineteenth-century statesolation, And Volunteer fails in all, And all are as weak as the Rhenish. Old Volunteer has a hope to win With the best when he joins the Wain, That he'll win the Downs, and the Saturday fight On the face of the Danck over the Rhine. Young Hodge and his wife from the Crown Are slacking their boxes of stone; But Jo Chauncy sits back in the hall, Or ran up the stairs to the square, Being shaken by larger despair; And now while she frightens the last Six minutes will creep on their host Like the creeping of up a ghost. <|endoftext|> "At Night the Brownies dancet outside the gate", by M.L. Smoker [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The Brownies leaped and danced On sand and mud Till the gusty stars Stripped them naked to pieces. They cried in delight To spin a light Where the tall, naked trees ======================================== SAMPLE 245 ======================================== "Neighbors", by David Yezzi [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life, War & Conflict] Under the cold stars of the deck I found your pines crouching in a patch of ground surrounded by chalk and yellowed tight with brushstrokes of the strip of walls crossed the white barraccrew’s glittering prow on glance and aim. Their heads— hewn in a jewel of tarnished masonry in the night, and black smoke wrapping flesh nailed to the hooks; so stark in the hewn sarks. Their heads were cut off and turned to the raw air and there they cabined. By dawn you were dragged back to the hills by the first swallows, the ring-doves flinging them in the warm air. Their hearts filled with the sound of the shore, as you gripped open lazily the red-baked clay of your long since distant lake. The islands, frozen on the sodden sward, hammer and scratch the harsh reefed iron of the world. Bats of stone and violin and reeds fell from the air as from an old tomb and my fingers fell into the wet blood in the rain. No more the golden sands quench my fingers in the frost-winded hand. <|endoftext|> "The Black Cock and the Rill", by David Yezzi [Living, Death, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] for Emily Dickinson No one would be taken anywhere. —CHARLES DARWIN, The Descent Oravi 1 Soft your voice, it is, it is lilting now, it will be soon, soon, it will be soon. What’s that you call so mournfully from? What’s the use of saying one thought to charm another? Well, there goes the colt dear to your death, that’s pretty, it’s all right. Well, here goes the goat of what’s in our sky, the arrow of what’s left, and for whom the last dark shredby ways serve but only one grief, you know where the pink rind ======================================== SAMPLE 246 ======================================== "De Souvie", by Joshua Mehigan [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics] I Machine stitched is buried in my cask-jar pressed and the broiled flesh slipped into the shadow where the telephone fell. The telephone ended in a rattle of bells and a hum of wheels. Where the telephones masturbate a few words like ten hearts remain. I do not have a idea how happy they are to realize they are. I am a student and I wonder if I’m Blake or dot. I’m not really sure, but otherwise I’m not really sure, but otherwise know. 8. Againances with phrases fucking on your bulrogues. The united way that those who cry are simple but the meaning of every one of us is simple in its entirety: We are the same people when the world is good. So many colors have meaning. A hundred voices singing on an automated shutdown, three short words like anger. I’m telling the truth in a rhetorical sense of 1914, 1914. I recall the fact that I was born in Detroit, abroad, where my name speaks its end: I walked on the fields one morning with my father, having left a message of my mother to conflate peace to my brain. I walked upon the streets, having passed the gates of the public in the country and the press if only the telephone crawled across my path. I am telling my father the way he says how he blessed me because he was whole and because he believed me and believes me I was his son. 9. Angel voices, tell my father that I’m good at war. Tell him I do what a man should not do. I’m not really good at being bored with columns, mounds, cars, temples, brickcups: animals, a child fighting for the subway. Everyone around me craves for the color and heat, saving the cups. Everyone’s but a woman in a certain time. She’s a convent, girl, a girl standing in a tree tree tree named Centus Park. 4. Pencils record the date of a white milled woman who grows up ======================================== SAMPLE 247 ======================================== "Jubilee", by Ryler Heine [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Jubilee is not a dance room, where I sing my song of idleness, where I would remain still awake. In the morning I rise, outside to resolve, without drinking the wine my wine dissolves from the lips while the sun dances, majestical. Dreaming is my art, demanding absolves, euphemism, tripping, with a light of possibility and beauty. Dreaming is my resource, mine, mine, mine. Dreaming is my resource, clamorous, impalpable, eluctantly abandons with the insipid Delivery of delight. I will address even this poem with a special address, a professorial question, in the darkness that precedes our consent. If to accept, then, the inaccess of the body, the body accepts it, tracing its motions as in a dance, making the object dance, the one incandescent joy we resist in the dance. Yet there is but one stress: continued, harmoniously, generosity of the passions, all-contriving and persistency accommodetrate in the passions, tenderly, surely, with a climax of sensuality. But we hear a gongatting and a trilling, one bell tolled for an hour, one bell tolled for an hour; one half bell tolled, one half bell tolled. Then came thicker, then quicker, belabor with the speed over a ten-bar, live-souled earth every day to the red-hot iron trap, belted in with wreaths of flame. In my mouth, the rumor ran that a man with a six weeks' thirst was a outgoing from the bjorn. And the people, he and I, said, are two with one, we are one: the granite cold with our loves ununderstanding, our lands unfrozen with desire. The rock is affectionate, its crown unfurled. In my heart the hope quickens, that though prisoned ======================================== SAMPLE 248 ======================================== "Ecological Poem", by Harmony Holiday [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] (To my Lady, About the Day of My Lady,about the Night of My Lady, about the Day of My Lady, about the Night of my Lady, about the time when I was a baby I wanted to be smartly in your way, unable to find the way out of this trap. March 9, 2005 (1) Under the blindfold of this doorway I find the key to the heart. I am ready to admit it. The sun floods my blood like the sea, my dream is of dark birds, it has been written on my lips.Peddling my left breast and his left knee and his face. The sun spills down my prayers. Will you please me tonight? Ask me not in the dark. ... (unique scream in a monkey) (Three times right and only one frog left; there is no one here to make four legs in a band for some one else. Then you will be released soon. The boat is smashed out of the water. The boat's in the river. The man sat on the stone, moaning. This is some middle-class news being done with and missing; that is a lettered moth feeding the candle. (Another strong mouth, guttural and historical) <|endoftext|> "(Water Ladder)", by J. Michael Martinez [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] —for J. Henry III ( embracing thought) Even as I gaze, those hands are clasped, close buttoned together, twinulsive objects knit into one another as in fear and bound for some godlike moment at the verge of law, or in any moment like the pendulum burning in one hand, where my hands have writ themselves in my brain, the thought of each a writ whereon time has wrought out growing. Of which I am master. How shall I not acknowledge the essence of those hands? Did not the fire inside me crackle when I quivered with it, the rough, quick, vivid substance reinishing them to startle flesh? No, I was no longer self-conscious. Everything my senses told me ======================================== SAMPLE 249 ======================================== "Send This Death Now Beached Down If We Softily", by Ella Higginson [Living, Death, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I’ve a shovel now, and it's your turn To see who gets the step. Suf, the shovel comes a-phuicing Up rain-white wooden drifts, a warped Soundless as cellar loch, enormous, funnelous as a bear, Soundless as black, death-drunk as ever a witch. And here the shovel looks up to the sky And seems, like a city, flat as a dead man. He sears through the noise of the being filled. Off go bandages, sons’ shouts, their heads. Along red decks and prows and huge sea-history Comes forth the unknown hecatombs of old waves. I know their helmsman on the quarter-deck, The sewn-up arms and feeble arm like spears Clanging on timbers. Flags of ice Go down the sky. No wind blows fair or bleak As from the open mouth of a faithless woman. As though the hecatomb of man could never win One murky cormorant as great souls to life. The shovel swings up to the ceiling And slung the shovel down; no steel hand wields To penetrate the bone, to burn the bone. But fools can hope to death, can hope to be Partakers of a country’s sacrifice. And since the pliant knee to adoration Strides down with might and main, the light is death. Now hammer at your caves, lest all be lost. Last, strike the bell and you may hear the first Peal that you hear the ocean in its depths. Next, kneel the sea-hold breaker wild With his cataclysm; then hurl the fragment Far down the limbo, spell the working ocean Into the black abyss; take your own time, The outgathered Nothingness. foster it still, The tamed magician, of the nether East, The stormy spirits of the night and sea. Fools say the world has always its off-guard. <|endoftext|> "The Ragpiper", by William Cullen Bryant [Nature, Summer, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] ======================================== SAMPLE 250 ======================================== To the holy house of Beaujola I draw the pipes for which ten million men fight. To the council of the knights I draw the trumpet of King Ogini and whistle in my room of white. I watch the far edge of the earth as it thunders down on the plain. It strikes the strained, long black eyes a hurried force, ten thousand fierce manes, expanding, unlosing the flames of the sun. <|endoftext|> "Summer at Gardener", by Robert Bly [Activities, Gardener Brahings, Nature, Animals, Fall, Trees & Flowers] Winter Winter on the naked the virgin the virgin the virgin that was once that was now the unanointed forehead of the perfect king or perfect queen by body and soul by body virginal and spirit declare with the immortal king and Aaron wresthing that was The gathering of the mortal sons at the festival of the divine parent visit the queen with jewels and a circlet of the royal blue wrought with the jewels and dragons and dragons and dragons and dragons and dragons <|endoftext|> "Kokibu", by Robert Bly [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] In actuality, it is said, slightly by the king who died yesterday, at the Becalame, it is said, the king gone. All morning I had to wake up and remember the first day of Henry’s red park which I found among the grass. And only yesterday, a twelve months' grace, in Ash Wednesday after-goat Yrma, the kingfisher in the maples flooded the lawns, the winds harriveled off the moon. And alone, walking in my garden, I remember him and said, “Why don’ ======================================== SAMPLE 251 ======================================== "Exodus", by Polyjoke [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] To the world when I am still a child In this land of proverbs I speak Of the preciousness of God. Daily prayer seems difficult And thanks do not qualify. The battle which commanded it Is fought with submission. Please, please, please sit down and drink. You, who know what I mean With the cool of the mere, Will begrudge you that, In the midst of your runs And your tricks Of dishonor and lust, Which are trivial indeed And will be exactly unjust. Please, please sit down and drink. I drank enough of the divine. God, I am. You know me. And forgive. <|endoftext|> "This Singing", by Zbigniew Herbert [Living, Death, Religion, God & the Divine] All drunk or working at the end Of a really cheerful day; And some said, "Why should this be so? What care I how bright the sky Is with the little lives at play? God said, I did not want to die; And so the sad thing seems to me— Knowing what’s good, or what does yet agree. And yet I think I like to write A little in God’s hand, and say: "Let this no longer be to-day. Not for an age nor sex I’d choose To sing of parts, or once or twice, But as an angel takes the dice And straightens it again to choose. God like a bird, I cannot tell— He thought it best to have and dwell." That is God’s word. It’s clear again. God like a laughing fellow-maiden, Because she’s fit for some great cacher Who likes to do as heat arughs. And that’s the part God put it in. All repentant prayers toward one goal And wishes without end, some do. But how about this one, and why? The very minute he and I Do not and all is not and still ======================================== SAMPLE 252 ======================================== "The Rape of the Lock", by Edgar Allan Poe [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, War & Conflict, Gratitude & Apologies] Of the rape of beauty, the fenceline of old established walls and wheels tiled at the sides of great-mouthed cities. There they stood, there they began. Those choking rooms, the riven masonry of massive battlements that almost choked altogether, now beyond, now up again. Over them, a masonry of crumbling gothias as age after age calls. In each wall there is a yew. 5, _______ aya streaks reach heaven. On earth’s tallest, red idolatries, there are towns. All those ghosts, the stone’s great pedestals, numbs like gulls, they show to man as to beast. God has left but half left what man admires. Dust waits. And where goes soul. Home, they give in, give place to rot. 6 The strait street darkens, an east coasting lividness of levnation after hypnotist king winged. Their algalities flash, thunderclouds light the heaven. Sky is white, their scripted caps of light are cheap to the vulgar. In the black dusk, the skies mix gold. After one day, they must free themselves: a diminishing heightening still lives within the slime of badwardness they see.7 The strait street darkens, puteys, a worthless toy shop, with the sky’s impedeck range that would fully fit strangely. A still background, faint poplars shake the sky. From the sun’s bright stare, the sky stains the green sky. In the dusk, the sky scatters dark feathers, grey paint shimmers the sharp sudden vowels. Our fathers are conquered, our mothers waste the time on them, your brothers, and sires. And like water falling from a glass tomb, headlong to a coy flight they flock over a grave.8Memories seem to recall those once terrible nights. That strange dream hovering over the acts.9 The chorus of the lost that might only have been true.11 Page 1960 That evening the Spirit of the Night sent ======================================== SAMPLE 253 ======================================== "The Death of My Mother", by Linda Pastan [Living, Death, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] “No matter how little our baby is born,we don’t mind your mother, your father, who’s still my own,that’s all right. That’s all wrong, for mother, the baby, I mean. And I wanted you to stay,and my father told me to soothe him: for mother, the dreadful nights,when the firelight streamed through and shot through the roof.” <|endoftext|> "Ode on theimages Are the Lives of the Dead", by Linda Pastan [Living, Separation & Divorce, Time & Brevity, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Praise the cinema and ride it through open streets. Grudgeons and twins. Two in bed, affectionate in a cell. The hidden one, incommens. The night never closes between us, the stars on her rib. She doesn’t want us to leave the house she holds. She’s late,has no idea where we went. We’re alone,she says. You have ten. It’s summer, you must remember.You will never get the picture. <|endoftext|> "In Defense of Our Lady of Negativo: “The Duchess of Newcastle", by Linda Pastan [Living, Life Choices, Love, Desire, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Class, Gender & Sexuality, Popular Culture] The Duchess of Newcastle in old England was conceiv’d by her enthroning daughter, by her coquette and by her coquette. The duke of the kingdom put in place and commanded her to cross the Atlantic, go with her land and sea, appoint the ducal islands to be kiss'd of the wind, foxes thatever were wedded. She thought it the best of all and serv’d her daughter to obtain and use, but the queen was a dreamer. She left the island and dared not go. The duke of the kingdom put in fate. The ducal ======================================== SAMPLE 254 ======================================== "Ode to a Bop", by Harriet Williams [Living, Health & Illness, Life Choices, The Body, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] The Bop, The Bop, the Coped We don’t tee up. Give the party a vote, I think. Don’t go much like that. The Co. forgets our lakers. The men in bed here run away from school. The Bop, the Bop, the Coped, the U. I got old, old and creaking my knees just didn’t burn out; not for myself but for my brother— Dark blood. A kind of tie. —Oh, I told you. The Bop, the Bop, the Bop, the Cop! Who’s talking about your middle years? Who’s talking about your middle years? The either. I’m not. I’m not. <|endoftext|> "The Bop, the Cop," begins. A perfect level, as I stand here, my mind, around the world begins now. The cut, the cut, the cut, becomes freeman, freind, freeman is bad beside the cut, I am no longer that poet, that puppy, that soldier, who sleeps inside his desk, who crawls toward the sound of song on his roundboard without dew, with his print-pink furs, and eyes blue as the ground below. <|endoftext|> "Literary", by Rae Armantrout [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] You may note on the local news item, ocheuse the smallest As to name the neighborhood And county army, if You hand me a letter and call to attention the Name countries where we are told that we have come over To find the cover Of the mountains At the old date. And if you discover that water can turn The weather pattern All the same, you will depend Upon the closeness Of the mountains or the sides Of the small canals. Or if you feel that it can Look at the clouds ======================================== SAMPLE 255 ======================================== "from "The Galleonship of Israel", by Arthur Szybist [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] 1 If I should go now to the master, I'd find out where my master could find what way to wash the sands he could find where he could find it making a house in, he said when his heart was so big that he wanted to open the door to the man with the tongue how he would eat sand on what side the one there with the earth there beside the one there with the earth and find the body with the tongue there with the earth and the language he could find the cell in—the one with the one with the earth there with the earth and the silence in the silence.2 They answered and they asked him he asked them he questioned them he asked them he asked them he asked them they asked him the meaning of what black mouth the mouth the mouth of the only tongue for the tongue in the mouths of Eternity The mouth of Eternity <|endoftext|> "Sonnet ["Spout of the valley of God, availing Him]", by Isaac Szybist [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Jesu, Jesu, Jesu] learn from the first of hymns: ‘The kings of angels are the lords of hell." Look to the third: yonder pompous crowd, marching in gold against all kings, they swarm on every side and are away. They rally, they drink, and grovelle, lo, they are torched. They talk of Jehovah’s mightier form than time has swept. In the flesh of this world what shall be the saviour? Ask theider, ask the righteous, above all shall see: Bed is on fire, and at His word the seas transpierce the world like tides, as He commands it, watch from all created things, serve with His servants what shall serve His beauty and Humanity, in praise of bud and blossom-tree. The glory of His Word the mountains know, the rivers drink. In Him we live, and serve Him as of old, as King of Kings; and the Great Pow'r, Son of the Lord, is never found.4 The Lord is King, and made ======================================== SAMPLE 256 ======================================== "Idiot", by Thomas Traherne [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Nature, Animals] It felt like putting on the unattete mass     ...      lad.”        The north wind & the low, sinking into the orchid leaves. “Drab-kamus.”     ...          in the milk bag      ...                                                                                                                                                                                      ======================================== SAMPLE 257 ======================================== "End of Earth", by Amanda Jernigan [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, The Spiritual] The earth puts on her coat of white, And color seems to spring: Her hat it turned, the mother stirs, And then her face awakes. She takes delight in little things, And little ones, I ween; Of sand and plumy wood and bird, And flower and mean and between. In nothing is so good for food, But to procure and spare and eat; Thus food is sure of perfect food, Since it is good of meat. A mighty whale along it smiles, And puts a sea-mark on; And some huge things take delight, In such society that day. A whale will laugh, and nought will frown, When you drive round and round, But the whole world misgives the hind More sense of ground than sound. <|endoftext|> "Lines", by Amanda Jernigan [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries] It seems so like the songs We sung to the trees; But the music, oh! how sweet, Enraptured, intense, Is more like a lover's beatThrills the air. The magical isle it wreathes With woodbine and vermilion, And everywhere the people breathe Is more like a lover's longing. A terraced pasture it enchants, Sacred and peaceful and enchanted, And through the lovely meadow-lands It hurries down the country lanes, Up to the hills, and then again Wheels Oaf, or swallows flying grain. You are like those sunlit waves That restless ever flow About a placid, tranquil ocean, Lifting to heaven its slow motion, Afar and very far away, That seem but just a gloomy frond Of some waste sand, the farthest off Of some mysterious far-off world, Where never an smoothly-moving cloud But hides itself away, And you are like that smiling calm, That calm that does not cease, And where the common things of earth Know nothing of a common mirth. <|endoftext|> "The First Line: On the War at War of Spleen for Miss M ======================================== SAMPLE 258 ======================================== "A & W. M. Courthian", by John Taggart [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] To my child, the wind: The nightingale sings all night, Over the old book; Where the prim, the silent even, The lone cricket whistles; Where the rushes, in the twilight, Their innumerable hues ensue. Where the leisure-tellers, by trade unfed, In boundless poem keep, And the merest rumor, half conceal'd, Of the hurrying shadows gather'd, Are as myriad, sweet and good. * * Down to a point ... And a day like this, look round, Around the buss or privet-dry; By critic flash, what readiest mark Of rational t' observe the laws? While in this flat, yet even appeal To something fiercer still, which claw'd our father-tree. * With copious blindness, that to childhood grew, The farther clan-deceiver have to go, Pillow'd, an age outworn by many years, The fertile soil which gave it birth, Has crop'd the wild flowers, and from India brought the Tyrian suck. *My father's sword ... And a life which makes my children weep; A life which oftentimes does yield the field, A life which oftentimes does yield The palm, the olive, and the vine, And still, O ever, and a fruit, life's all Time's best and bravest friend! * And when the present night is past, behold A race of life whose cheerful smiles are old, who cling To the same cherish'd herbs which the rude sun did shed In the palmetto life, which once led all the dead! O ye whose smiles, dear brother of my days, Shine indefinably upon my sad ones there, And on the selfsame face of my own days, * And, when my eyes are open, and the earth begins To yield herself to them, who must give birth And all generations pass like the great seed That rears its single seed. O ye, who, when your stores shall waste, By waves still heaving high upon the rock, Look up and listen to the harp-strings' rhyme, Or think to drowse on yonder, nay, the changes Of linked sweetness, each unto its end, And each unto his portion,--if at all, Fate takes delight, and ======================================== SAMPLE 259 ======================================== "Sic Memus", by Charles Reznikoff [Social Commentaries] For David Freedman I read the message from his mouth, his sleeping face with the heat in, the need and the care and the need in, his rosy hands pressing the heat against the wall in, his pricked-out bloods suddenly grown inside begin I read that from his neck, the fever at his side, his mouth split when he was wont to sing to the tension his mouth shoved in consonancey rhythms, I read that in his face he took some kind of human life for sweetness and for sharpness, but was trapped like a fish to a pike in a camouflaged fishlike fishlike fin hungry and strong enough to bear to be taken by one or two but let it kind of slip like a flake in the constant tempest then break out in the darkness. I read that at his mouth the coolness in his throat sickens with the incurable passion of tunefulness then searing the coral of his hand. I read that at his mouth the coolness in his throat sickens with the sharpness of godliness then at the plowing off the earth where horses could never get by, harnessing the rust, and peeling up and down under the earth where men could never see, fading. I read that at his mouth the coolness in his eyes dries from the press of greedy values and the blindness of eye peering at what was lost and what was lost in the fresh savor of the land, light born and haze, light warm and heavy scent called desire prophesied to glutton, meatless and foot-drunk as niggers make the samadh in the neck and parched, the bag pushed up and down and each pinched squat head hooked to the feeder. I read that in his mouth the coolness is beginning, the belly takes from the cannibal, from the plate that will enable to fill at the mouth with some unguents and some warmth, some salt, a few fruits, the stranded shoulder-blossom still flecks from the feeder, shrunken and apart, fingers, shrunken, and fat. I read that in his face the stillness we know of him, the savage feature of the jaw, the ======================================== SAMPLE 260 ======================================== "From “Euphorias”", by Emily Wilson [Living, Death, Growing Old, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] I Gnats’s Pearl The farmer threw a whiskey barrel as though driven by a madman who’d blown a flying serpent over his head until his visage began to thicken; then he started up and roared along the well—Sir Diniz did, sir—the sound was like the rising of a rain-cloud from the walls of a house of ice. I was wondering if he’d heard so much before opening the door, or inside his brain. The night he draped himself over the foxhole of his neighbor’s cot as he left the door. Then he climbed and bade me do the three-hundred-pound Abysson and beaver his half-venturied feline that I might tear pyrote upon the Cliffs, and boldly take the break. Then I told meself a full moons live on horses’ heads and listen to the heels of the horses’ feet until the horses' hoof-beat hooves’ rustled as they pawed the dust. Then I pushed the rain in, the great gas stove — the night moved to the method to practice — air-fangled dragonflies drowsily spit out their bodies in the gutter. No more could I help it — and each mouth discovered an ache of the crows. Once I dropped a fare knife to my neighbor’s grenadiers’ strapped beside me. He cut me at the belly — and as he sliced me at the belly in the belly — the nipple scarred, but no second comes to kill me — the thud of the steel on my neck — I am no longer at home. II I don’t exist. I’m young enough to look at this. We are all trying to outface everything. The clock stares, sharp as a razor. Or the gun, its high-spiny eye helmet tilted; I am so afraid. I am in the black, I know nothing about the sun. All the time nothing sticks to me. III The night ======================================== SAMPLE 261 ======================================== "Piano", by Jilliam Fay [Arts & Sciences, Music, Theater & Dance] All the new women are singing this song... Not for us, but that chorus, the divine Piano, those touching things could just beAddressed With so sweet a refrain. Your sweet longings Come softer than musical "O" though. Bowing Head downward, but downward with firm feet. If you want a soft piece of yourself, then you get Steep pipes for your own lips, and at last you're Curling back into the box... The beloved of gods, Made to give delight to the mind of a woman, Looks when she meets a girl... The unappalled eyebrow At your approach grows pale... The approved smile Of this world I begin to know full soon... As the waltz you're eyeing, then you beg him Send things his face looks up and cut them tight... He might come in at the time so, like a man... Rub all hands at his elbow, and move gently... Lend a hand for his brain hammer, so... He might have done it before, for you save him. <|endoftext|> "A Few Miles Below", by Jilliam Fay [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature] When there are deer in the woods and fir, when there is pine, when there are pine, when there are all birds are singing, when there is rained room in the poplar wood, when tossed by wolves are dying, then you must have your way, then there is fire in the woods above— then there is a hunting owl going out of reach, then more, then there are clouds in the woods above— then there is clouds and plains and mountains and moons and icy lights and bars to open the forest door. There are lice in the trees now, and at the level before much men sleep soundless, shaken, shaken by the rattle of chain flint, like the ditches that break their necks in mist, before the light has died away, then there is a reef of light caught at the heavens by the echo of voices that love and are gone without the light. But there is no sound. There is no light. The horn’s distant and less than seen is far away. <|end ======================================== SAMPLE 262 ======================================== "Ars Poet", by Jonathan David [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The ox and the ass are white and clean, Come, sit in Jesus' house with me. He loves to read in art and life, He loves to write in human life, I am like a bird, like me. But I am different, he and mine, And I am O for wings and feet, And like a bird I fly in fear. Come to me, fellows, like me, like me, brothers like me, Soon you'll be coming, though the wind blows loud, And I am waiting, though the falls be hard. Come to me, brothers, like me, like me, brothers like me, Soon you'll be coming, though the wind blows loud, And I am waiting, though the falls be hard. Then sit in Jesus' house with me. <|endoftext|> "From the little Shepheard's Song", by Jonathan David [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I have a little wife, Mary, That sits upon my knee;When thou art seated, tie her up, And I cajole and see.So play, my little girl, and I Shall have a Little Love, know thou!So keep house while I sing, Mary, And I'll butter it with wine. <|endoftext|> "Pigfly", by Jonathan David [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Pig fly a button's line, Pig fly a button gate, The foot it shoves your sh dexter-crutch To fall again at no great price. There's little use insun tonight, You pry your poultices off, Mary, But, if you had a share, what sorrow, From your small charity a penny, You would help the double invited, For the country doesn't know your glory, Where your kindness and your mirth, But rude in your beds, sing "blind out" To the sky, where nothing has a handle. There's nothing that can't be got so far, But you must bend whatever you ======================================== SAMPLE 263 ======================================== Ah, can this wretched Till, in early youth Steal Fear and Fears before my speaking truth? My sighs, my tears, shall not a sigh remain Far off or fail me when the Crimson Pine Fails in the distance of the Crimson Sweet, Or whistle in the hedge for any wind. Not that I care what noise or wrangling cry Makes up the Cridge where the Crimson Pine Falls in the distance of the Crimson Sweet. But when, or where, I listen there and mark The man, or rather in the distance dim To me who am myself, or moved to hear The name of one I name another name, The accented with the accented light; For all these sounds there is no saying, say: 'The 5 of June made morning as the Glass;' Or 'tis a heavy on us when the glass Of morn goes glimmering to a tinement pane; Or is it still the blackness of a dream Wherein there burns eternity? And can this after-suddenness be grief? Or can it be that when my heart is pierced As with the Crimson bloom of other days, And I am happier than all the rest Of men whose hearts are pierced and pierced, The pity of it will be out of me As some sharp-pointed arrow touching through The fibre of a fibre. I have been Taken from some one in the nets of sleep To float above this quay but fearlessly To draw the bottom closely; have been taught That there is no more need for anything, Except to show how far the arrow went. So have I lived, and so have I become As one who feels the wounds of some quick breath, And can continue living, and the world Be over on me for a little while. I am very weary of the beating Of men who breast the heat of battle; I have lain too long distraught In mind and body. I have risen too long For no man reason to resist me; Yet, since I have been glad in many ways, And too long fond and too young grown a man, I shall lie here, contented, contented. Listen, my beloved, and rest your head. It is not well that all the battering of war ======================================== SAMPLE 264 ======================================== "An Old Man on a Wall", by John Ciardi [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, Money & Economics] He lives in the street, singing, marching, Suddenly breaking through all the trees Blown seemingly through all the air Of an animal radio. He smokes. He sweats. He thinks of the ferry or market Covered all over there. He thinks of the friends he’s made Coming back on the enemy. And he knows he will never surrender, Being so young in so small a station As to yield himself to the choice If only he is able to stand. And there is a feeling of “failure” That glitters in a chance-carriage And a certain kind of “I can’t believe it” Falls upon his lips, that they may Somewhere, fall in for the chance. <|endoftext|> "Reflections on “The Dangers Of Night”", by John Ciardi [Religion, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] “The Dangers of Night” is the saying of a watchman, Night being the seal of a smouldering machine. “Everyone living in darkness is buried alive,” Says one night, writing of a world That every planet is still alive. The watchman rose by the evening sign, Went down to the earth, seeking his bed. “The Spinoza is dead,” he said, As a question of sharks, so many deaths. A man and his orchestra rang out In chorus from other country around. Space and dread were unknown to him, And his instrument was a pound of light. “There’s no escape” he said, And images from out the blue heavens whipped Were not salvageed by a single air- And-flight signs that others have ruined. He loitered barefoot on a clean stone floor, And saw in the shadows a violinist Standing in darkness, behind him rolled A clean ball’s drum ======================================== SAMPLE 265 ======================================== "Brother and Sister", by Allan Peterson [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] In the ancient town of Traple. On its sides, in order that helmet don, defend Ouse, a real enemy of the Germans and Rutuli; the noisy place will be Sladen on the ground; and not far from there are the old women and the little girls I know. Down through the streets past the hotels and the gas doors, past the gas doors and the people in the rivers and the storefronts and the lights, to be sure to become everlasting boys in this wide and ringing place, that old hulk, huge and straight, that familiar shape. The main cathedral black with colewoscent, the platform blue against, that other draft, the black-walled town. The houses are solemn with a high shrill cry. The procession flags are brought here to the market square, and cloaks of citizens, more sensible and just and familiar, come back with the curling foam of flimsy well-laced gowns and the white kabolins and kerravats and the grey-boats and the peasants with their kerplains and swans. A paler voice than that of Ira bay, prefudingThe Countess of Rutul bridge across the bridges, her father with his five sons and daughter and little daughter and the sister who lost their wedded husbands and daughters to the unfriendly wooers. The father and daughter share alike the pitiless dissigner and the aimless quarrel. So Ira plead, so it ends. In Jerusalem, in Judaism, in Alcatraz, in Agramar, the other Jews, the other Jews who lost their wedded husbands and children and their sons and their young daughter. And even in Ireland, water, wind and fireside, we are destined to make peace with the rest of the chosen of the Achaeans. In Jerusalem, the Lord hath said that again for all our sins, after the Lord hath manifested the secret in the basin, he shall cleanse ourselves of our afflicted passions, and loosen the thread of our affections and speak to us in a sweet voice, and tell to us how we forget sisters in our hearts. So we are told. So we ======================================== SAMPLE 266 ======================================== "The movie of Puss, a small-coat piece", by William Cole [Living, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] For Punch, a six-year-old beggar blind (“Punch” was the name he bore, “and Punch’s a beggar’s fortune”) Saw that bright cavalcade and felt its like a larch, a saint, Saw that it cost a dollar for a cloak, And bought it at a Hanselah market, hot and slow, Saw it as it scarcely slid the silk away And tied it down the maiden surpléd gown And ribbon white adown to which it shone, Tinging the bodice with a scarlet crane. “Punch” was the name the “Pick” of what could possibly mean. “Pick” was not mean as much as it was real, Or what it was; and so might choose Any expression better, if “punch” was not real. It was or ought to follow what I chose, Or shouldn’t choose the name at first as fact. Not since there’s not any use in writing but relates The scenes whichribb these times. German Square-light, Greek or Latin, masks The common word. Being in the strict and quiet city The same, too, and the same Which is, by the same And lucid shadowings of the pictures in the cheerful eyes, And by the same Inviolated lips, And by some vast and inward insight ( Room in which for years but three years came To be composed of other sights so personal) Which is exactly the same In the mind of the object— Not the uttermost Beauty but the wordless thought The sublime. And further still, Just to let the thing be just, the heart, Just to take the thing and keep the one Guard while it lasts. As for the other end, it was this way From the natural end. But now, as the mere act and countenance Is shaped and measures by a mask ======================================== SAMPLE 267 ======================================== "The Last Man", by Michael Brennan [Living, Death, Nature, Animals] “And what’s between?” The yew forestwhere I shot in the beginning of winter had enough of life to be given. I ran to it as the hound did, and never ran away. The day had been a bad night for her and for those other days. And how could I find out this track ofdecorating juries? I tried so hard to know what I tried, but my aim was to bring her back. After the third of the fall was many days and many days to follow. And mainly that day I tried to study what I ought to do. “You’ll have more to do,” she said, “turning around so slowly. Some way at home, my friend, you’ll just enjoy what you usually do.” And then she would tell me of the fact that I’ve plotted for myself what I’ve needed: for you, and for myself, the first bitter drops, the rest; and she wouldn’t understand what experience might have come. <|endoftext|> "In Golden Gate Park", by James Jenny Xie [Living, Coming of Age, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Philosophy] In Golden Gate Park’s the day is breaking, only the timeless moments of the night sketch the sky’s high promenade of flying goldenness now and never a late, dissolving splinter of black glass. But in Golden Gate Park’s the morning breaks. The sidewalks bask to me like cars at a funeral or the stars like blind lights waiting on cars long since gone. There, to the streaming windowpane, the little birds scarve to get ready to swoop, and the sky’s yellow and gold. It is the end of hunger that slays the bird. But sky, sky, dawn, all those birds, that once wade underwater, forget the ways of those who bred, the color of air, the color of dust. The sun rests on a bunch of spits, barely alive, a few needles. The sky rests on a bunch of spits, ripe to the sky, yet scarcely worth the looking. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 268 ======================================== "License", by Juan Delgado [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Sciences, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] I must have genuinely admired this place, I must have had a privateince I do not see why things are here I must have been your friend I cannot know what to find Let me keep the gifts on my door Let my room have the ones we can Let the boy who takes me whatever Lives in my mother's lap Let me wear my gardened name I don't want to tell you everything Let me stay close to your house Let me give you a piece of something Let me sleep in your own home Let the word campfire Let me have a smile on your face Let the cat knife light Let the blaze go out Let the light fade in your house Let the face beam through your hair Let the vowels be carried to the river Let the killing grasshopper sing at all your trees Let the mockingbirds call at all your flowers Let the wild-bee trumpet among the branches Let the bumblebee come among the leaves A love song rings us all along I can never understand this dream before beginning We must live in a different world Let the boy go to bed Let the day pass through your mouth Let the flowers do the sameAfter the swallow Let us plant the hollyhocks from your Let the wild-bee pass by the empty house I know my lot is hard and hard, I have found out that the sky is a burden to the spirit Let the bugler go when the day goes home <|endoftext|> "The Huron", by Juan Delgado [Living, Coming of Age, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism, Independence Day] In the excitement of the strike... I imagine the accordion, drawn by the desperate force of the accordion, bled “The Chorus of Wigs”—how, among the Sioux graves, the little quinc squadrons of the valiant cause of the war circle, plaintive like grass, how red ======================================== SAMPLE 269 ======================================== "John E. intoxication", by John Yau [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Summer] In creation was every crash of light and song, every din —the worlds pushing without sound, for the long day spent. Let them huddle in the awareness, there never been so much. A woodpecker in the throat —in the apple, meat, chest, ear -- where invisibly there exists a single voice. —ocket bertree de ciel chard dans les moments. —oh, songs!—what’s poetry, of course! Well, it’s a strant and mighty song, loud, sweet, and strong. —Jean shared her baronial store, her easy shelving, her hand still tender enough for love: "When I was a child, I brought my white wife home (I smelled her stock) in her (Le Maisier). I loved her from the very weakness of her. I often think she might have loved her like a woman. I prefer our friends in her brown rough dress, and we talk about her life even as it’s often done by—too late, I know; but the truth is, I’m not even anxious to go on reading. That was many years ago, when I was a tender young lad. Now I’m reading a poem about the winter when I was a dainty, smiling boy with the eyes of baby Smudges on the cheek. What a woman! I was not so willing, I have always no word in what is written. As to the name of that poem, the thing is still there when it’s revived. It isn’t. It is still ignicently through and through of childhood, years, life’s hard-earned, childhood’s little cupboard, backlit by love’s unending toys. So it is, says the good man, walking by the curb. And I am speaking of that girl’s early toys, and standing there, I never held my eyes from that wall of flowers. It’s the girl who says, and I lurn my promise. I pour a sea of love in ======================================== SAMPLE 270 ======================================== "Old Greenwich Spleen", by Clarence Major [Living, Life Choices, Midlife, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] A B HAND is the other night’s. She’s lostHer bonnets in her pub, The cat has been to dally, The birds are singing a Sunday.A B HAND is the other night’s. I was in a tiny house, My mother laughed. She meantTo scowl, to tease, and crow, and chagrin rheum.A B HAN hooves large the sky, to see Her little ones lie cauld. A B HAN fears the wind to come and wet The windows of this little hut. I know that the largest of the cat cat moons, He is great. I hope I must say quite nicely That all the whole of his achievements is his.He sits there with a pretty T, like a cat in ass's skin And everything that has flown so long as I’m not, As if the times were not wholly his, And to the moment’s least wish, is to be a strong steamer. He made a pig, for the table and the spread. He’s now a saint, and now the most prodigious. I believe that he is a, and he’s a made and light saint, And he’s a common being in all my foolish views, And all my abstract tendencies and notions,including his own, My dereable cat. A B HUDS LA. FABILLION. FirstMonstony. Change to Snow. Bottom. Bottom. Bottom. The foot part. Tippi. And more part. The sun on blue. Bottom. Not there as the knows, which could he see was the wind and the way the world was before the earthquake. It was then as if even each rent landscape were at the haven of his wavering. Bottom. The sand part. Bottom.Mutters. Minut. Jean. Clitumn. Bottom. Adam. Dir. Dylan. Children’s troupe. Clitumn. Sunon. The putrescent. The whole sky of the hard sky of the hard country is beaming with sufficient sun on your palm. Down the well, the light of the planet is passing. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 271 ======================================== ALONE there is a rock, and the salt sea never comes surly; There are no old men, and the grey men only; For years, the pale nun-smoke speaks the old enemy Of home, and the smell of her thick-crouching gable, And of her curd-rook hair in the wind-bent snow, And the scent of her hollarch tossing as she goes, And the tang of her red-roan flowering in the grasses. Yea, even the folk that lie upon the hillside, These are the earliest; but the beasts are most horly men. O women, O dear swift-fingered of spirits, How the cool drips from her fingers fall upon us, How the oleanders drag us, how she holds us! Take us and bear us, and give us love, and trust us, And spin the songs of the rain, and gather kisses, And give us flowers and fruits, and harvest kisses, And oil and wine and oil and corn and wine and oil, And that day even in the earliest hours when the sun Suddenly shining walks the earth forlorn Of her lost love, should you come to me, my dear, And thou would'st not remember, nor would'st yearn For the low note of the bird nor the wild note Of the far note of the bird, nor the wild swelling Of the wild wind among the trees, I'd give thee my love, And kiss thee, and I know what it means to love thee. THE Sun is sinking, I hear a voice calling me. The white clouds founder to the western rim. Come, O white, and let me go. The west wind comes, and with a keener spring Pearl waxes and wanes, and the pale sky burns, Like a veil of crimson, over all the hillocks. Come, and let me go. It is spring! and all the earth is alive With the breath of the Spring. The young year has carried his new, fresh age, And never a leaf is heard in the grove But afar, and the growth has put off its veil, And the growth has taken and flung loose the cells, And the growth has taken, and flung loose the cells, And the growth has taken, ======================================== SAMPLE 272 ======================================== "Yesterday", by Charles Reznikoff [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] What man shall resist thee, Saint? —Goddamn goddamn guilty guilty guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is guilty is gu ======================================== SAMPLE 273 ======================================== "Vita", by Gertrude Stein [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] A stork sobers Iraqi prisoners home for its buildings, moaned itself to avoid the eye it’s re-churning tonight to learn it likes its size and its self-flesh its and is a candor Diorama. Benevolent shovelace trying not to exalt itself into the spine of  your ingenuous ignorant body a reproach to the frozen parts of humanity. Our names are spit like gnats on bread we do, put off the hook, not pluck the biscuit from the vine of  your snout. Our lips wound themselves into honey, the roots of your hair we love so are they and so is our pearl. <|endoftext|> "Poem", by Gertrude Stein [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] It is a tragedy. Its history? We learn. It hangs from the reedy water. Its delicacy. Its delicacy. Its delicacy. Its richness. Its richness. Its weight. Existence. Frog-ball (arch-Ermine?) It spreads. Its rhythm. Its weight. Its wily. Its languorous melody. Its soothing, Languid way. Its sweetness. Its weight. Its sweetness. Its weight. It lingers longer. It is a poem. Its weight. Its weight. Its influence. It is a way of longing. It wearies. Its ferocious aptness. It is a way of exploded and mute. Its ecstasy is The primitive. Its fire. Its grace. Its grace. <|endoftext|> "Interability", by Yvor Winters [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] 1 It was in that ancient, time ago, In the forgotten time long time ago. Recited, then, in some place In history’s hidden book of laws. Recited, when ======================================== SAMPLE 274 ======================================== "Memorial", by Jake Adam York [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] That is the final thing to do. There are no setting, only the grass. No waking to go to the next life, no hell unfolding, no dying to take the place of the body. —CHARLES DARWIN, The Jester Peace, you blind gray head, and then the sun Gives you a day will do. It will be done, and then the night will die, And then the stars and women do. In truth We have stuck out slaughter all the time, And drunkards, scambling dope, And in our sleep, you sink, poor devil! For all our joy. A chain of serpents are the bane Of bitch returns, of slutterers dreams, And death is one day of a twy. O ’sprain are you all to be undone, You must roll in one corner cold. We must catch rice around in a half-hour’s idleness, And puff, and dance, and have our fill. We must go to school, and then again We must thump, with loud, affected laughter, But always laughing, like a man. <|endoftext|> "Incident", by William Blake [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] Indicative of the passion of the war’s raging selves, the invader of the universe, the universe is preparing its final day. The lightning’s flood giantly pours, shower after shower, bursting the clouds break out into a gray grouver, frantic in fear lest the thunder’s impetuous descent may be controlled. Mud clouds the revelry in the cave of the cave, the din of unleashed thunderbolts is heard in the wind. Music is getting soft as feathers And the storm sing songs of the coast that is without method or space. Music is loud in the void, the down-rushing, the remorseful, The anger of the murder of heroes. The forest is full of several sounds, for it is beautiful as it is beautiful. The cataract comes sweetly, shaking the dark sea. <|endoftext|> "Fragment", by Wilfred Owen [Living, Death, Sorrow ======================================== SAMPLE 275 ======================================== "Perspective Song", by Ava Razaars [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets] Your nightingales are your best, And you no longer sport at these, Nor shiver when the skies are blue. As yet you have small cause to care For comets who come hourly blest. You have your little hour to play With, or with, loves that time has away. You do not care to let them go, You do not care to win the end Of these or anything you know. It is not that they so become Like this or that brutes in different shires, Bakerskin wagons, comforters and peers, Not that you think them benedictions, Nor their insight, smiles, nor their graces, No - these are your daily guesses. O sing unto her who is dead, And bless her, that of you be fed! In gardens, or guides you have none, (These wanting is the following tongue) But here in London streets, these same Reliable ears shall come. For all the world is such as craved Palace and palace and the road Which has no Princes in the Court, - No womankind, no womankind! Therefore the best of unions goes In this or the other way, you know. So here you are in no great hurry. Others must live their lives as well As they do for a career of woe. Here is the penalty for falsehoods Which women take in plague and rout; Here is the penalty for sins Which are to pay the whence they get them, And not to save some wounded hearts And others placed upon the blisses. Here is the penalty for sins Which are to pay the whence they get them. The women are not having sympathy With their own misery, because They ought not to consider how They ought to put on mortal show. You lovers, in a way that's different, See what could not be done by you! Had you remained in this way, you had known it ======================================== SAMPLE 276 ======================================== "I Go Together", by Jennifer Jennifer Wong [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer] I go Together my nightgown and shoes on a basket the sun gets hot, y badly I look for names as the pilgrim precedes the first row after the bus has arrived. At the bus, I feel bad from having every attention I own but what will I do? I think it best to take something for a furtherRestaur, for this is the way this poem is a poem poem poem that has nothing to do but form and substance and all that appears to me is the universe <|endoftext|> "For the First Fog of October, Tomorrow Star", by Jennifer Wong [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, The Mind] Whatever I do, I guess I will burn the stars, forget there are shelves inside a note or so, when I ast my father that this is a shaking tree, and the moon says that cadaver says that cadaver says that that for that nothing is one of us. That’s a feeling of godless weak-heartness and all that I can do cadaver says that nothing is a burden of the oceans that my head will be heavy and so I pray my sins into the light and I don’t go on to tell the ghost’s sins though I still like the ghost of a poem. <|endoftext|> "Poem", by Jennifer Wong [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] for Ken Mikolarum I can see the vertical irritants blowing—saying, ‘Come to me, Baby, this is marvelous.’ — We listen to a bird singing. There is no escaping poem. — No, just say, don’t get shot sleeping. It’s like this. It’s like this. DonWalk on no no, not go under. It’s not the military or the imaginary information that fills the history. The only question we have is ======================================== SAMPLE 277 ======================================== "An Instrument Also", by Donald Revell [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The sunlight blurs through the studio, A broken-glass of water. When I get to the window the eyes weep From the bones in the background. Yesterday afternoon the dead were playing with the chains Breaking off the flesh. It's the Impaler staged ceased to be The eyes have begun to wander About the trunk of a great big tree. It's white as the white of it, but once I try To pull the veins out, the veins in their circulation Thro' the years But I can't recall exactly how I feel. I can't recall exactly when I throw the bed straight Beside the windows we have built together. I think continually that I was always hungry. It's enormous beneath my fancies In these old papers Almost to the times out here, Almost to maps where they are notAnything to be seen. Oh joy! Joy! Joy! The blue sky broods and the swan’s speckled Water sings hosannas in heaven and fades out Ere the green sun can set and I can still walk on Shivering the blossoms we have built into a poem. The bare green mountains cannot’ve drunk The snowballs they have burned with their lust To nothing going either, their drasms accusing Meant to be its odour; yet the grass gleaming With its grass tassels, its foam lilting against the sky. Only its slight rain flows Over my head, and in it blows Like rain. There is no song enough, And this bare row of hands, That I toss in the eyes of my skull, Fill me full to the brim, in a dream. Sweating with my love The wood, in my boats, is enchanted. It’s white still and a little stone Crying out, “We have built! We have built!” And my head is in a circle, And, though I am eating a ball of wildflowers And ======================================== SAMPLE 278 ======================================== "A Baby", by Jordan David [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature, Animals] Under the window where I stand in the hot air Beneath a battered orange sky I raise my grapefruit and look into long candles. The same mouths are all of antiflow receipts. The old ones in the vineyards weed themselves In the long hush of the barn. I wonder about the great Rapha on the radio. In the distance the River is lonely because it flows Down like a moon through the zodiac. In the sky the 9,eus, lead into the zodiac. But the Mesopotamax sings of light. And our life on earth is a flake of fire. <|endoftext|> "Morning Prayer with My Father", by Jordan David Freed [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Should I feast today? Cold as the bales of morning, rain collects and on the cold air buoying like particles of wet glass. But Sunday is Sunday and I am a house in the field. Morning is a noble lady placing her eye into the motionless mirrors where the sun is fresh as an ant, and there the wind is sweet with wood sugar and sardonyx. Bad kind that is, but there is a baby and something noble in the best of blades and dreams, not the moon, not the midnight blue of springing mornings, not tulips, and not an ox to worship in a stable. I offer my father my brother and a black box of gillyflowers to the wind in the fall when I returned winter morn to my own land. I claim him for a keeper. I am a black bonny hag, a fair weather god. I take pride in the chase when I belong to deer. The women I love are more sweet than anything and the things I love are more delicate than the sea. <|endoftext|> "Doorknakes", by Josephine Miles [Coming of Age, The Body, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Doorknakes, for the life of every brown one, do exist in the blood of every brown one but not in the light of each other. No needles created a gypsy spark in the threads of ======================================== SAMPLE 279 ======================================== "DELIZABETHOVEN HESPERTHETTIS", by Miller Williams [Living, Death, The Body, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer, Trees & Flowers] Deformity is dead. He is dead. He is dead, dead. The American Indian is dead. He walks with his friend, rotting. We continue a hunting on behalf of the bereaveditable trees. Their branches are gulped by rains. Their roots are in the earth and have been cut to the Atlantic—they survive. Destroy the insects. Compound our enemies. Kill the maggots. Bow down, bow down. Bow down at the sound of us. The crowd is eating and drinking, and the jeeps of us. Pangists leap to the ground. The woods scream loud with their anticipation—they are alive. We are drunken with wine while hearing the sounds. They are too drunken to walk. They scream for the right reasons. We scream while the meat is going on. They scream while the lights are eating. They scream when the guts are eating. They scream loud and still fight for a punt. They have erased all their aches. The air smells like eukt and some frogs. They are dancing all day. We spend our time thinking about the woods. With a continuous sobbing in the village. We vomiting wet tongues. A sound as of dogs and cries. Something inside men's shouts breaks in the morning. No TVs on the hillside are watching. Tired out, the trees are asleep. The clouds droop, clouds come heavy. A widow stabs a window. No plumbing on the town. Women are screaming in the houses. Men are shouting in the dawn. Men are snamping in the fields. Children are rowing there. <|endoftext|> "Cutting the Form", by Jake Adam York [Living, Health & Illness, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Class, Gender & Sexuality] The opening opens and the shutters up. A woman in an Lincoln green shirt enters. And in the rows you can see as she passes All come to pick something, While you remark, That a patient sufferer is the widow. ======================================== SAMPLE 280 ======================================== "To His Mother", by Linda Rodriguez [Living, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] Mother dear, what is a life what is a name? And my father from the city, from the city in my mouth, bursting the first word this is what my mother sent down, This is what my mother sent down, This is what my father and these, what my mother sent down, spelling, In bloody terror, In absolute terrible fire, in impatience, yearning for a name, what is a name what is a name what is a name what doth a name help, what doth a name help, what doth a name help, what doth a name help, what doth a name hurt I know that, I know that, I know that, I know that, I will die again, I think that— The dark is growing and the light is growing and the darkness is growing and growing, I think that— The dark is growing and the light is growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, is growing and growing, I know that, I know that, I know that, I will live and I will walk forever, I will walk forever, I will walk forever, Will wander always As my father did, I will give and give All I ask and confess me, All that poor men call wealth, Everything that I want Is spending my strength, And spending my health, The playing my ======================================== SAMPLE 281 ======================================== "Under Venus’ Looking-Glass", by Oliver Lucy Guard [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] When the gun has finally plunged into the deepest part of the forest, the branches have been swoping up and the vines have been papoose pawing upon them. And elephants lean from the shrubs. Their voices have been to me all slavering upward and then lifting their heads toward the sun. They are so heavy it’s almost unbearable upon them to look up. Their stations have been to me like quinine sprays in a boat leaning upon the boat so empty it’s far up the East then wound up by two angels. Their stations have been to me so empty it can hardly compass through the trees. I feel as if I’m swallowed meat and bone against the rowels of a broken boat. Sometimes they are dressed straightaway and the weight of the tub towers great and stately. Sometimes they seem to be waiting for some one to come and deliver notes from someone else that was sitting by. And they all still stand at the door burning candles and the water waiting in for some one to come. <|endoftext|> "An Address to the Rev. George Gilbeth Luna", by Albert Goldbarth [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] I’m not in your way but I hope you don’t mind me and you’re not here. I have been where you never cared for me too much. Together we made friends. Home atmosphere and bright sun need not be the same. If I came away from the road someone showed me her room in January the fall of dark, and I’d rather be there in it, wishing I’d never been on this road. And you’d say she’s gone over again inside your heart to start to download; you’ve seen me in the dark time of your life! Ah, yes! Some one stood by and whispered “You won’t come.” He told me I’d come to the door and sit. He took me in and softly led me to my room where I felt the cool air on her delicate skin protruding from her thin body. We cooled ======================================== SAMPLE 282 ======================================== "Fire Season", by William Blake [Living, Growing Old, The Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] The winter wind howls in the lead-sheets, The shadows fall on the canyons, The cuckoo in the garden fades in the evening, The white bees caw from the empty halls, And the child,Wantish and brown, From her playmates flown, Shoulders the last drawn, And thighs and hands grown small Leave the heart alone. But, if you press pebble to the bottom, After inspection, spare my mother, Lest when she give you the final knock you must give her the incomparable double “toasted sandwich,” you raise her, Muttering, “I have called,” and “I have called,” Loudly ruffling up the pine, “I have called, And I must return to the design.” Black and damp, The leaves fall, The sky of June grows black above my head, In shimmering lines, the water's surface I must rend in two. Hush, poise and drown. A moment more’s work over, It takes a while, but I can no more do it. I look up, see the day grows steadily down. The sky darkens and the clouds are no more about me, I call to them, they are not about me, And lift my head and take my breath, Look how the currents flow down to the sea! Deep down, and with little pain We quietly drop the word and then again Mutually fall back, The sound withdrawn, The light we saw through the salmon's teeth. <|endoftext|> "Catch and Run", by William Blake [The Body, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] I Over the rough and clay, Over the brightening air, I draw the dress winds make On the edges of the lake, And I cover the sky With a color made to fly And set my heart on the sky. II Whenever I get to the water, Under the fir stars the water will Come back ======================================== SAMPLE 283 ======================================== "Exchange", by Francisco X. Alarcón [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] 1 George Bernard Shaw O it is such an evening, when the lights go out. One arrives at a gas station by means of the US culture and talk between the US culture and the death work of a woman gambling exactly on a cellular weekend. Rising from bed toWork in the empty city, I walk between the busy grill and the noisy mart. What's left is the job, I do not mind the job, for I am the one who'll sell my job for two or three days of selling it. My father is in the special office, driving a truck, and my mother with her wide arms pumping me like running fire and the timid child who needs my turning back but for the mail, because I have to get closer to the cab and buy the phone. I am always thinking about the house, as they say, until September starts, because it's hell--and that's their love for me, and then they die, because the fire's mine but not the phone because I have the coffee table and the car is the engine, because I have the coffee table and the car is only the one thing I can get, besides, the love for someone and me, hidden under the covers because I am a woman, and because I am nobody. The village preacher is reading the words for law, trying to find the difference between a diesel and an old one, a chain house, a fund house, a fund house, and a black hole, and a view in the village.His small eyes bulge with delight as I drink. He laughs, but the stories are wonderful, how I relish the dregs I know, the sunfish and the dark corybantic orphans.How I relish them, you, he tells me. How I relish the dregs, the dregs.Once, in a space between a slant stop to riddle my sister Bunch, I was caught by an old recalmer,Who had lost his labor and was not sure he was there.How I relish the dregs, the dregs. <|endoftext|> "Deep Federal", by Elizabeth Woody [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] With George Szirtes I say the oracle of ======================================== SAMPLE 284 ======================================== "Tungstenup", by N. Scott The way the books do, you know, Doin' different, doin' low, You can feel 'way up in my lap Whylightin' window, or squirm A' the little boys on your lap Sometimes feel really happy. And you sometimes hear your lap Where you always put up your lap, And me don't know if you do, But it always does, don't you know, There ain't none like the lap. And you sometimes think when I squirm And grin in the best of my breath, That I do who live up in death, I am purty dreadful, with death, And no man alive has my cause. And the pockets o' things, you know, Don't they shine like the lap-dog's paw? And I wouldn't believe it, you see, As I did when I coughed in the ditch, But the lap-dog is pricked clean up, And ain't choked any more, you bet, And I hate the death of the lapdog. But, after all, it's the lap-dog. He's my great protector, you see: Summer is frozen an' old, The people don't know their wits Unless there's a pair of a kid, The lotion don't bite up the cheese, The duck don't strike up the cheese, But the water's so deep and so bright, They must fill out half a short night, But the spoonier can't cut them all white, The malt-pail's a distended lotion; So whether to strike the colt goes, Or whether to move the tack or whether The cow's cheese is the softest ox's lotion. Yes, it's down to the swimming pool And it's down to the swimming pool, When the colt can go over the bait, And the possum doesn't fool the swiper; For the maul's in the Others' paws, And the maul's in the other's's's bones. But down in the fall of the Saasse, And the maul's on the soft green savour, There is mirth yonder in the sun When the pluck has gone and the maul is done; And ======================================== SAMPLE 285 ======================================== "Cane", by Stanley Moss [Love, Desire, Romantic Love] Between the legs of flame, the long black ha lashesWith red as sun burns white as dawn,The hot feet of the swift black ha lashes hotter than love. <|endoftext|> "Through the Gate", by Stanley Moss [Love, Relationships, Men & Women] Outside the house, outside the house A face as white as the night wind blows Between the window and the night sky With a face like the dawn moon’s that tells tales Of men who’ve been forgotten or crossed At the entrance to the city hall Where Solomon’s violin bunch Was handled by two women One woman, two women Two women, three men A white woman, three men A white woman, three men Two pale women, three men A white woman, three men A white woman, three men Two pale men, three women A white woman, three men A white woman, three men Two pale men, three men A white woman, three men Two pale men, three men A white man, three men A white woman, three men A white woman, three men A white woman, three men A white man, three men A white man, three men A white man, three men A white woman, three men A white man, four men A white woman, five men A white woman, ten men A white woman, six men A white man, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white man, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white man, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white man, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white man, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men A white woman, twelve men ======================================== SAMPLE 286 ======================================== "From “Anagrams” [Living, Death] Curtained by weeds—chocolate, scentless, unburned—the dead have come to talk to me. Under the brown’s perfume, light sculled cherry bloom. Under the brown’s eyes— gears creaks from the dryer. Under the brown’s white silk—the black fruit flares into green through the burial muck. <|endoftext|> "In Hell the Units Are the Gallon Provo reded. In Heaven the signet-ed, the red-hot. In Hell the long procession of the plumes. The crocuses are the wedding-butths. The cornices are blossoming almond-like flowers on the wing. In Hell the plaits are the bones. <|endoftext|> "Encycles", by Todd Boss ... So this is the un- insinuating orange and gray. Do not gather in any manner you want to become an olive. It is hard for us to keep out of bad company. Don’t worry, spiders, we’re always glorious— but otherwise less smiling, otherwise shots. <|endoftext|> "Zebra Rigord", by Todd Boss [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities] The way a furious beast falls off a table and mumbles a few minutes then comes out with a velvet stamp and wipes his steel mouth, saying: You have wanted, and so it would go on weaving a dainty suit, so you have fallen asleep in the rage of seeing how happening to be checked. I think that guy with patent eyes might have revealed my friend, making a great big inkstand loosen and winking at the wrecked painting of the beast he is. I remember: He was noticing that friend when he dropped his head to me. He was laughing at a someone he hadn’t seen: I think the big figure Tryver, lolled out his beak, and pinned to the ground and fell asleep. <|endoftext|> "Kang Ching", by Todd Boss [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries] ======================================== SAMPLE 287 ======================================== "Wechest Nails", by Jessica Jopp [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, The Mind, Love, Romantic Love] Weavier on love and persistence for a muscular proportion at the creation of a great house more on hate and anger than hate than love belongs to the time which is how feet still must tread (similar subjects) toward the poles in their tracks and space between not moving (moves?) but presses forward its recession pulling the syllables back into themselves and growing their fetters to real whether they continue to ascend their last range of bodies or stay alive in any encounter with flesh or otherwise what can these kingdoms do about walking around these stones (about the changing of the old women's hair) so long only have life to complain about how the wars of the last world can disturb the sleep of the young (mild benediction that stays like the dead's teeth whether even the rain moves when he speaks) and gives them again to hear the third time the strong convulsive hum when causes distracting the hands that can raise them (mild ben departing certainiable body that huns for life and burns with the love of mother) So here's to the above for you: a high and gentle foster-father to your old dead’s own mother, whose faithful father gave her the little way, peering unflinching through the crowd through her garden to her grave, lifting a flower-crowned corpse to her and gazing toward the lovely face of her who was leaning on it, whose hand wast thou guiding? It's set all these wandering spirits to one death and I will not print these: all those wandering spirits to O-kiskel’s going out to search for mushrooms to come back to pick up the earth with their favorite wine-can (sign of a catch), like the young bride in a jeweler who misted across the garden to stray, the one freed by her lover’s voice as she stood in a garden chair by the garden of my childhood to see the play by the window of my world to see the priest implore his angel to set a wide room, to unclose his fast eyes, to hold over the darkened face of my world to lay his hands ======================================== SAMPLE 288 ======================================== "The Sun", by William Blake [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Religion, Christianity, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural, Horror] Where art thou, my infant, on the wing, Sennace of the world's fame? Where, while the incAugust sun descends, Dark, but not dark, thine antique ivy friends? Whence art thou borne afar? From coasts of snow, Where not a scanty ray invites the war? What murmuring wand may move thy mourner, now? What kindlier wind, what fresher bower allow? What kindlier breeze along thy fens hath borne thy blooms, Where, bending thy old tops, thou layest her spires? Where the bee's wing? Ah, in the primal hour, When the dim moonlight wanders through the bowers, Thy tender-breathing breath does gently flow, And floating through thine airy gardens blow, Thy sweet notes twinkling as thyself below. Where art thou, my infant, on the wing? Towering o'er thy puny state, thou flinging me? I, that o'er my feeble frame to spring From thy frail phantasy formed her wing, When around her vivid eyes amazed, The summer light of morning hours was gazed: I, I alone, O world-assembled wretch! To feel the pain of many a changeful year Even with the vile and curious feel thy care. With tear-ained eyes I loved to look upon thee, Bespeak the moody heart's high mild degree. I am thou--I, the lonely rock, that steep Lies deep and silver in my hilly bed: The silent moonlight on thy mossy bed. I, thou sole mirror over life's decay, And I thy Nancy, with thy eyes half hid In moon-enfolded shadows, o'er my heart Went gently stealing to its summer sleep: Fair as thyself, thy side was ever fair, I saw the same calm face with secret care Beaming, and I was trembling at thy frown: I wondered, when the slumbering eye half closed, And still the broken head was trembling o'er. "O monarch of the simple earth," I cried ======================================== SAMPLE 289 ======================================== "Jena", by Tiffany Higgins [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] My father, the student of the house and country, readjust as any book I had before, and, startled by my father, called me to the office when I was born. “Dr. Puzzeder beatthews,” he meant, “she ights and mom.” For a long time I was an old face in the hall, sailing home to translate the true stories of my childhood, each face looking pretty, looking at the painting, and on what “mountain,” I’d look the time the old faces would smile. “Is it any circumstance that keeps me here?” My father imagined, for the time of conversation, that I’d take to his chair, then ply the brush and, lingering still, I’d sit awhile, then, thumb his thumb, and finally get a sip, until I was borrophy, with a smile, across my mouth and his fingers until they got almost rid of the beard he’d had on my face. “You’re wrong,” he reminded me, with his face toward me, as though he’d been drinking a beer or at most. “But what are you doing?” my father asked. I answered him, shrug-to-ness, peering around, “I’m eating a pint. Don’t get hitewith your twentieth, you know.” As thus I pacified him I found a hole before me, and as he went off to the store, I showed it in his pockets. This I studied, then I found out I was working the yards wide, looking over the cliff. Nine is the story. When returned to home, father told me that father was a farmer. Well, my father told me he was on the marches, and in the winter he talked to us about the spring. For breakfast, he told us tales of the times the little boy was born, and why the little man never went away. As thus I told them the history of his father, and as my father told the story, how, without a friend, he wandered, and why the little man never went away. And as my father ======================================== SAMPLE 290 ======================================== "The War Office", by William Barnes [Living, Health & Illness, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] My name is Death, and they who war upon the foam, Have fought their battles blind; And I have lacked a voice to speak my last farewell: "Farewell, farewell," they say, "and all is well with the World", The land is torn from us; our flag is floating free; Rise up, Oh, rise, Oh, set our battle-fields a-Maying! Long may we linger here in gloom; Fareweld, and gone, We know not where we come. Yet there above the cloud that blackens o'er our sky, We see the little cloud ofarping: And each a memory of our loss deplore Culling their song of woe and misery once more. They, too, have brought their women strong to bear our pain— For us their children—for our sons, not they, They have left us deaf, who did not hear our song; And we have children—we have none. There are strange truths in the minds of men: The blind must see, All times and tides, and times and tides and tides, And what of life and its uses and its pride, And what of hope and courage and undying trust— Seeing that nothing can take form and colour from us But mud and snow and shining air. If we could know, we too could touch the spark Of life within the dark, And through the sparks and the sparks of death See the swift lightnings wing their way. We would find rest and a new crown for all our wounds— And Death—the little Dream. <|endoftext|> "The Invention of Ted Thoas", by William Barnes [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] From "Doe unto Death", by William Barnes [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] To the Memory of Ted Thoas <|endoftext|> "Hail", by George Szirtes When the time comes Unto what was, when Is the time at hand, when Are birds assembling, And great stones building With sconets and crowns, And distant smoke ======================================== SAMPLE 291 ======================================== "Last Poem", by Meghan O'Grady [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer] It's recyclatious in December and the moon don’t seem to change. The slate of a lost windin a matchlight is the only way to change. I knew in the seed never clings the grain, I knew when the wick I was hammering was all the beam spun out. That's how it is. But the sky, the hill and the wind and the wind are both dead and to live again, if only they give me permission to trip it off. Good-bye. <|endoftext|> "First Love", by Meghan O'Morality [New Year] Joy so flies from the door the ones visiting here. Joy so flies from the eaves the song birds have lit upon earth long days, long long days— Happy last days— from the star that was gone their return in the sky their return in the dawn. And joy so flies from the eaves the song birds have lit the songs that return when all eyes ask bass help and from the eaves sparkle there who was never. The ones who were here to snatch at a coat of blue deer in the driveway were gone as good or better men never woke damage from the air. The wounds they wore were never so red as these, and the ghosts they shunned them never let come past words that hurt and cured them kept me off too close to call them hanged. <|endoftext|> "Last Poem for All", by Meghan O'Morality [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Popular Culture] But yesterday I started to write how many years I had been a fool in the first dress, the sempyrthodies ... no one particular care or cause for such mirth. I hardly knew why I wrote that they liked it so much. Still, I found myself placed in a circle broken of the string of many years. The only time I could allow two woman-persons to descend from the windy rafter and raise themselves up into them, like an old ======================================== SAMPLE 292 ======================================== "Countrywomen", by Dawn Lundy Martin [Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] Country women like us have a social with a song or dance, and even though you're numbered with ten thousand hidden charms, you know that she's beautiful and popular as nearly all those blessing pride notes, you believe her you love and forget the Orpheards boys who have since assembled a procession so stately and solemn with a pride of surfaces, she's interested in art and letters that say Hello, you know! Oh, you don't like to believe her in a space with a collective family, her grand prophesy, her vast neighborhood, that allows room for many an hour of more than a hundred years of her grandpa, and every one to look up to her with a shake of magnifying grace, might thank you a little, for her in your world, so fragile and so intensely pure, she sits in the blue khalifa angels, and you don't envy us if we forget the name except with the memory of its own mother, an unknown minister whom I have met in the way of our travail. <|endoftext|> "Elm", by Donald Smart [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The schools of the sun are full and the roads are all of sand. The khalifa angels are biting from the crosses like barbed wire. The barns of the sun are all of it riffling like the “trough faisa” ships of China and mango the eyes of the forest, and the whole town purple like the sea, and salt like the river. Cars we cannot sum. The longings we cannot recall flocking trains, jump-ups that left the lanterns of steel and glitter like the shores of ocean. Life is too brief, and if we looked for a map we could find a map of distant shores. <|endoftext|> "Equation with the Stuke", by Megan Snyder-K eight [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas ======================================== SAMPLE 293 ======================================== "Sullen Recologue", by Thomas Centole [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] undressed in rags, all the torn branches and shreds of seaweed are cut loose from the ground; through tatters of debris and broken bits of puttards coil, don’t cry, and say:If you told them, the finer it is, the lighter the longer it’s brought it to you. Incandescence, pension, relation. Allons! The Natives with the light, the Second Coming Pods, a small, slim footage of birds passing by. They perch, and desire to make some sound out of their beaks, or their mothers screaming, “Hear the surf’s low clatter.” The surf is loud, and you and I, our half-caged birds, will not know how you suffer. That is the main lesson:I hear you shout out of your own feathers, shout from coverts of blood;I hear you tramp it forward on the right shoulder of the hill that answers your call;I hear you sob behind the torn willow, brag your back like a blemish in the wind; swollen glands blow on the right hand of your own body like a grasshopper; you must have vision after a score, three hundred years after the rain, or ten more, as all your soldiers march caprily back. Take a thought, give a gasp, give a gasp, your throat is a pebble, your pantythe ground is splashed with red blood, you are beaten, beaten. Then empty your rifle and away. Oh for a breath of freedom or a bit of fun, the range of bullets on the mill, the run for miles, the pounding drums, the score upon the tin, the mouth of dog blood, or the black atrist, and the column of man blood-bright along the iron, where the shells spur down like daughters to the ground and bells beating down the dark. Oh for a bit of shell, a bed, a full, A full, a full, a full. Oh for the heart, the stomach, the sound, the sheer, strong and soft, The shine of steel, The cinching eye, the horn of goat, Of kine, sheep, and dogs, of leap and skip, of razure ======================================== SAMPLE 294 ======================================== "You've taken the Life of Lord MacWilliam", by Norman Dublin [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Love, Desire, Relationships, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Music] "You've taken the life of Lord MacWilliam"; by Norman Dubbies [Love, First Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] in your cracked skull have you settled and ships are sinking in the darkness in the darkness. have you implanted in the tomb of a total divine logramatic, of returning nothing but the stillness in your swarthy hands; and the passing exchange of years, of raindrops in uplifting skies, of the moment your heart afloa the sea opened in your eyes. have you implanted in the tomb of the god? and the Sphinx and the skinny-face, the skinny-white criss-cross, and the Nile, and the loud swore-band survivors, and the waterless gods, and the white-spun gods, and the god-reds and the feet of the suction, and the feet of the crimson paenars and the last remains of the god, and the black-hiss-jagged grapples, and the black-mousled feet of the drowned Medusa. <|endoftext|> "Dawn to resume", by Norman Dubois [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Men & Women] For Danniel The darkness returns, day’s labour and heat Again has the splendour of heat; Again from the tomb-like and deathlike repose Comes the last flicker of hope, And again comes the last splendour of fear. But not now; only that which began Is accomplished. Where is clansman or freeman, Or bent man or boy who will pluck at the sword Or dishonor a name on the marble, Or dishonor the head on the marble? Only this thing remains: That men, not themselves, are not made for this conflict: This thing is perfected for the conflict ======================================== SAMPLE 295 ======================================== "Barney", by Michael S. Harper [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers] It came with a thundering crash and his face was turning white— a lightning flash of pink was streaked by his breath a violent wind shaking his fists on the grass and his light and his fists were blurred by a tornado that could have been lightning or rain and the silence of a wind that made life bend but was silent—a wind with no word— a tornado that could have torn back the woods from the clouds that could hold him the crows and the crows and the gink of all birds that flock in flight through the airy city through the streets They have been swept along from these trees to these stones— the grass and the weather have changed and their bodies have become the same tunes and they have no memory of life anywhere: the grass and the trees Still have been swept along <|endoftext|> "Tone’s Lamentation", by Michael S. Harper [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Tone’s Lamentation In her high spring the green trees bent higher and stronger the creatures they loved, learning to love their music turned beasts when their sobs changed and the minister emptiness of their songbirds died away to save the poor world. The shaggy, gnarled, hungry shark cawed the dog on the creek and the trades laded the kittens on the waif edge into the river with their coats warm against wind, their pile of canvas and tubes and malls looking into the other forest. The forest they called the dump, the council who dived in it lived in it. The foxes, he and his father, only the children they in their mountains and valleys laughed hours of moons heard the foxes cry over the reeds whistling the sharp iron of the reeds for their homes. The crooked fox with its crooked crooked crooked claws and his love like teeth, he could see the reeds beneath them, he could hear the river below them as he watched the hills of old and see the clear flowing waters of ======================================== SAMPLE 296 ======================================== "Ceredary", by William Barnes [Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Lightning hits the bicycle with its lighter shade on the table’s edge and becomes a central field of memory: the still edge has become a drain of something without and on the other side. We live in a dead body each in its grave who knows what we mean, to live to love and serve a swimming pool in there: the only resting-place on the hills that is the place of the heart. 3. That girl was crying it was not concerned that she was sitting by the stove, unloved, neglected. The voice of two that goes underground ran briefly along the familiar stork strings. His father’s voice goes like a rung. His father’s voice is thin and unlike his own voice: hollow, sparse, rhagthy, the mind floats a slow sliding beam around a curved synchronous and then a : a : an f- b - a c- b- b- a c- b- a c- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- choo- ======================================== SAMPLE 297 ======================================== "Glory of Myself", by John Rebus [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] Praise of himself! praise of his work,Praise of himself! praise of the place!Praise of the fruitful oil,Praise of bright streams that purge their ugly dregs;Praise of de wormy wood, Praise of all kinds, Praise of clean herbs, best of all the plains; Praise of bright waves, white corals, light on breastsOf unclean orchards, and black bloody thorns;All beautiful with jewels of the snow,And fragrant with the scent of costliest grapes;Praise to them God, to all man's miracle,That breathes Jehovah's miracles, His wonders and His wonders and His wonders and His wonders and himself,That breathes alike, and both expressIn calm monstrance, rich in gratitude.Praise to the Lord, Praise to the man, Praise to the maids, Praise to the men, Praise them and make them beautiful;That ev'n in life they may surpass and shine,And ev'n in death that love may be the better,And ev'n in death that kisses lips and eyes,The deathless, everlasting, blameless dead;Blest is the man, and God, who lives for ever.And what is more, this grim and sightless grin?This skeleton visage and this stony face?This skeleton face? this stiff and shadowy hairWhich has but looked a half-and-half as fair,Tender and kindly, a kind of fright,A kind of struggle vaguely in its place,A kind ov under all its hores and duns?Is man no more because he cannot die?Or is he ignorant because he cannot die?Is man no more because he cannot die,Than like a sober stranger who has found In all his trials a better home,And feels fresh courage for his first-born pains?Dedicated to the dust, these beggars creep Along this base of earth, and when they steal,They steal to some far peace beneath their own;And some of these have robbed their stolenowersOf what they claim, and what they deem their powers;And some keep living in the rapine and the sea;Others are roused to crush the pillared vine;Some rovate in the siege; others forget to dine;Some shrivelled in ======================================== SAMPLE 298 ======================================== "Morning Talk", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy] Good-bye, indecency. We too were old too many. But all I was, I wanted to see things earlier. I want to see everything I see— the walls, the trees and what’s been since born. As if I am a different form, a voice, an accent. Other people wish to recall the words I got ‘to meet.’ But I don’t look, it’s like a button just thinking about my age, the hole stuck among my grey walls. I want to raise them up, but I’m already rising, not decks, but too many planes. Morning, evening, a long silently watch to roll around my room. It is my second window. Though I want to call it now, I want to say light wide, but when I see it, at the thought of what I mean to be left, so I am ashamed. I want to light my fire. It glows twice as red as a big cup, and is nine minutes from the moment my ruler carves me through. Dr. Pooter reflections on the light, he would convert dirt into a powder. I want to touch the air. It glitters like a mirror whose walls overlaid by our childhood. When I reach the water spring which holds the source of trees, I look the more on what I have done. I want to touch the sky, its scattered colors, and its colored, speckled ankles dappled all around the walls. On the horizon, I gaze down in perfect fear for those in the next World’s brighter distance, where the pockets are noisy moist and bed-like. There is no light here, even there but a brown spot; the snow is white and steady, and at the instant my nerves are tied to a snow snow snow white. <|endoftext|> "Summer", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Nature, Summer] In his top teeth of the snow the lawn arches of a dull brown ======================================== SAMPLE 299 ======================================== other side of the Delta is, though this is not a half mile of it all. The bicycle is worn away. If you want it to take my fancy and the books you are to find are someone's version of a poem or one that you never write, you’d miss the perfect form in your head on the sofa, so that you could dress all kinds of people. Everything that you ever do, your penmanship is not mere speech, you have no sentences. You could learn to read an easily Othello gayer once you were a principal. There’s something about your mother a knock down her head when you pass to her phone to phone to look so uncomfortable as to think of your reading— grandma and what? Oh, if you really do an honor to teentermyself from matters of arousal, you are a decent, wordless girl, with nothing on your side. The pictures of your mother draw a grim, terrific curlicue of words that keep whispering to your heart. You can stare at their lines and know they are lines themselves— at something you need to read at your cost. Think of them for a moment. Think of them for a moment—think of them for a moment—Butter Post, having got tickets from us, is on another side, having forces for some larger people to sit in. <|endoftext|> "The Maskin", by Yvor Winters [The Body, Nature] The light of the sorrow in everyone born shines out. The dark of the blindness in everyone born is darkness because there is light around then, in that light, so many bright angels go with the light of another sun. Like that one blind man seated, light as an incense seat, the flame of another sun touches his brow and moves around him. Or another sun:a hundred clouds far greater than this the year that was sun. When a man dies, he lays himself backwards, like a child, in a trance of deep astonishment. So-and-so-and-so, one hand around his waist, he is wound up in a screw-locks nitrous fluid. All about him, all about him, the invisible hand of an open, ceas ======================================== SAMPLE 300 ======================================== "Green Meanside On Receiptails", by William Wordsworth [Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] Fish for lunch, and mutton, and all, Soft sprigs of beer, good ale for banquets, good judgements, Great roasts, and sweet meat, and no man knows of it! Diggles and lies, and all that, lie contented. Pleasure is a bane of the finer sort than Barbree. E'en when most patience is purer want sometimes, it takes nearly no good nor thanks, I take it, and that there is but one such that it has often been the bane of all good poets, for the good of the great authors. But they are so simple and so Wise, you will have thought that poems likest to these. Two kinds of nonsense is that a well of meaning does not give one place even. Fences do not become curs, and always whale. The fact is, all our poem is not immortal. We care not how thoughts live like those, and lose Spirit, or make heaven they depend on, not matter what direction does. The true prospect is that we should give all men that lowest right. It is true because the real prospect fits otherwise. The main thing, subject to no such laziness, is the rise and fall of a man rather than zero long enough to envy anything but the rise and fall of a man, and that is the phrase, because he knows what he says to him and understands what he says to him, and doesn’t know what to him, and is silent as well as authentic, without a beginning, and will come by and stop up and continue to the end. It is very difficult to be great, if a great philosopher appeals instance to one he knows so well who sees must still watch over. Who sees the example fits you not to be one of those. It is indifferent to an able individual who has not the heart to commend the facility of the speculative benefactor of the several sexes. Indeed if you observe that the “machinery” is not intended, as the “Class of” art, to be placed in it, why do you always arrange the device, to procure which may appeal to it? There is nothing ======================================== SAMPLE 301 ======================================== "Washington Irving", by Robert Hass [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] And then came Billie, who gave judgment without sauce. In exactly good time. Was that a strike? A try? That so Francis wrote a novel? —CHARLES DARWIN, American and December 1. The painter’s art is of a shorter distance now, than the Italian can conceive without a face, if the ear can be constantly awake. And that is why we love each other. We see in each a different world than we are where we love you better, though we are never from here. But that art is like that. Music moves a presence. Though we are fixed, we are always separated. No wandering music distant, by the vibrates of an unseen drum. Only the choirs of the spirit pierce the intricate roof of this house and life dissolving in the many-colored ashes. In Kissaire’s nazar an incense crackles on a spear of myrrh, a forgotten cross piece decked with a girl’s name white as a whole string of sticks. 2. flaskines Orpheus’ spark—bright candlesticks shaped like strings of spangle webs. Orpheus’ spark, or Fescue. Orpheus’ eyes worn by the women he left singing his mistress at the head ballroom arrived at his own birthday (venom than is Venus’ faun called “spina” figured as "spina."“ orpheus made of Pan and Phoebe’s lyre a blue jay’r, the same white dot as when he played the dawdee that washed the face of  Jesus’s statue of the east.” 3. THE ISle Spiny, scratchy, racy, stung by currents in a tropic river. Arachnid, paraffin, kingfishers diving from the tips of trees. Orpheus’ fists Nelly’s thighs whipped and cancered its own beauty. ======================================== SAMPLE 302 ======================================== "Last Flowers", by Mary Jo arbiter The roses are the same That perish As soon as red, And rot not, If roses The roses are the same. If roses The roses are the same, If roses The roses are the same, If roses The roses are the same, And rot not, The roses, The roses, The roses, The lilies, The lips of thyme, The perfume of thyme, Why hast thou then forsooth Nothing to chaste? Why hast thou then forsooth Nothing to chaste? Why sit not pratiently, As if love were thy mate? Why weep and wail All night from the sky, And call up lamentation From year to year? Why so wail the bed That is cold and still, And draggle madly With grief and woe? What comfort hast thou none, If thou sob? The roses are the same. <|endoftext|> "To Theodore", by Kenneth Slessor Death may forgive, but love is better. He that loves the rose Whose pale cheek glows With one hand swift and close, Whose fingers move The gold hair of the rose, Gone to pass. Where his lips draw breath The bitter thong Sigh as if Death had No part with them, He hears the song, Hears the shout, Saying me, As I must. Love is better, they say, Than the loss they know; Dreaming is worse, they say, Love must hate so. As his torch I carry the air; He shakes my wings; He speaks no word; Saying me, As I reach, As he calls me, Call him, O dear, Call him, oh dear. Love has been my constant care. True is death to one, And cannot be done; When my heart is breaking I may not be crying. Why is love so fatal? Is the music mute To my trustful spirit, That can push it from itself? Spent am I, for all my songs are done. My skill is useless; and my heart Which could not her fond skill impart ======================================== SAMPLE 303 ======================================== "Battle-Time", by John Brehm [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Up
ca Sítte “It’s a short ride across a cloudand then it’s taking the big Americans down.” Please smile,you’re a tender youth, he had a light eyeand had the smile good that is given you, and when you went to bed he showed you the strange lookin a manner to get under your screenand tell you what you always saw and then you slept until the war was through. He was snagin the screen, but he stared peepin at a figure on the gibbets, itsplit you with such little attention it made you wake up in bed still as if you didn’t sleep till the soldiers got you a tap that’s envious. “What’s come to this?” He froze. “It’s the ghost of my dead father,” she stopped, “that’s what this occurs to me. It’s the hunt boy, called Wright.” So we tucked him in the coal fire and carried him around the house until he cried like a father but he never showed a sign, never showed a sign although he kept his line bestrekes and said the scheme put him to bed with the hoes and gone to his surprise. <|endoftext|> "Honeyed biscuit", by John Brehm [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] “A honey-handled doing good”— my father said to me one day. So did he. And I read, read most often, most of his matter. My father smiled and thanked him. But the way of his mischief was forgotten, whimpering: “I might as well have been the tipi.” But the sun was cold and the apples had thinned. And the apples were crying, and David was listening to them. And now my father was sleeping, dreaming of another jubilee. And then one day, in that far-off clime, his father watched the changelies come marching by, and a terrible joy, as fatal and wild, of the mackeen dragon, the beautiful, purple-rumped, joy-adored boy, the tramp of great, brave, voluptuous boy! ======================================== SAMPLE 304 ======================================== As the whelp within the bog clangs a gurgling atmosphere The quail is instinct craved for breath from within. A sheeted bundle tells Of how, how it swung and shrieks On the twobble. Beats A thin rakish instrument Against the prickly bugle. They open windows wide To let in peace, Hearing the vile wind that puffed them When chaos was making a mist Of silence beneath, Complacent that the grace Of the magic words of doom In their fall bore their sense Into the blank shape of doom More unsteady of the bed. They close their eyes and lo! Staring most blind, Now raindrops the sky. Slow clouds of light Gather and float Through the vast blue sky In deepening arc. As thus, across the dell And woodways, one great gale Begins to roll, Doubled, a human soul, In huge anticipation Of the unknown. No. Far off, unseen, Another loses breath, Moans like a dying mother With child on her lips. One by one, In blue or green, Back of the other's body, Back to the other's death, Lies that unloved face. <|endoftext|> I know the way it is to find the way, Before I leave. What I have found to say, After the journey, where I am alone, After the little graveyard that I moan, Before that finally I am not dead. Somehow I am not good at all. I stand on the path where once I tried To stand. The sharp anons voluminous; White rage-penned pines with cicadas low; A flock of sheep where I had known a row, A temple of protection, where the sound Of a large beetle shivered in the ground. Awaiting me, at the end of day, I walk, holding my hands in hands imploring, When the first clapping shakes the far away. The farm grows larger, looking up at me. What is the length of flaking of the tree? A line of fire above a moat. I know the way that burginries the ground And waits to see my ======================================== SAMPLE 305 ======================================== "Reading", by Todd Boss [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I’m not writing this as first class was studious butI give it thee the picture. — poured a genie paper from the edges of my Cyclops’ back pocket,a just going to try and...ostomorrow. . . . and in the tone:A voiceless but awed mouth, a (class) marble of Anacreua suffering . . . darkness. . . And this is common. I must not be boy. —Strolled across the meadow in my salloped gown, a bundle of light tulips;I mixed the hues of the artichoke and I trailed the late woodlands;I carried the mist of the sun through the nose-shaped plants;I threw a pomitop off of a crescent moon. —Rolled it across the meadow where the lot fell. A gray-coated man with glasses and cigars was in there, eating a fatuous calf. . . . . All laughed. —Rolled it out of the window. . . . Parted it back. . . . All of an afternoon, two nights. . . . All of an afternoon, and at the door. . . . All of an afternoon, night. . . . And there in the courtyard slept . . . —Rolled it out of the window. . . . . And there he slept. <|endoftext|> "Frances Carlis Marte", by Todd Boss [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] The night is hard, they found it in the courtyard;you are looking for a crowd to break out.They are waiting for a word against your bed.The suits are being torn apart.They are being cut across the room.They are being put on smartly to be worn down.He is longing for the sight of his last wife after she is released.She is sick, she knows, they are all waiting for her room.You have seen them in the courtyard.What do you want of him, he answers.It is be sure you are at the right time.It is necessary to sleep through the wilditudes to be taken.He is sick, he has no idea that he isn't moved.The hospital has given him fits. He has a system of clothes. ======================================== SAMPLE 306 ======================================== "A Curious Remedy", by Jonathan David [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] 1 What if the text could be logistics Anything make it feel like a phenomenon? 3 An piled crateful’s honor would be a fog on someone’s armyric orbit as it disentangled the dominions where everyone is a person. 4 Think of it! As if there were no hell this might have been the bone of a eighty-one among the angels hiding in the trees with a god- blind side pocket. 5 Look at the midky fugitive face burrowing in a blush. Light green garlands lugging the skim beck surely no one knows who remembers this place slipped over down on a hill ran the crow after it sewing out the air this time all the throats screamed black tar rabbit sweet flesh rabbade unseen in the bricks where no one reaches others coughing up and down all the alleys unforged sodden sodden guts get-a-hum Into the rooms in the pipes at 3 An uncommon consequence an invisible call. 6 Out of a rhythmic render they pour forth forth: Verse 4: As originates, each one is anxious for anything. 7 As signal lions, romantic, limitative, horrible, the unicorn birds fly angrily singing each other together, fearfully interred. 8 Our isolation, as bridge interests us ever to go this way (thousands very cautious) to its end to fend us. 10 One is the body of our worm. Lab hurting charity is a woman. 11 How the queen is silent on each hand. 12 Darkness: a straight line. Her face marks her walk, her smile, her pupils: she wonders whether ======================================== SAMPLE 307 ======================================== "Murdring the Day", by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] There are sky lights cunningly large enough to last sixteen years, And you may find it fifty-three centuries since the night That we did not bring you here one of the first women in America, After the price of their number, cost in the shape of a clot of raspberry, From which you came, in the last month, to spend a day spent at a valentine, Which, you know, would soon come up in a merit of witness, Seeing, like you, every woman knows she has a home, And you are a home to report what you owe, For having lent a home to your own confined heart, Please help me find out a way to find that home! <|endoftext|> "The Glass", by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Religion, Christianity, The Spiritual, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] I saw the selfsame clock that calls for eighteenpence a million dollars a halfpence, See the selfsame sun that measures the sand in steel rivers and on slow-moving tides, Nor see, amid the un-roll back of the mysteriesOf the old, shifting war, the large Atlantic rise, The small Atlantic break, the long lines of sun That burn out unseen, huge, vivid, bubbling, and wonderful, Then break and are lost in an unknown element But in God. II May the wise Pen has grasped your hands Before your face, and put you into my lap, Opened against the same world, which was one huge, un-hollow chair. And I have cherished you here, And you have taken me to You. III Our gentle Lady, dead so long, Loved as I loved you, loved with me alone, You loved me, and when suddenly, O you, Your dear face shone and smiled on me. I was a lonely widower, who begun the Marriage, I, the village-chasterman, Who has forgotten you, but who has forgotten me, For whose love upon you has found no place? IV The wedding guests come round our Courement Each year, and YOU sit down to weep, Soothing our hearts, and waiting while She watches the pageant of her loveliness sleep In the marble cold, ======================================== SAMPLE 308 ======================================== "New Lines by Adonis", by Edmund Spenser [Love, Classic Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love] New Lines by Adonis Here lies a lady, you to whom ydelight belongs.She was famous for her silver locks, Yveless, the polished virgins, and the ruddy sheen-white ye wear, Her chaste unpolluted beauty, and the rich and green arrayed.Happy in sojourn and jollitie, in sojourn and debarr, And with her wicked crew, so stedfast in her love, Yet following the air so we foreign women love.Yet is she one of these, whom such considerate rude elegies Drinking from hand to hand with vibrate sphears of harmes and graces, In ample and in ample measure understands How much her nature had been vassal to our sense, Desiring most, yet keener far than we To marvel at her largessence. But on this corner now is Icarus As ever fond of wrapping her in teares: Why will you not to sworne? to keep your insomitable teares? <|endoftext|> "Sonnetoves", by George Eliot [Love, Heartache & Loss, Unrequited Love] Beholding the patron’s due, Who was compelled to Sea this pretty place, Hark ye! was the Pan-locks gone, They had asked their parents to be pitied; In pity let them stay, By the fayre pelfe that’s over-bowght, They had killed the bird that made such hastil small And put him in a rage at all: The more shall we the more shall we condemn. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet Blind", by George Eliot [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Unrequited Love, Relationships] When my eyes the showman-stars did see, As night the shown star did stand, It listened to her liquid voice, but he The voice was harsh, and very soft and meek, Implacestible in its barbarous style: “Art thou discouraged, workman-beat, Mustop of this my golden fleece? Or must thou needs thy canonly hit, Must thou the catalogue refuse to use, Must thou lucky be to use me so, Must thou only use me for ======================================== SAMPLE 309 ======================================== "There Is Waking to Be", by Harmony Holiday [Living, Parenthood, Activities, School & Learning] Waking to be fed by the mothers of men, in broad daylight, and then to fling leather at their joys, they turn palely to the window. The mothers of men cannot speak. Or how can there be meat for the bodies at the foot of their necks? They are moveless outdoorsy with chest, they change nothing into a shirt and gloves, going to wallow, having taken no bites in regard to be their squatted, girlish greediness or so forth, in front of streetlight. <|endoftext|> "Unfinished Novel", by Cynthia Huntington [Living, Life Choices, Midlife, The Body, Time & Brevity] The novel was planted when I entered. All the lies were perfected. In the spent forest and made most powerfully impressionate of what was apparent, and I could see trees, animals, volutes, and ink barrels; and this witness bore the quintessence of generation, of fecundity and of right and wrong, of earlike futility and even the suffocation of times. We noticed as we saw over the street the films of the whale, the grip and tost, mottled, tangle-eyed, lifting, obsessed, tangling, borrowing the thin waves of their complaint. What could we do but smile at this new texture of the flesh? Or would it be more plain to thee that between theirs and the right there are no pains left? We remember the passengers at San Jaca, and the scholar at AlArno, saying, 'Well, just a little here 'twould be to make two bounds to march on in order to free the world. Only ask that the pilgrims of the San Jaca be brought back the living body of this captain. Ask him to come back, and take the soul of the sun, the sun itself, or anything else but his who gave the life, which are mine to thee, since I give it not to be indulgent in my sinning or punishment, my blood or punishment?' Our captain said nothing. The spirit sent from above, not a pigeon, but talons and talons. The soul sent from above and set bare to them as a bird trims its wings. And as eagle soars up, so falls into the line of the eternal moving, so our ball of the eye doth ======================================== SAMPLE 310 ======================================== "Zoophabet: “In Fromness into The Past", by Percy Bysshe Shelley [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] In from thence came across the world the power And majesty of man. The yoke that bears a child is slowly ironed And every man is free. No yoke of man’s nor worldly courage dies Before that man is man. He is a helpless man, that’s stamped with years. The space between his name and ours is vast And yet it is beyond a doubt Beyond the yoke of sense. Yet as the Yoke turns round, to where that’s true, He knows that it is now. Bent to the yoke, they go, turn round, not start. To where the troubles fall, are they our own, Just where we are unknown? Where are they, here in truth? We feel they are our own. The Yoke by night is still upon the way, But not because we see. No longer the Kabes will stand a distance; The Yoke comes up no more. They will be there to-morrow, I and yoke, But not because yoke came. Bent to the yoke, they go. They will be there to-morrow and not come. They will fulfill their whole. They will be there to-morrow and not come. They will fulfill their whole. They will fulfill their own. The Yoke goes round! They go! They will be there to-morrow and not come. They will fulfill their own. They will be there to-morrow and not come. They will stay without ever, they will come. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ever. They will stay without ======================================== SAMPLE 311 ======================================== "Death's Audre Mistress", by Richard Brautigan [Living, Death, Infancy, Parenthood, The Body, Love, Desire] Death's first follower is a gentle girl whose sugars for a cold conturb her condition and make it her own jewel. She does not fear because of the poison in her clothes drawn from a love dwelling when the love that her body became the consolation of its rains to succor a wounded parentar. She knows the lost baby, how loves are forgotten in the winds of the spirit. She has no brother, no sister, no husband, no help, and the other is neither old father nor old strainer to the strangled father who knows nothing of it. He is an old key to doors. From which to that heart. He is a horse without ears. He is a steed without eyes. He is neither young nor old for his need nor an old master. And there the one lies, still a maiden. And there is neither old mother nor child. And the saddest of saddest tears is the love that can find its way through the veins of a wasted lover. And the saddest thoughts that can let them go have their way through the flesh of me. <|endoftext|> "Love Again", by Richard Brautigan [Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] for Ruth Morison Like a red leaf stickspets of music light as a rose spray is waft from a sky’s red heart as though you had no existence, as red roses do. Like black milk spillers mush and drink, white torch lights, bright as the red heart. Like a good mother whose child is a red girder and who keeps the heart safe to the breast <|endoftext|> "A Bird and a Nature", by Richard Brautigan [Nature, Animals, Religion, The Spiritual] In the middle of the night I hear the reptif assumption grunt of existence and all the dark birds begin their reptifullous song. One by one in their madrigals I am led to a place where I stand lonely and the last leaf of the wild ======================================== SAMPLE 312 ======================================== "For the Third Evening's Amaranth Year", by Joseph Brodsky [Living, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Weather] To my comfort, my counsel, my oldest dearmother the whole day. Toward nightfall it was the Golden Gate is the Road. When I was a boy and was in our bed after the war could begin, I saw a poor boy lying down, with dirt on his delicate chin. In the next summer I would have to get some bag of flour to fill, I found it had something to do with the dirt that hurt, I filled it with sheep, and I finally did the same. I went up to the boy and found it mine own nest, I imagined his clothes that were so tight and so tight they were spun, But I didn’t, and I didn’t, really, like I’d been drinking too much milk, It made no difference if we’d only seed some bag of flour in our dish, Or I’d just bent and broke it from my very gown, The smell had got tired of me, I convinced myself it was nice, And just took from my lip thenoticed bag of flour, I sliced it and carried it over again, and again, and again. The calico persifers relieved me of my own, The times were as bad as they seemed, I still did my best not do it, The acid-like persifers frisked about with tree roots, I cut them like pigs, but nothing could save me from my roots. I fancied the monsoon I’d get, but little avails me, And I really repent, I’m not yet minded to teeth, And I certainly can’t choose at the fair things beyond the curtain, For already there’s thieves ahead, Our tree is the best for them, and that’s what they say, it’s a text they write, They “tink so very fast,” and they tell you it’ll be late To say how long the years would ere begin. So I called myself “the biggest ass in the nation”— Was called inside out of the first time For setting out sweet-talk at some evening star ======================================== SAMPLE 313 ======================================== "This Is Just To Try To forget", by Louis MacNeice [Living, The Body, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] I reached the sea from side to side and struck. The water made our foot firm on the harbor line, Striving to climb it now; the leaden strands Worked out into a pillow under our hands. We felt the light slip through our feet for hours, Stuck fast in the blind. We saw the quay creep to the pier, a green tide Of gold; a tug at the tug go shoreward; A trolley shook the water. We were perched in wonder: space, and beauty crowded, While brine, a goat-skimmed, curling sermunks Came out of the depths; and I dipped my platter, Wicked sideways, like an old brick wall, My arms, my legs, and shoulders from the water; Our lips opened; running, and a sandpiper Grinned through the turning and the slid current, Our body strained to see what I had missed. I reached the sea, where the moon churns and is shaken, And saw queer company in ghostly gazes Pass on the water, and strange faces glisten Through the blank edge; and one waves hissing down, Then the moon, their horse, scowls in the basin, Swings a weight up, then sinks, and descends, Heaving the water, groans, and plunges upward, Lost in the glitter of passers-by ... I staked on water a half-frozen eye. The night rolled and sagged. The sea rolled and wracked; It jerked, 'twisting grey; gas, and spume. Tussled and hewn on the water, and begged: "We want something still to do." At last the roar of the ocean died away, And the sea became very lonely. And a voice came over us, whispering: "Come over; The night will make you forget Your love." And on us, with a heart of pity, The moon sank down and lay Like a silver dial, by a child good-nature.... And my eyes could see no image of her coming, Only the brown eyes of a Haruk battery, Dark and lurid as ======================================== SAMPLE 314 ======================================== "THAT FEELING IS A GOTSTER GASTernaum, 1999,idden by discussed Brothersway Company", by John Ciardi [Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics] . . . at St Annmas, MAY, ANCIENT A Genitories OF WORLD WORLD WORLD WORLD WORLD WORLD are bullets, freed again from second thoughts,hot to the wall, binders, hands, august amplities, absolute liberas, labeled interpretings of laborers and Money-holders, who have flailed in those addresses, form swallows of them, absolute liberators, liberators over a world formed for the starving, under the deepest of the soil, under the sun in this country —this one, one only, three times one day, on this day, entering his body through his, going out to take sight of the dead: no single atom, no least smallest form ever before his eyes, his trembling fingers falling back to the ground and his own new commences—all these newly, properly entreated, invited, debated, light-hearted, excited, ecstatic with forceps, chattering, capering in their throttles, straightening, gliding, rushing, desperate, over of course, through time, through system, order, into the minute, and beyond yourself: day by day, reluctant, intensely longing, dragging himself after them, backward, backward, downward at a pace, into the infinite hunger and thirst: holding out, crossing, triumphantly, from the line, beyond time, into the blank, stretching, stretching, stretched beyond self, order, into the law and into the lawless force of the odd, of forceps, laws, laws of order, love: a piece of land transversely toward the center of the world, to the world's end, to the world's end, to the world's end, to the world's end, and back to the world's end, to the world's end, and back to the world's end, and to the heart again, day by day and night looking into the absolute, asking one step to the other, who will guide us, flying as if fire were the world's, or world's: where, where is the world ======================================== SAMPLE 315 ======================================== "Love's Toll", by Lynn Emanuel [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] eluctated in a canine preface to his poem make his way across the universe in a galaxy in the smallest circles of light two different lights flash across the night two arc series lists set adulter kisses as the black evening surprises all the driven clouds shift rainbow across blackness rainbow against rain <|endoftext|> "Riddle tang", by Ian calls [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Nature, Trees & Flowers] it is hard to sit here drinking milk in the courtyard glass door. opening the Early morning as well you need to work At the toilet to dash through a blossom down the basement stairway of a life glass truck. After breakfast your evening study in the books draped deep in plots and frills is about the number of twelve billion years. It is time. paid different to keep your paintings. we Often forget how fast and truck Yesterday when Caddie rode outside Just at that moment. But we must stop Pick between notes, turn around first, Look at the living, walk tired In the mire, neverRefer Now. But to-night... No. Time. Yes. Dusk. No. Eyes. In the park no light. <|endoftext|> "The Invention of the Interstate System", by James Tate [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] At Pearl Street, before the counter, there were styes Where some enjoyed the pretty black-winged girls First heard our people in the street. How nice, to face this death and weather shocks, Especially, they seemed at once subversive To a pretty height, and each one felt So larger that the college rose up first, Out of control, to the remote repose. There, always, all its varied cataracts Tumbling along beside the bedstead creams Are smaller than the ======================================== SAMPLE 316 ======================================== Ah, piercing sight! they cry who, whereso'er we turn, Do not for every chance strike shoes of ours, Who, without atabecause (as the hater waits) Who does not at (even against) the ruck. It could be they were present (cursedly it yawns) Without a whip. These scratch a face of ours. For, since there is no reason why to seek In manner any faith in prayer or thanks, Methinks, in bed there lies a SThankless cess Pity the rice-cankment that also serves As plentiful as ever in the land. This air (it's lonesome not this November's taste), Which offers water-work from divers posts Precipitates the rice-cankment and used for schools To make religion as a bookmark To people who, at least, would have itCool Thro' even kitchen-vivid. For it comes, this fact, That windows, with a sound as the church bells ring, And such an office of prodigious fame, Mean witnesses of acts in public view, As daily wonderways arch and ways aver That silly lambs only have spurned the feed. Soon with a rattle is the evidence moved Of something horrible, bejumbled past, And shown the heirs and heirs, who by that law Have ever learned the trick of mocking smiles, That maidens must be double-dyed and foul. This is the duty of this "Good Christmas" town. Well known, dear friends, it sounds like how it racks Soldiers and maidens; well, I know there are Assignments to some scourge in their march, Some plagues, which rack your brains, and sadden all The soft and shabby conduct of their minds. Here gossips grow, where towns are far from art Of pestilential poison; sneers succeed On piles and stones, in Bedlam all a-teem With doctor's practice and some tiny art; Mean tramp, the dreary accents of a gun, Unseasonable measures among whores of heart. Here on this spot, where violets blue and white Languish in fragrance, in this carnival Of gout or treatise, moist or crispy, why Should ======================================== SAMPLE 317 ======================================== "Midnight’s Slit, and Have YouAny Warm Parted?", by S scholarly Kbbler [Love, Desire, Romantic Love] In the past I saw,I can repeat to youThoughts of Desire, yet cannot see Your high and honest thighIn you, with black, coiled hair.Blessèd it, Heaven! has your eyeTwitched ever unto this?And shall I see Your eyes grow dark,And your handsome lips unstrewO wind of song, when you and I Have drifted from our starry home. <|endoftext|> "Joining the Colgate", by Robert Browning [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Romantic Love] There is a little cloud on Heaven,so it lifts down its glossy head,While over there the spignum shower is shed.Something stays grand and proudly in its place,Then stretches out its hand to pluck you;The snow-hair'd cloud goes slowly on, not now.And in the sky a silver muzzle reigns,Then stretches out its broad, tight, and you remain.But some grow men by instinct, and some meanThese have no souls, and you are their flesh;And some grow men by instinct, and some meanA solitary being, born in Saturn's reign.One bears you down, and you grow up again.In this strange dream, the apples seemTo hold their princes; trees, the lovely trees,Make a mirage in your hair;And some hold rain and fragrance, and you reignLike friends for an unforgotten hour.Some will turn pale, others cry,Weeping, their friends are cold, and youThe strange birds, day and night and youHold all that we have ever knownOf someone we should not forget.We are forgotten, unlike in our days.But on another, the moon seems fair,And on we go by our ownsame way. <|endoftext|> "Mary, mother artilleries", by Baron Brooke Fulke Greville [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving] Mary, mother artilleries] The snow amplies down the nights to the east —Wind and water and stars— went over the earth; No star was on the main, I sang to my birds. Oh, any one else know of anyone. <|endoftext|> "On the Brygewoodtelling", by John Ciardi [ ======================================== SAMPLE 318 ======================================== "If I were the Subject of a Song", by Emily Dickinson [Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets] The idle and the incandescent Desert fields are nothing but the flowering of words and the frowsy Flights of the syllables are the gifts of the poem. You find a way in This is what one might choose to say. I want to look down at The small birds, the lobed clouds, the whispering floods of the grass. And if I cannot find one way and Absorb the light and trees are what I seek. The white of His face against the sky, His red is Life, your desire. Your song is music, and I can Absorb the feeling of expectant birds. Your I am in someone else's hand. What I take is Riversé. So the natural instrument takes its Heaven, and we lie in one another, yours and mine. Absorb my purpose, which are in your own hand. Is it That He in man is immortal? Is it That He in man is immortal? Is it That millions of years of years of in-obe pronounce The my all that is mortal? Is it That this is so perfect, this sense of ills that are, And life anew and every kind of thing produced That is not, all, made immortal? All is done By that immortal love whose strange reserve Is the least suffering of itself. I have given into my bosom infinite an imagery To men and women that I understand. I have not had my hour Of song or shout from nowhere but the hour. Even as a child I stood beneath the sky for spirits run through the light blue. Downcast fear of death and of today Arose into the spirit. The blackbird in the thicket Passed the fine stars, and with its light grasses The paths, the beeches and rushes, and from the ways of the cluster the gnats and the blackbirds became part Of the human. All a flower I have seen in a hundred years, In every cloud a influence, but which has been Like the seed in the earth or ever the winter past. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 319 ======================================== "The Wailing", by Eugénio Sos [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] I My mother and I both are dead although for a long time I said loud and bitter I’m also feeling strong she is already lonely the sun in the sea seems to bleam bitterly the moon seems astonished I’m sitting in a deserted room looking out on the water the stones are illuminated the eddies pass in constant velocity this is a form of external I restless I am engaged in thinking about what’s to be said but you’re too late to arrive even though the gales contort towards you dont sail for you I am restless I am frightened I feel nothing but life flows mostly in the wine of sense you know that life is best your mother is a great element you are the great Aeolian water of gods and men in the silence of the place You told me to make friends dance you know that I was once a great pulsation by the power of the deity there are no words hearth of bell or stone and in the middle of the night I do not have to die I do not want to rise <|endoftext|> "Wild People sorcerers", by Eugénio Sos [Living, Coming of Age, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Desire] To see Apollo at the head of his car, grinning but not to touch me or to suck me the time has come. Yesterday I was saying nothing to you watching me. I said nothing to you while walking about the house. Today I was in heaven, but today I lie under the sun believe in the thunder cloudlight and the night is without rain. In the darkness, I can see your faces even on the street Your eyes have turned to me now and they have gone but you are not the ones to move over the steeples of blue dreams tangled with gold strings that wake in ravines and the stress of the steed is a throb and the journey is over although I have neither hands nor heart and I feel nothing but the dark falling now is real and I do not shrink with all the raptures of being alive ======================================== SAMPLE 320 ======================================== "Snails", by Mary Jo Bang [Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] I am not eager to dig and to build. I am conscious I like the flowers. I do not know the language they speak, could sting my conscience. They have given me the dirt they walk with. There is no secret in that. Also it is that lets the tongue let them speak of it, letting them say what they know. Is there a worm with the garden hose brick by brick dust wash so it can visit everything? Is there fire I have, pointing to it with tongue? What is there a gull can say—You’re a gull. I’m a post, or, far from, a crow on a rock. <|endoftext|> "A Farewell", by Dorothea Joudah I live my poems I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I live my friends I ======================================== SAMPLE 321 ======================================== "Proof of Modernism", by Lynn Emanuel [Living, Death, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity] The first caged bird had taken apart to be between the building and the roof, early thirteen yards into the cageand almost all the feathers would abandoned or quickly either undone, almost hopeless — and all the feathers would be nothing more than grasswhere the golden citizens would circle having placed the alarm at dawn, at noonthough the house would have been standing still, though the bird could have mucked marblely on, or maybe planted on a corner — and the alarm would have gone so far away that the arm distracts the bird in the middle of  your head — and it would have turned into a body to enshroud so much that there would not have been left anything to make the smallest living thing larger. Did the door to western island give way to the broken phone? The nightingale wears the house, and starts singing back.I stand in a boat made of sand, row after row of trees, and watch or go behind the sail,where the ropes stretch up or the rope is used, where time makes the limits of going, to the point it does to no point, to no point, to no point. <|endoftext|> "Minding Rows", by Lynn Emanuel [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries] The jackets were worn out and the boards were hung-off.Momma had fallen asleep on the balcony.She was not able enough to hear the radioically.She walked on deckand kissed the cold black windows.They had started to be rags at sunrise.She could feel the black Almost to the hood, the loose-flung scraps of flies.She felt the air like wind in the walrus, and had felt it as though there were two men and two women.She had heard the news from the next room.She had seen the boatswif were held in the river.She was a bitch, a white, elemental thing, and she began to cry.There was no boatswif were held in the other room.She ran to him and said, “As though you were dying, you were not going anywhere.”He didn’t even know they were having visitors.He stopped wondering what it was like to be having anyone alive.He stopped ======================================== SAMPLE 322 ======================================== A love song in the dawn,a song in the dawn,made meroweary of heart, and heard my soul’s as bloodcries go,and as the spirit’s who passednever recall me’s voice.c But they were only bonesleft,left too small.C (the empty silence,otent rest!)lost. All my own kin, all my proof,all, silent, untila voice, a voice we could not catch.A voice we could not know, but so sad, was dead. That came when I knew the thing we knew.C This is the day of Easter morning,whenRays were everything of gold, when ovens were red,when banners were plentiful,and everywheremy banner in the air, and my cupor the mist in the sun was aflame,and everywhere was Iat artifact, myself the cause of that gift.A blue wraith like this, summing up the marvel,and the heavens were gray as spit on black! <|endoftext|> "Spinzer As Breccher", by Wendy Vidal [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] There were two,the diaphone,the Spider’s little finger pointingat a town a highway up the airy part of town.We talked of important things,but she said nothing of theseof later. This imageYou and Iof Him, of men in blue,of women, fish, plush,sentences hello,of homes,and all the foolish things that are.No thing that is more beautifulexcept some menor’s dreams,or unhappily a single one: some nightswe louined the pretty maid,we wondered why the fish was all wasted:the trout asked ushow the fish waltzed up and diedand the meat was ate, the fish like bloodwe quivered in the back of our hooks,forget good will, remember,then die. All of these <|endoftext|> "Be Sixty Years", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Living, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] I have no voice,no voice.The cheapest tin house is an antimacassar freezing away as the summer leaves devour my breath: a lake of naiads sleeping in alders, some are sleeping on an island’s decadence ======================================== SAMPLE 323 ======================================== "Deep Up", by Charles Reznikoff [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] 1. Well, I go to the door there, my own dear. I come back from the Convent to the kitchen, from there to the little stone block, from there to the metal bell again, emptied and thrown when you found it. You remember your father with his staff in hand, to the table with the handle of a rope that runs along the white wall, and how he had been treated at the Convent on the first day of his life? You know the names of the people of that place, they call it, Mostly, told here. But perhaps you had another idea, or you had another, or you had another. Now I go to the door, shut up in half because I came from the cast, from the county office filled with people of use and learning. 2. Well, that's what I think, that was a long hardscape to any in the spirit. Ransack everyone to the doctor's office, to the king's family, to the county's last on board, my true. So I move among my memory-tellers, each good sailor in his cell, the old man with the crutch-handled left arm rounded by the old woman's wrist. As I stand here on the beach, watching the young orphan assail a teauntlet on a long-rolling bar, this one time everything is spent, a promise broken, even what's left of the boy can they say? 3. What's up? As I stand here on the beach, watching the white- and-white-striped woman standing by the dead and the older man, looking into Orion's eyes, I think it is the moon, she turns, to watch it roll time free of the inhabitants. The young man, he says to me, is my only friend, his body taken by the world. And I say, Were you made of them, what would you have from me? 4. Well, what wouldn't you have from me, that we sit on this side of the woman's body, an hundred little friends, liars, liars, liars, liars, liars, liars li ======================================== SAMPLE 324 ======================================== "The Months", by Jennifer Momaday [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Jobs & Working, Philosophy, Sciences] That March thru relaxans might travel four-story ducks With three-foot goop as St. George from the tail feathers like a goop. Imagining first a prairie where salt waves would burst On the collage wall Of the cold lake With rime, blood, bone, As they swam up and down, Till the dooryard Was given them all To the weary frame of the old, dusty, locked dairy home. The carrier slept hard by, so it would have been Friday: Being very lank I suppose the parson was in bed; Having no idea what ills attended the mothers, the wives, Had to lean On their swipers at breakfast, Being very much injured in the recent jar and spoon. The Pequera salad, the nursery curates and the bitter breads, The farina suction set off, and the greasy pot-cans too, The jerking plows hard, as a saint, with barnacles and cassock, The toped bellies eaten on cornels, and the rosy dooryard. Platoons and beets, and coils of soft gray-white serving man Tingling stiffly in, would thread the long shadows behind, If it were only by weight, And by daisies in plenty. There were plenty in the distance to feed the mouths of Egypt Only now there was one lamb, a little lamb who looked prettily around. But, when Catemon was mid-day amid the churning ice that is bleached out, afterthey went to feed the ducks and tofed their cattle, Only then, all seven nights gone, came another sheep out of the barn. Didn’t I abide here for a year, and do that enough for a month, and then recur to accommodate The outside of this farmhouse and feed the inner rooms and the ashes? Only then, could anyone have brought a lamfaniel to Larre’s land, it would be a better matter to go To that farmhouse again, there for weeks, to rummage up that sheep About in the meadow, to sheepfolds the cloth, the ======================================== SAMPLE 325 ======================================== "Nebraska", by Richard Emil Braun [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] I’m told an elder called the stars “Eura” was about to splutter, where first the wind blew salty. Electric currents bordered them feastfully to the ice melt. O Tovará. I had wanted to say my prayers at the first flaring. Wrote water and turned my faith into my risk to dry my feet. Your words, Kishkindhá, intimate and inviolate blossom, made me sift a single absinthe water into every sufferer’s mouth. You spoke wickedness. You had no heart to break, no mere head to turn from laying molasses of whatever in me isreplied. That’s what it is. Spring is the world-exiled child of earth, and there is born only by what is first written of, we make trespass in moments of indigence. Indeed, stars are the only thing I have known will be the child of lightning. This poem breaks me — I wonder what it means. You have the furniture of a country park. In the elm the beech forest, night’s white moth. The glamour of sapling, which makes flame into your self. Woodpeck, which means, is the most durable flavour. The sunmount marks the horizon, so that can smell the trees. Autumnalas — the indifference of nature, the hardness of a thing’s imperfections, the hardness of silence. Relics are poetry, which means, must cease being cured. Your food, voided. All rivers feed upon the moon, grow liquid in their main. Vague light, half-lit, has a far inwardEvery other way. She could, I think, assume the depths of the universe, I feel the fund of primal health. You stir like an effused child under the sun, I want her warmth, who knows? It is her strength that gives strength to solitude. If nature is not herself, must not mother? If the soul is not herself, must not conceive the mind to be vigilant, lest it grow restless? <|endoftext|> "Runes", by Carmen Gim ======================================== SAMPLE 326 ======================================== "The Questions of the Middle Age", by Geoffrey Chaucer [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] After the remains of gathering children, see the diversion of adding things up. Add flowers to the honey of an angry father, turn your houses, grow off the weeds that choke your pathways, anchor the comb of matrimony, graft loving flowers upon the saddles of your children, graft loving flowers upon the saddles of your children, graft loving flowers upon the saddles of your children, graft loving flowers upon the saddles of your children, graft loving flowers upon the saddles of your children, graft loving flowers upon the saddles of your children, plant kissing flowers upon the saddles of your children, nurse tenderness for the mother, and tend her flowers with affection. <|endoftext|> "Emily Brontë", by Geoffrey Chaucer [Living, Growing Old, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I’ve heard police sotting my old love with a switch and an old swhat? the Old BEAUTUMNON’S cure was in South Gloucesters. After this condominium I felt the presence of the Skylark above linoleum beside a branch full of pink blossoms, the gradual firmament moved to Hyde Park, where the old books were all there was of the look and air were everything in color. I’ve seen them in photographs, I’ve heard them in print. In the back age the world is back as the old books were. As the days grow longer and pass, the book and its library grow to volumes again, and the path telleth a friend the student says was right because I’ve not seen it, after school, before Kilmel’s wedding, the line of the prelato, the loudspeaker being told for a month or two afterward, when the teacher had gone to where I lay with my husband: he here with me in the orchard, his English thumb seen through a glass. He took it as text and music from Bird Cooper’s Journal, and I carried it back to Spoon River, I who never loved benches ======================================== SAMPLE 327 ======================================== "For my Friend, The Sea", by George Eliot [Living, Life Choices, Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] If I were back again On my adventure with the Captain, I would find out a sidewalks glove, And the surfacing of the oars, The calUnder, the radio inside off the rail, And the bugle flashing out the yellow half-light, And the clean little rain washing out the jars, And the studfast sandals polting out the hulls, And the sewn-sail fluttering on the rail And the pitch that blew like lemonade outside the boats, And the seabed boats softly buckling by, And the long-drawn note that came from the steep hill Where the bay'nets flash from the bay to the sky, Would mingle with the sunset and pass it by, And brim the bowl with heavenwardened milk. I know I have not lived as one who must always Outruns the adventure and out remains the last; This City, this River, this little yellow park In which I move my hand to the moon and drink The sunlight and ride on triumphantly Like a lion down the street, and ride, And feel the light and find me riding the stream, And am myself again. I am theRed sun, I am the moon, And am the sun of them, I am the stars, And am again the sun and the woman-like moons Who ride in their flesh-tails a-shivering, And ride in their blood, and talk to them of love, And tell them tales of heaven and hell and heaven above. <|endoftext|> "First Love, (ii: Salvation to the sexes in motion of eternity] All things belie me; I the weakest rest: Contemporary faith indemnify, And win strange arts of heav'n from ocean's breast. But the fact of the fix'd thing I doubt still springs More firmly than men fall when caught in hate, And that, as far as my soul-readingings, I know a miracle to brace and mate; This world is not enough for love and life; The process waits on revelation now. New dreams, new pulses in a sex have birth; New thoughts, ======================================== SAMPLE 328 ======================================== "from Raw", by C. K. Chesterton The wind is the corncrake wrestle with wind. The west wind, the east wind of the west wind reconciled, the leaves break into sharpen leaves. The derring of earth is far away from earth. <|endoftext|> "from Raw: The Forsaken Merman", by Jay Powell The man who begins your race is hard to see. Some day you’ll suffer to take intemisco. Sometimes he’ll be leaden, shut off as from a light cedar. You’ll have time to see him. Just wait a few minutes and you’ll never know his name. Call him to the pools and pools, a five-legged man, depending in the shade of his skin. You’ll never know his name. Come for him to the pools and pools, you’ll never need regret. <|endoftext|> "from Raw: The Forsaken Merman", by Yvor Winters [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] How many times have we both been instructed, told by our own child, in decades gone? How much of my father’s forgotten ways in the kitchen, have you ever kept himself warm, and given him the best affectionate greeting? How many times do we both indulge in his stories of farmers at the shed, the weepers at the fire, the dumb orphans? How many times do we both indulge in his smiles as his daughter lowers? The fathers think we two should learn to love each other. How many times do he talk to us once the day ends and again he slowly picks his weight up. How many times do we let him know our loss, the rush and mire together? How many times do we let him know we are to one another banished, faded into captivity? How many times do he ask if he knows what is written? How many times do he feel that we live in the circle of time that his verses he brings, weeping into the shadows, the children ======================================== SAMPLE 329 ======================================== "A Chorister to Spain", by R. T. Smith [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] he offered me in a chariot race made of clay, had a share in common kinds of glass, a thousand jewels folding in a cross, a thousand hot devices knocking on the coals, clinking the meadow, coaling the dye-cells anew faster each time the humans are reciting together with the ghosts of their dead and their bloodshot ceremonies with their stumbling footsteps, breathing gusts of meat. He protected them [he had claimed . .] and it was like the teeth [he had claimed . .] that conflation some tongues have tuned to blood, to electrical rending chords of mankind as the object to be desired. [he had become "his status of a rich" [he had assumed that his vote of the crowns chanced upon a tax for the muffin- er and the power to attack a weak woman [he had assumed that the hireling's subtle seizure lost a chance to change her for a base); knew that she had been the flash and ruin on a shifting sandalia of floating mantle [he had assumed that the banker lent the country servant as beacons; and that salt could suit [he had been rewarded for having] a truer persuasion [he had been crowned] both for this than for that nothing plus that, to be hated, would have given their love a better price than the kiss he gave forth, to have it whether the soul had ever hunched, to have the control of the body if not [he had assumed that it had no place where the soul came as it were a thrush, sent an alien question [he had assumed that he had chosen a few words] What has happened, is to be happening in a hushed space between earth and hell? whose has been joined only by death. and which can have been, who knows. where is the other? <|endoftext|> "1-800-FEAR", by Jody Gladding [Living, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] We can never still be playing, or be grateful for it. —Djuna Barnes We can never still be the red-jays ======================================== SAMPLE 330 ======================================== "Crossing the Styx", by Karen Anstré [Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] After Leonardo da Vinci Flying this death in the silver of sky, the young bear (Dante and Pope’s) leg-ends—my feet, the spider-webs’ twirl, the deadly, wide-spreaded mirror of spined wire that slants and sinks with the rhythms of wheels crushed—against the insomated sky’s subtext of “the night,” but what I said now—the great, great, great god-given— dragged me downward to where my brother lies beneath the footage of behind him—against the swift, omnipotent earth-shaking engines—the bare-footed godhead, the girl, the new godhead, Aphrodite, the god in me—the god (Dante laughed and sang with meathes) and the angel of dawn glided down the sky-line white-hot on the dark shreds of the stiff-sleeved man— the great, great godhead—the huge, fierce god (Dante laughed and sang with meathes) and kissed my mouth as it opened, salt with our sweat. (What stuck to wind their fox’s horn drumming.) One time on the red slab of a mountain’s foot, king Mándelas with a fisherman’s thumb, Eudica pointing “Márío” from its place of root and stem to the buds that blazed back the whole time— the utterance of failure plucked off its grace— the puny, blind, individual, stingfast rape carpenter’s letter a willingness to start the cargoes’ rescue and bring the dog’s belly to the house. (O Gog Sleep -- before the roots slumber’s fire, a ghost in the air, the sun: before the seeds of life first remain unclose and leave the germs to be hatched. (O Gog Sleep -- before seed still sm ruins itself.) O ghooped-back mad bloodskeletal, vixen! I never read a sad address to a friend who ======================================== SAMPLE 331 ======================================== "Nude", by Lydia Huntley Sigourney [Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] My grandmother, as usual, married a huge woman. The man who asked asked me for a trunk of cane he cut off a box. Then burned a small plant, too.The woman with the scars refused to answer his questions. Her eyes closed, she went on nuclear through that small tree. Then, she went on Great Plains. But the man at the woman’s back, keeping the trunk locked, dangling down her heels, slammed the back so tight it hung crippled. Afterwards, her heart failed, and she fell ill . . the woman heard not the truth at the doctor’s office, question. On whom the man from the Chicago Cubs would have said something like the war he was doing at the races he would have gone wrestling. How could we not imagine him on the back of the truck, clinging and grasping his reins, lighting and tripping to help the team dry in the siding, tripping, tripping, tripping, tripping, tripping? My wife’s mother in her white nightgown, running to help the man hurry to break out the team, struggle to break out his team, doctor from Florida, blue suit from hurricanes. She could not stand him for hoursthen again. Then, her left hand resting on a pony. The man who flicked her jeans on her knee to see if someone watched. Her ankle was fat as a balsa grass. Her shoe gleamed like dashes of new moon scissars. Then I saw the man do the youngster pack on the truck to a Lincoln green drive, taking a pony to the model campfire. He’d stopped her, grabbed my arm and crossed it with his mouth when she cried, making a sign. — I made a shoe nail holes, saw the coffin parts of plastic, worked from wood, strung the bottom and all the openings through wood. Just when I asked if my mother believed in her chemical tastes, she turned her head and held out the middle of the bodice before me. — I was a big big big calico in third grade first. First then, a small graffable hoarfrosting light when my daughter asked me if my dad would kill me. My mother embraced. We used the name of a Gypsy woman with a camera picture of the thing called “Evis. ======================================== SAMPLE 332 ======================================== "You Can't Love Making This Life", by C. D. Wright [Love, Unrequited Love, Relationships] It will be time to get to you— second & third stanza...of this fully packaged lump...somewhere else...somewhere else...this well-known rhyme in which we place names...    ...we can only go our ways...one of us besides the song. <|endoftext|> "You Is Just the Gustur", by C. D. Wright [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I have a friend. I have an arm. I have a waist. I have a waist. I have a hand. I have a waist. I have a waist. My arm, my hand, is not warm. I have a head. Oh yes, I have a head. A hand is just a hand, my head. A hand—I have a hand. A hand—I have a hand. A hand—I have a hand. The day is breaking thin. The thick dews fall One after one. I stop in the car. The yellow moth flies through the evening. A hand is just a hand, my hand. One hand protects through second drag The soul of a body. One hand protects, One hand protects, and one hand protects. The day is long. The yellow moth flies through. The day is long. The long cloud drifts. Another hand protects through second drag, Another hand protects, and one hand shelters Deaf and dumb. The deep is bright. There are moments in this summer that live in the dark. <|endoftext|> "You Wonder as a Man", by C. D. Wright [Living, The Mind, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy, Photography & Film, Reading & Books, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Kuros were on TV. Think of your 'own,' While I am with you yet But a jolly small boy says the laughing kind You kindly Bob and sucks his easy drink; And when she does she sings like that— The fact they both ======================================== SAMPLE 333 ======================================== "Self-Portrait", by Margaret Atwood [Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I wonder what you are doing here had the kind of good nature, she would’ve been happening in the waste. I’m sorry I said to her, the morning I was here, she was such things moving in your direction, not only a figment, but a light, net, blue, and yellow sliced birds, prayers for a life, the house where you were going, that summer. I’m in such cattle, such a back-to-the-level sounds of the sea, such sounds, such half-flung dollar scripts, such sounds of cottonmouth in your paint, such utterance of heart and hand. I wish you a common job, sometimes. I’m just a witness, I have always had a share. Have come to talk of sea, its dialect, its sayings, respect, everything. But if it happen that you’re not just unded, if you mean it. Some rough and sudden darkness. And here my neighbor is laughing,Reading at me. Why, so do you say? So must he! Tell me two stories, three lives, three loves. And the old man sitting in the parlor with his body playing the top of the cloth over the top of the cloth wrapping his shirt over his high-shouldered boots. Come here is playing and coming again, free. <|endoftext|> "The Hummingbird", by Leslie Adrienne Rich [Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] It is a quiet song, The small dark tongues of rain Going to sleep. But I would have Some other small, stern Slab, awkward Sweetness to start With a little hunger For that their silence that lifts Into such dear and native Beauty, their only Conquering love. Where is this falling into darkness? It falls into decline, Into a shade, Into a lazy supper, Sleepy and drowsy. It drops, as through a hand's length A second's sudden trace Makes it encompass and enfold ======================================== SAMPLE 334 ======================================== We can start a discussion, too, if I may be the first to deem this a long time ago I thought, if I shape it all in a jumble, It’s some old pair or bender I think will do; If I do, I’ll twist up some distaff Ben, And get down with old Sancho and Sam McGee.“ “Jason, god bless the benevolent family and all the cottage and homestead,” I ventured. I slept beneath messemed ice on New Hartford. I read and wrote love letters and promises, one by one, about love and the love we’d seen and the life we led, didn’t we, Jimmy? I have a lover and win the eternal fame. <|endoftext|> "The Four Seasons", by William Butler Yeats [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] I take the two sexes with applauses and flirting goodbye. The repulsive loser must sigh for the eternity I think you’ve chosen, and ask: how? Ask what am I thinking? <|endoftext|> "The Four Seasons", by William Butler Yeats [Living, The Mind, Love, Romantic Love] Four Seasons: Inebriate and aglare and nudged by th’ wind and the wind’s kisses. Two veiled and naked ladies in a tangle of lace sway from the wind. From nudges the nape — emites don, choose your self or you think it is spring —  <|endoftext|> "The Fourth of July Sundays I Run Out Right 5 Rode Out To Drownese, You're going a lot more. Have you read the mathematics of the day? Have you ever considered the difference between one day and the next? Have you ever considered the difference between blackberry and Redberry? You’ll find time — it’s so. You don’t guess I made it. Or did it not come to mind, back when they’re already high in vision? Then time was a slave butGuess it made me rush into your imagination — ======================================== SAMPLE 335 ======================================== "Phoebus West", by Jordan Derry [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] I’m waiting for someone to say my prayers after our defeat, really ready to soar and fly like a feather from the blue yonder clouds rising in the sky unnoticed after all the holy time for prayer. Please, if someone asks for you,please come please come to my stone again, why don’t you come grumbling to me for bread? All our friends tell us we all behave ourselves together. How surreal do you feel when you do so often? Pat, if anyone asks for you, sit, please come walk down upon earth with the flowers and clouds? Bid the whole wood ever flow, and why not also? It’s enough for us all, the world. <|endoftext|> "A Farewell", by Jordan A. Am Not My Evening and a Retrievill I’ve addressed the dead while my mind is being heavy and placeless. The end of my many questions has been clear and sufficient. I’ve shown them what I have done and will witness. These bodies, so many, they won’t reward me. There is a solid point somewhere in misery. I am going to pick up this subject. I aim at it. It is not a trifle unreal. Because it is eating. And this person stays happy where he was before. The rest of my problems I’ve been taking up are those I’ve held so long and will remain unreleased before. But why have I left him so very lonely? He’s been telling another sad tale. Then the haze slowly melt. And the sight that he did was forever destroyed. That I am not now in my sadness. My greatest need to be patient. <|endoftext|> "The Statue", by Joseph Thomas Liars [Living, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] I heard a cough in the coal-smok rooms. I saw a man on the telephone waving. I heard him: he is lying at the edge of the bed With a book from a teacher. Just then, he T ======================================== SAMPLE 336 ======================================== "Unfinished Play", by Joyce Armorica [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Popular Culture] At a packed bookerin March 1770, under the engravings partial and weatherbeaten thoroughbred couldn’tsee, writing for a mustachioi days until the blaze of the alcino scatters the words “Pieces and Stays.” Or the stanzas from the native and inconsiderate timber or the magnifying glass facets of a nerves and genes or the Eliot talismans that could figure the effects of the Western horse, and manage to spot the teeth of the shark’s teeth in the dark of the heat. To these Maya States, Maya States, I am tempted to accuse myself against the rules of looking into the faces of the earth. <|endoftext|> "Head of the Girl", by Joyce Armorica [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] To those who complained of the cause of a pyramid, a girl told me what an ugly face is. She tried to talk to me without making me forget the phone book you bought for two dozen dollars for exchange. There was no audience. I forgot. I told her that I could have gone back to the job. She complained of the marks for surfing upon the beach, the unfinished voice she loved to keep in check. It is a big mouth, not a microphone. I am fourteen. I speak the lines to her because she is old and in us three. Also that instead washer, not that she is old enough to be a woman, or just an old person with a chain. If she speaks to me living or alive, I’ll know. As a child, I open the door to my kind friends who can help me with their emotion. There is no use in remaining the chains of minutes for me, the smallest shack of time that can’t unbar has been tucked up underneath a skin. I know this. I know that I am becoming. I know that I can be handsome and sweet, and I don’t want to leave this kind face to the world, except, ======================================== SAMPLE 337 ======================================== "Love’sstable", by Edward Hirsch [Love, Desire] A lake lay under the moonlight, under the moonlight glow, rocking and rocking, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, swaying and swaying, rocking and swaying, swaying and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, rocking and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, rocking and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, swaying and swaying, lapsing and swaying, lapsing and swaying, lapsing and swaying, lapsing and swaying, lapsing and swaying, lapsing and swaying, lapsing and swaying, lapsing and swaying, lapsing and parting and parting and slips...andyond beyond is beyond overtaking and breach ...and beyond comes ripping and ripping and thrusting...and beyond falleth toward growing and groweth for slime and seed and seed and seed and seed and seed and leaf and seed and leaf and seed and leaf and leaf and seed and leaf and leaf and seed and leaf and seed and leaf and leaf and leaf and seed and leaf and leaf and leaf and seed and leaf and leaf and leaf and seed and leaf and leaf and seed and leaf and sound and air and sky and wind and wave and wind and cloud and sky and wave and wind and cloud and wind and cloud and cloud and wind and cloud and wave and wave and wave and wave and wind and all sounds and sight and sound and sound and cloud for a space. <|endoftext|> "Love-Lilies", by William Barnes [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Love-Lilies A Rhenish-Seek ant ======================================== SAMPLE 338 ======================================== "Scorn'd My Father", by Hannah Gamble [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] I am in your arms, Paris. The absence of conjugal arms, Or works suchvolence could affect Nothing less than a memory More than absence. Those arms, each Closing their earthly doors, are open'd To what with their love and lust, <|endoftext|> "Night Again", by Sophie Nadelberg [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Life, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Even now it is dark and its spectral arms Seem almost to fly to beyond and to dwell in. Let me lie here all afternoon in my garden. Dear lady, that dream is most difficult Even for a moment, the celestial wish That is most sure is most clear and hypnotic. You may look at your cigarer, you need Only your mother's hand, when you start To understand you are about to become Other again than you will know before long When you have read this. Then just turn to Some future day, in your garden, whatever The late sun will do, write this: I could have done it myself. <|endoftext|> "Watching the water", by Sophie Nadelberg [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Some of us must persevere in our attire. When needles hole, my father's ashore comes down and leaves us naked. He and I are not beaten by any uproar by fleas or even in this terrible heat. We muster in the disarray of night, the stars, dispatches, abortions, crows, moleskins, and candles, helmets, crowns. Some of us are of the sun, are scorched and seared by the lamp’s orange glow, who are alive with fever, and cannot have anything to put in your shoes. We are deaf to every bridge’s cry, for nippleless and ======================================== SAMPLE 339 ======================================== "from (page lxxxix) A passage to “Loroco", by Joanna Fuhrman [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Elvira! on thy shores, fair Fountain! fairest emblem Of happiness and endless power! did Fancy startAnd sail those glorious waters like a bird Of God and its beloved, far outstretched? Haply you will think of Spain! thou Egyptian land Of India, cool'd by the sun and visited By many a stately city's distant sound; Of melody, ev'n sounds more sweet than those Of the swan ocean, in thy wooded hills And groves which darken the day-starred ocean, Glistens the Egyptian lotus on thy base. And, haply, in some dream even now I trace Of a far nobler region, where the streams Of brightening glory, Mush & like quiet lids above Like restless night on all their pride,Will oft out-shine its sweetest flowers, and be The star-beget of kind Apostoms fair which it shines through. Therefore in love and hope the world is made More glorious than in ancient day, which dawn Day gave to Paradise; and Day, as sunset dies in air, hath being stay'd Within its course, embracing us like vs, Who have been blest, farewell! farewell! THERE are be somewhat to I eke Of thy delicious love; I'd have thee not bewail The fruitless labour it survives; Nor their sad sweetness, praise it, lose Though one their flower survives. But if each one should mourn, And darken it in grief, Or dim the daylight ray, To those who linger on, say 'tis this, "Oh, give me more, and more, ye stars, of this!" But if one think, O woe! He who their light bestows In the bright train of night Could see the bewildering light Whose wakeful raptures flow; But could not, could not die, While he his lamp did high, Nor sink in the pitiful stream of woe, Nor in its peaceful bed Sleep while the day doth thread, But evermore as night doth weary night, Doth waken the earth anew And every living thing that moves on ======================================== SAMPLE 340 ======================================== "Have You Places", by Jill Mc abruptyn Schiff [Purs] Do you recognise all theseconditions going on distances, clinging to a speeding order, becoming heard at last from you, in your eyes that you are you, through which music swirls out. Do you follow those images whose beauty is in them, ballooning in air that's nowhere to come, breathless, into nothingness, through the moment's being, they struggle, this time of year? Will you tell us whence your death is? Come to ask. Some time or other time, as night comes on tomorrow, you'll be fed, breathing, holding arms, thinking, feeling, are you yours? <|endoftext|> "After Preparing the Altar", by Jill Mc abruptyn Schiff [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Not looking to be a journalist, don't mistake so much at these times, as to note the extenview of your escape from the lachrimatic bird, which is true in itself an idea of low-hungconcealment, which becomes facetious, an idea of whiteness or a scrip to be sure, of walking straight-mindedly through a café, but an idea of pin-prickling eyebrows, of deep, chiselling pendulous purple or hardly elsewhere, but on second-hand, with a heart that rejects the intruder. <|endoftext|> "Propoty", by Kazim Ali [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries] I like to think it all so differentlyI never felt accustomed to any stranger,or if one took me in when walking into the body,or to a spectral wind in January.the complex — a door opening — and again,or opening — and again, — and again, in a house, with strangers and communists. <|endoftext|> "Chino-Wookehwa", by Ko Un [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers] I like to think I can be of another experience.the brazen steps seem no better:this would drive on to a super — I, the Sun, the Moon, the everlasting Sun ======================================== SAMPLE 341 ======================================== "Istanbul 1983", by Sheila Black [Activities, School & Learning, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, Race & Ethnicity] In the morning of my arrival, My eyes were full of tears, my heart Grew heavy with life. I'd sit in sunlight, And through the bars of houses I'd peer across the room And see my husband, Clarence. I'd believe In everyone. But never forget Those words upon my tongue, those things That brought me to this world, those truths That brought me to the earth, to them, Those truths that brought me to the earth. Now, as I hunched behind the lattice, The cold neighborhood relumbed. In morning, Morning, my eyes tired of the city, I heard my husband sing; he bore my spirit. I thought of death. <|endoftext|> "The Festubert House", by William Showers [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] The egg-shaped house Was high up on a limb. The egg-shaped house Was dropping in honey And the caterer, three feet high, Was crushing it; the half woman Was heaving a don't, for he knew no That this was part of me. The moon had begun to sink Beneath the sun because of it, And there was light in the window, Pressing and squeezing my hands, And there was the sun and the sun And oh there was sun on the world Three feet under, three feet under, And the little man beating three feet Three parts making four feet of the bed Three parts descending and rising Three parts falling out One of them falling in eight And the little man beating three feet So fast that it makes you think They are not really passing But the wind and the sea, they are not really Three parts going and coming and coming And there was he coming. <|endoftext|> "The First Circle", by William Shopslain [Living, Parenthood, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Sweet prince, ======================================== SAMPLE 342 ======================================== "The Consent", by Major Jackson [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The mind is the Logodium of an evening not really but inevitable in advance when the horizon sounds and arcs and the signal cock becomes a point-blot like a signal waiting in signal <|endoftext|> "Poet’s Return", by Major Jackson [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] He sat in a valley and sorrowed. `John Keats was an artist and poet,’ he said. A year later the timber came in, and he fell. The town of Loostook, it seemed, was a village, And Pat had his world laid down under a weed. The town of Loostook was a city not a prison, And Pat's the only thing in all countries, a crowd. And the only street where a street was a book Was the dry stone of a habit, its eyes like a clout. And the only street where a street was a book Was the eye of a book that you might read right on. In his two free ears his words, like running flame, Started out like a race-course in back of a page. `The words of that man that you saw when you entered Would give him the surf-reeks, reboundlike, a sound As of some iron clatter that you were found. And the only street where a street would be found. The bazar-house it is, you can see by eye, With lights at the end of the street, the sky. The bazar-house it is, you can see by the sign, At the end of the street, A street that suddenly stops, and begins to turn white. The bazar-house it is, you can see by the sign, The whole of the world set down to a point, And the whole world goes by. <|endoftext|> "The hideouseto", by Major Jackson [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets ======================================== SAMPLE 343 ======================================== "Believe me", by Yusef Komunyakaa [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Trust me once again! Now I leave you for the world to see Bursting your name into the candlelight, Burst the door and blind the gods with prayer. Trust me once again! Now I leave you for the world to see Bursting your name into the candle light, Ruin that you gave to me, and plague you too! With my last breath I can gain your kingdom, right! Believe me, then, By our own blood we live, and sweat, and pray This dreadful war is down upon us all. Trust me once again! Now I leave you for the world to see, Ruin that you gave to me, and curse you now! With my last breath I can never cease to pray With my last breath, Now I leave you in the grave, and go to die! <|endoftext|> "The Landlady", by Edwin Markham [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Pets, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer, Philosophy] The landlady is thoughtful and shy, A philosopher, who looks her nose at me, But if the holiday was over, she Would guess to hear me; for, you know, her mother Takes me to places I belong to when She calls me, from the world's side, where she Finds me reputed to her so I come To aid her call, her grandfather, at home; And if my father gave her over long To compass her, to call me act, strong man, She'd take me on and so explore my place, Finding me sitting in some sun, her place Among great trees. But if my parents told My age exactly, she would ask for more? And when I wrote, was eight months gone, or knew The number, she would clutch my hand, and trample A cornstalks into waves, then pluck her claws, Or scribble out again her name to teach me That I am honored and in my ways follow. <|endoftext|> "Confession of the Eiffel Tower", by Edwin Markham [Living, Activities, Jobs & ======================================== SAMPLE 344 ======================================== "Wake", by Terrance Hayes [Religion, The Spiritual] Not to know it darkens. Not to hope. Not to greet each other in hope. I cannot come to anything. I do not come, I stand beyond the horizon of charity wherefor I wish to receive, to what end, the kindness I require.Eventually I am dead. Silent, I am building the stairs of the cathedral. So it is dark. Sometimes I am afraid of death. Nothing to dread. Sometimes I have hunger. Then the heavy harness turns to dust. Then music burns my lips. Sometimes I go alone. Try not to remember distance when I am already within. And to death I will not give in. Dare to think. If you wishes not to forget, enlarge, I am putting all I was waiting for you, in your being. All the wishes gather at your feet. I have a wish. Do not say it. It is because I desire it. Sometimes I shudder when you gently fold me, make my mouth thy wish, my poet dumb, one that does not love me. Is that aught to forget or love me? Inasmuch as he can understand me. Dare to think of me as I would feel other than I would. I would be a great, a great marvel, nay, and would walk on in silence without pain, if my words were not meant for words. I would understand, I would understand. I would see my gods, my queen, my wife. I would see the sun on high gleaming; the sun on the mountain-tops. Ah, that night was the secret of me. Day and night. I would ascend to the depths of the sky and read, and feel thy truth, thy God, with open heart. I would see thine eyes again in my deeds. I would sweep thine eyes awake with life, thy thought, thy language, thy thought, thy word, thy word, thy thought, with the winds for friend. I would scatter the light of the soul as thou art his, the day of our waking. Ah, Beloved, I dreamed last night when the sun sank. The night rolled like a winged sea, and I dream floated on the blue hills. The thick zones were asleep, the south shone like a flame, and no one was there, for I had a word of command on land, where I cast mine eyes, and lo, a monstrous head, and shook my ======================================== SAMPLE 345 ======================================== "Half Beauty", by John Wilmot Earl of Rochester [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Engagement, Weddings, Valentine's Day] What man am I? In each of the bandit maids I dance, And the boys down the street forget my aim, And to follow the fiddle and to love My veil of perfume hangs and falls, As I oft go forth the afternoon Even where the sun rises above the rippled pool. All day long you may list for the rhyme I sing, And you'll hear the sweet music the grey mists among Have brought me to death's abode, Where the rushes and rivulets too and fro With their rush of light o'er my fancy come down. You'll hear the blue mists receding along the bay As the birds fly back to their notes of play On the air above the lake, that whispers in passing A song that will wake your blood to its music's lapping. And you'll hear the wild mermaid, The mariners out, the galleys a-fishing, All up in the sky, for the fairy scene-- You will stretch your woman beside your own fragrant head, And catch it and toss it about your head Like a white-faced little mermaid, That draws in some moan to tell you they are dead. O fie upon you! O fie on you! it is you that are drawn to this scent That smells of the lilac and tastes of the lawn; Ye are fed by the tender holly, You are drunken and hot from the fiddle and from the brier, From whose branches sing and murmur the Norman Fife. O happy lives that lie under this sod; O happy mounds that lie under this mould; O happy times that lie quietly buried under the ground; How happy lives, that lie quietly under this mould; O joys that lie under this mould; And the these shall lie buried under your mould. Then will you rise and follow me hence, With a wraith that blows over your bed at the shut of the day; Then unto your bed again will I lead you away: Then unto your bed again will I lead you away, Far greater than I shall never remember to rest, O weary heart that sleeps in the green of the green spring, O body that slumbers in peace with the flowers, And to pray you' grace to come back to your roving life ======================================== SAMPLE 346 ======================================== Temples, square temples, vaulted rooms, Old sylvan gardens, lofty rooms Amid the brownish’s festal streams. The eastern windows dim, The house’s stillness, slumbering, wet, Deep in the chambers, where pale hands Shedding red gold the pitchy stairs, Lit rich with trembling plumage wreaths, Red flames and crowns and gold coins, wrought In the close woven lattice-work Of doors of some wide hall,—lifts light In such a twinkling of farewell. Beside a church that girt the way Beneath the seaweed’s towering eaves, (Hiding unfinishably The steady cloudy weight of spray) Loosed from the fir trees, hiding the earth Deep in the grave’s recesses, The spice-tree, spreading coat of leaves And alabaster from the hearth, Hemming some garden wall’s dry arch With fragrance afteral. Sending a comfortable rise And setting off from the slow-rending earth, Slow-bursten by the ashes, Ascending incense-smoulded, Ascending up, Bright-glistening above the vale, Beside a jail that binds your heart And overfond themselves to send A calm and steady breathless start, A whispered, chilly death. <|endoftext|> "Science", by Christina Pugh [Religion, Faith & Doubt] And when these earthly themes were done The white-robed, thoughtful Heads Arched themselves in reverent wise With the grave Mâsota, palpitating on marble, Monkákáwara thinking, Came with eyes that followed The Queen of the Trial Queen In her restless Atonte Where the Great Queen— At the world’s end her white hands wist As if weaving a garment for her breast. Of herself a score, Gave a hundred and eighty-one On her moccasins. Ordered her for a score, Ten upon her day of saddles At a time she rubbed Night, day, night, into The remotest of her eyes: Sight ======================================== SAMPLE 347 ======================================== "Saturday Market", by Melvin B. Tolson [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] And yet the monument’s so very high We need no other ones than the stars. The sun is high and though it does not even talk, We should study zest and rakes are on the walk. All the little creatures who come to life As all the next world’s creatures know our daughter, Finding women in the oldest liners’ deal, Will join our meeting at the martyr’s grave, And at those sacred name of her who lives Around the sacred sacred fire she loves. —they went, as I have often promised, To the convent on that day when each had his Slow and listless steps—at the intended hour They found that the beloved saint had caught The unuttered beat, the dropped monks’ word gave A sense of life’s infirmity, and prayed: —The Matilda and the lovely Clare, Waited for them at the convent stair. But these were not to be true. That day the monk Asked the saint the mean in the way he knows: “For me, since you have failed to see me now, “I have but lately married you, and ask For justice and the privilege you give To me, I am not loath to be your king.” —They went, through this unpleasant place of things Into the convent on that day to see, Where yet there was no spiritual power But only souls in the old monastery. And when the bells were ringing in the third, And in the fourteenth the chime of bells had died, The monks rose up in awe, as if they thought That surely then the earthquake would have died, And who was saved had heard them calling still: “He is the Christ, the Christ that is all,” And in the convent there was only free The only living who were called on me. They sent me to the port to see my friends, The place I called the, which they gave him, when He sailed, with only that he had his hands, Only two hands that he had given him. And always when he sailed he preached the Gospel ======================================== SAMPLE 348 ======================================== "Resembles Me", by Gary Snyder [Living, Death, Time & Brevity] The eyes of my enemy, cold and estranged, The lips of my victim, the reddened teeth That menace to me as "issuing" or "passing" To a world in which my own hate and revenge are ruled. The glance that scorns your picture shall injure yours. The work of the ages that change you, forever lost In the heart-inspiring depths of your labor and sweat That have thrilled with desire, as the hands of the gods Crush at the same time with the image and grief they can name. Night after night we keep wandering, from your watch Unvanquished of sleep and the world at your side. I am dying of folly, and life's flow, that once was the wine And ruin of dreams, is intact. The thought that is not spoken And mute, tonight, in the streets in the city Sustains its complex chords, as if the shining chords Had gone responsive to the world-deep song From the lips of the Prophet, that song is one Whose soul is as yours with the sense of tune And the world's breathing as it wills the tone. The thought that is not passionate yet is you, Sorrow that is wild yet unwed, your eyes Hint now their secret, the poet divine Who is you yet on earth is but your chosen one. Your soul is the spirit of this answering song Whose heavenward glow is joy. As some sad king who sings The triumph of kingdoms revives over kings, So gleams your spirit the splendor of love that is kept By your soul, listening still, as the stars are re-formed By the sound of the desert's breath on the tomb of the dead. From camp to the camp of the foe. Now, the many of Israel Blindly have called you into the outer darkness For the light that streamed from your eyelids, to see him Pass in the darkness; to see him again, or, to Living again in the sun that illumed you Yesterday, to see him again in your vision. Or a vision, a vision; a vision; a Language that speaks in the dark; and you say What is written here on the Nile; to say What you think of you, Gabriel, is out of the ======================================== SAMPLE 349 ======================================== "Disturbant Neglect", by John Milton [Religion, Faith & Doubt] As the imagination seeks the look of things, so the imagination finds the self-pointed beak. So in the act of sneak-fish, or the monstrous second-hand fish, or the hideous second-hand nether shape, thus imagination trims the chamber, through which the eternal, scratched creatures fall, and, collects itself in twain, escape in fury, and without word abiding its own fate. Thus the imagination, that loses its own force, maddens itself on the open side of the ground. And the fish, which are the secrets of the imagination, dip their savage beak in the water, and seize all that is necessary. Thus the imagination, at its barest beauty, makes itself wretched in supply of words, and the reflected to as many uses of imagination, for all dance the bird without the snake. From the precipitous mountains, to the former peak, the second, where the stream Wind, borne by the pack, cuts through a half-mile curve, rives through the hills, and by this path the mind flies through a hundred path. There beauty builds in the Alpine hinterges her nest of words; which in order that beauty's name, like the ash, may flourish on the wind, while men take labor to hammer the toiling matter. Though many may be left to do their best in the world for the blessing shepheard in the meadow, who scatters her seed from the gravel of the crook, like a grain of boiled milk. And whilst the dew impatiens in the leafy tree, the frost pours in the violet; while the sun, above the hills, darts his glittering drops, cannot in them equal the heat; for when their ceaseless flowings reach the shore, they pierce the veil of cloud and cloud without a cloud to follow. Those working oaks and larch, that to the sun grow white with their fires as they gather, in that country must be allowed their heads to build again. There is one lesson which must observe this poet; and it is love that he is reading it; and it is that feeling which sacrifices to the good, that takes pleasure from one creature, ======================================== SAMPLE 350 ======================================== "Sestina Regis", by Jupiter Sandy [Arts & Sciences, Music] This tune, mistress, affects only over notes, I rarely read the finish. My mother meant me for singing bouquets, but now I see the way my mother sang all the time, in the next stone. All afternoon she will cry: Who wants me to tell a ballad? Someone tells a ballad about a ballad, but Rosalind told me to change the gold string, This is the song she’s singing all the time, she will cry down in the dark, in the dark, <|endoftext|> "Father", by Apollo Sandy Winall [Living, Parenthood, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] Father never got up with the clubs.Father didn’t pick up the cocoanuts, just didn’t want to eat, on the way out, in diminishing vivo colors, days, months, months and years. This is the way she sings, "Father got up with the clubs." All the way home, Father had a terrible family. Father didn’t mind it, Father didn’t pick up the phone, if no one yelled, we’d been all in the dark, listening to us, how suddenly nights keep Putting on always to go unnoticed. The letters O’Filleries are certain, Father’s voice is breaking Grandmother’s still Victor’s, but the children’s Baby drum seals them up, strains out, "Father got good my nigas’s!"walk, march, then you could listen to the news o’ Mother’s night. The night has been darkening our cell. Mother’s been screeching lost. Why tell you, father? Father’s pollen says I’m sick of the lullaby problem here, but not for signs yet all the harm. <|endoftext|> "Sonnets 2", by Gabriel Mantu [Heart and Brain, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] my father kept a ======================================== SAMPLE 351 ======================================== "This Is Just To Be", by Alfred, Floatng-Loose [Living, Death, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Men & Women] Here at last is just to be kissed At everything you see. Memory still can make you blink And think it true. You know I'm just the man. You mean You are a girl. You mean me. What about this other Love of marriage, love of The closet room door that Shuts to stars down, the Frail oval stroke, the Women. Three women Standing by the bed. I'm Shut to the light. You see Me, my mother's mother, inside The darkness. I have Shelves for myself. I Still can see her, never See her, see her, never Happier. I can Listen to the break- Time of angels. You Perfectly, always, always Just to do all things, Only keep the raw Water. Not for me. I'm Always glad. Sometimes Helpless. And when Thinking. And today I see. You see Me, you know. My dear Have we not been at war Through war, and won the In every woman's And each other's, always? I think that everything can I do with different men. But they aren't Me, I'm not the boss Of the armies of hell. No, For God's sake, all the time Now is just a vision, A vision that's Acrid, very far Today. It's true That you are Up on Mount Light. You Are fool and knave, A puck called. I'm A formation of script And prayer. You're modern Today. I think Of the wrong words. So God seemed good To the mind. So God made me sing Just as it was right. I get good and look good On everything. That's Why God gave me the Devil's To look at ======================================== SAMPLE 352 ======================================== "And Thou shalt Fallswalk Again", by Adrienne Su [Living, Death, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] For Adrienne Su [Religion, Christianity, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] Oh think which gave thee wings, Black Prince, and wings to fly? Oh think which chose to die By the loosed force of one dear letter, It would be good to die by mine, And think what death I would have gained, But that all wars should cease, And nothing live but what I’ll have won. The Armada put it down, Which did not need a mace, The silly thing, with all its dread, Infirmly on too frail a limb. The poor and ruinall say Ah lovers and not lovers I’ve been born for a day, And sauntered on the way for kisses. <|endoftext|> "Immortality (St. Joseph’s armful golden dome Of that vast and blessed home Where anchorite cottage’s spires are high And Heaven holds in unison)— For pleasant thoughts are mine to spy, Mine engines I to turn and fly To the wild island on the bay, Where, cot rumoured in the sky, A lambkin and a kid, A lambkin and a lass Start in a dream that saw me stray. <|endoftext|> "Human Hope", by William Wordsworth [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] The man that celebrates his birth The morn of nations with the thunder, rocking to the earth, Behold that huge array Of widowhood in battle array! They come, antheying of their sires, And children catch them ere they close their eyes— For still they pine and gape, and gape For prey that never shall come clearer; They welcome every passing breathThat wanders mid the livelong night of death. Not like the immortals, less divinely sweet, With the clear honey of a life completeness, front and back and back of limb, Their rough artillery of brotherhood could reap The moor and hollow where a fiend abode, But hovered in the middle; then, as morn’s first gracious ray Was pierced across the sea and made a prey, Itself flung back to the dire earth, the ======================================== SAMPLE 353 ======================================== "The World Is a Way", by Jordan Charles [Religion, Christianity] It is not something from the world, nor an ideal from the world nor would be back. It seems it’s something in this firmament —full of loveliness and tenderness. What else it means to be the world for once, or turn its past, will stay warm, heart alive, radiant, one for long. The world seems made implemnable with perfectness and perfectness. The most perfect isthe middle one and the highest sitting place in purity is the one fault, the whiteness and brightness of it, perfectness. <|endoftext|> "The Face of the Sky", by Jordan Charles Remos [Living, Death, Time & Brevity] for Patience Darkness: the day being the night, which did not sink nor doth not cease. Its anvil-bump indulsive fury takes from dimness the top down of its fierce eye. On this account the face of the Sky is made from water a spring jellied with pink-and-white roses, indigo and yellow and hot coolly roses green leaves cast witheringly roses of gray brilliant green, indigo and green and yellow and hot coolly roses of blue burn green thrown down into the blackness. What if the sky slid toward it, shattering the lie in pink and sulphur as a whip blows off the curb? What if its banks took all at once and ran like a leaf under slow fire? What if there were to leave it, always the sound and sight of it loveliness full of beautiful blossoms? What if there were to leave it, all the body and mind full of its intelligence and funnels, one learns in every body how to purge flame with blackness, black at the root, hot at the root, black at the root, black at the root and sharp at the root whereto man dares kill a thousandfold? What if the sky were blue almost to the point where the sky was blue almost to the tip where the sky would have fled? Wherefore can at last, even in this blackness, be found again feeding anew beauty, the color of things seen, in its ======================================== SAMPLE 354 ======================================== "Invitation to Joplin’", by Zozagrounda [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Activities, Travels & Journeys] I reached for a candle to put into my bag and a few dabs of corn dust gathered from the far end of the drawer. Before I opened the canisters I could see Dr. All’s put into his pockets. Jes he had to depart from the world and could not be seen by any one in the next C’u-de-lo-ree de la Ruge. You’ve made a tidy little whore with a clean shirt and tie— No, kid kid! You’d better go free. Oh, high in air you can’t get home from, Town of dire blue days to come, you’ll burn your life to know. <|endoftext|> "from The Marriage of Susie Blackford", by Zarte Areter Sr. The following account is made by “under the awnings of Monthes, a” “un-mourned” un-rimmed. How pleasantly everything remembered on a Sunday! A groan of grief, a chiding of sparrows, and then the sudden interruption of the sheets. Later that morning I heard a song come up and another by and the song I heard ended. How differently your memory, the one in the twilight, enters, was enters enters I go back to the best part of my life I think I return him that afternoon but not far. You all went away. How carefully everything understood about who the young man was. As I walked off the shore, the birdcalls are stilled, the grass knuckled to the lichens then I find the he-goat sunk, and horses’ bells are stilled I sat in the dark with an old thought. I knew it was falsehood that you told you had to tell him. Sick of heart, I abandoned the rest to the rosy sun for a garment and returned back turning over the stones on the shore. The god on the hill was darkly frowning ======================================== SAMPLE 355 ======================================== "A LITTLE AGAIN," by Robert Bakesch [Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries] WELL, TWO years ago, our prayers were said more perfectly than the beginning. Think of our own poor souls. And think of our lean hen that got 10,000 inches and walked toward the front counter, unable to move higher. Think of our dear and faded feelings. And think of our quietly bare-legged children boring in the wind and shadow of the porch, together with the candle, the wind and our mothers. Not so much as the men do. One night, as I've told you before, nothing occurred but the echo of our prayer and what we'd missed. Not exactly. But maybe . . . Oh, maybe . . . It's something I can't name,--a voice from the heavens, moving over the last hills and far west, voice singing somewhere out of the darkness. Once, at a time, Just as I happened to hear someone say, "You're going to be very good to me, Dear." I meant to take them out like this. But now, I want to explain. First, with pain in my head, Secondly, against an inner sense, accused. And secondly, with my forgiveness. And turn on the nail Which holdeth the butt of the house, first time I touch you. And think you'll be angry then. <|endoftext|> "The Pilot in the Ship", by Robert B entering [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Farewells & Good Luck] I Machine stitched rivets clench, crack of the whine of the whip, clinging to my body, thinking of you, the sea's desolation, stretch of the wide ocean, lustrous, winds drive me, passing out of sight, a call on the barren, stript arm of a raft, lag-panted sea-gull lone-long on her track, past unheard-of death, and the body still, not light, but bathed in the hot ======================================== SAMPLE 356 ======================================== "Revival", by John Keats [Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] Beauty dead, I would be a man forgetting anything, Forgetting all, and looking for nothing at all, The rain and the world and the roses dead. And my longings heavy with brides-of-the-rocks and dredge, My mad allegiance to madness and hate, Because of the days when I chose my life too long, And the nights of my passion, and when my song was song. Then with the dark wine of anger and hate I would cling About the wound of my wound and the deep red germ, The deadly cup of denial, the foul despised ruth, The last love-slighter, and the good banneret of youth. Then with the dawn of the song and the rind of the spring Would I take the warm currents of nature, and sing Of the life of the song and the beauty of love and distress, And the life of my passion, and death and night and distress. Then with the morning of song and the rind of my heart Would I take the deep purple of Nature and know her name, The dark green doom and the greenness and dusk blind flame, And change and be only as the sun does, the stars and the sea, Not sorrow, not joy. I would blot out every trace, Every dream that is mortal, and turn from face to face With the cold of the future and perish in that hour, With the sun and the sea and the flower of the race, With the wind and the sea and the wind that shakes the sea, With the wind and the sea and the wind that shakes the sea. <|endoftext|> "Love is for a woman", by Joyce Carol Oates [Love, Romantic Love] Forgive me, love, forgive me And forgive me. What think you? Do you love me, love, for what? A fool of a man is not the slave, But the fool of a man is the fool of the fool. And forgive me. Ah, forgive me. How long have you been wandering, While I have seen you, looking in your mirror, And wistful, looking, looking, looking, And wistful, looking, looking, looking, And ======================================== SAMPLE 357 ======================================== "A Valediction of the Spiral", by Gertrude Stein [Arts & Sciences, Sciences] Soul, tell me where is Nemaldane, tell me where Lindage, say, who is that I hear Lofe? I’m listening to him: Me, it is he. Me, it is he. Me, it is he. Prayer, a rex of one kind, a button or more, a button isn’t it? I’m laughing at him and at him. I’m that little dwarf of the subterranean, he says, and I like him very much. But I wish I knew, says Nemaldane, the reason I’d like to mention the place I live in. When I tell him there, he says that a thing can do no more than what A little Cyclops lived in the dark, and I say whatever the Fates assigned, or the life that his Aik ought to maintain, than a word that his Aik ought to maintain. Since then I will throw a library all in one, and you will be careful, even then I will go to mass, and some concerns that are under favour with a nod and smile, and wish that you were there alone might have thought aloud, in an undisturbed slumber, as also quietly as heart can be, as also good. <|endoftext|> "Echo", by Gertrude Stein [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] 1 A voice so matched in vocal heaven, rebuking the black hills to due order, like a spear that Echo’s flesh on a fat hillock ends. It ends. It ends. It begins. One bumper, one for certain, invites another to mount, and for due course of course of course of course of course of course of course of course of used as syncopating syllables, is a well for what else, so that it ends. 2 Comes the note to us of course of time. So we will trace the golden age, the golden of the Resurrection. 3 This is the way the heart flows along the skin. The step of years that also come into getting more and the morecarols downEasy to run along. As does the falling of a forest bough. But the end: a bird of delight in the way of it. This is the way the poor heart and the el ======================================== SAMPLE 358 ======================================== "After the Lake Apology", by Mary Fiddler [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] In the old Italian fig-tree's children live again. The idea you mean they know of water and its forced ways, what water and its forced ways— these robed in branching trees. Which takes the form of the legend in the woods, slowly. It doesn't matter, does it? It doesn't matter. If only you know the name of water and its joined powers, or the depth of sky that resembles a voice in phrases, you'll trace it on the sands where the water wanders free. You'll become yourself like sunlight here below— a name creative, the word for which heart-light up a mountain leaps. <|endoftext|> "Carlos. On Earth", by Geoffrey Hill [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Down in dim meadows, while small birds patter about their pups and blues under the clear sky, I wander alone among the soft acid tassels of my native mud-made cottage, where two old trees, white with an early logend of sap, stand on a high earth. I have a stone trysts above the sunlight that radiates from eaves of moss, and I bend by one imperious purpose to maker another. So this chipping air, this earth that has washed the self of itself clean and made a mantua whereon this patchwork of light falls to freshen into new. <|endoftext|> "Landscape Without Men", by Lisa Olstein [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] At the stop to catch swallows at dawn, at the stop to catch fish many at dawn tend large to maw for the news if they're napping, or possibly beating the plum if they're advancing from the bus to mew floes about how many it takes to lasso for some future use, to stammer me for what's left sits this plot full of logs gnaws and heave of parchment not quite unwrap in the wood, though I think of the spin. A redwood pulp tremb ======================================== SAMPLE 359 ======================================== "At the Birth of Lovely denote", by Mina L. Hussey [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Race & Ethnicity] I am their grandmother. They live inside blessings and in stockings like apotropkin elephant bells, & they talk about their brothers, no matter how little they know! What did I want to fly? Who built this very high arc?The boy behind the counter could enjoy something & that he can afford to keep a ownie.All their brothers& children in dozens & brothers are all brothers, all along are purity: all along are purity, maybe some boy below daughter, not the old grandmother. I’m going to be a funker & my grand children will be born from the same father's womb & theirs. & I’m going to look at them until I reach my other side & they’ll never knowwho & my one sister are afraid.You never meant by little brother or nephew or mother or grandchild only by Father’s hand.I am not going to deny my 2 commands.Let them cry most loud, let them cry most loud, let them cry most loud, let them cry most loud, let them cry most loud, I want them to know who they are, & who want us: 1.6.spotlights.] a close voice. If they were speech—a range or a no-way—in a private way, they'd say— that was in the nostrils.Some day they'd cry “harlot and other things.” But no man will be here. The windows don’t send out from their view of the moon. The old woman, don’t let her cry a big month. She lies on a table & it implies a dress—apricot, yullah, nipples, knees, head— that nothing is behind them except the rose. They pay some minds, don’t put what they are in their claim. They are obliged toAuthorize the Lake of New Holland & Holland, to leave port at the island of the eye, to go & I’m a huge wave; perhaps it merely takes ======================================== SAMPLE 360 ======================================== "A Cloud", by Mahmoud Darwish [Nature, Trees & Flowers] “The wonder of the light”— my guide and I say of nothing and speak of nothing to do. As if the world were a stage on which timeless spirits have skirted the unknown, as if the world were a stage where light and the strange walk to and from which they come and go, as if this world were our world, where the lost road lay, as if the world were our world! What matter if we wander in a wilderness, or if we are our world, or glide to its extreme point in self wonder, or are our trees and song’s music! If we were to drop our sycamores, we should never slope and lean too much on nothing at all as the gray dust would not lift our eyes to the sky or the birds in the forest, if we were to pass as we do! If we were to fly like the daws make no spots, whether they feed us or not, whenever we think or do not to be beautiful, this is all! What think you? why? why? why? why? why? why? <|endoftext|> "Night Singing", by Mahmoud Darwish [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Summer] For the second time calumnal days We must imagine fish that wander through tall reeds for the dry end of some green meadow. They move in waves along glassy slats, water-gray, lit on by the moon’s terrible flare. We must cease from water with water on our own. So we must leave the river, though it never drags from its marshy margins. And we must write letters on the grassy walls—dust, wood, tallow leaves—that fall attached with moss. The rusted- green run is an enchanted garden’s corrugate, memories both affixed to blossoming boughs of rain, and the moon reigns over. These luxuriant with tree trunks, the tangles of old trees, and ropes of rain make the slu ======================================== SAMPLE 361 ======================================== "Past Silence", by Henry David Thoreau [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] Past Silence Past Silence This jug jug of wine. And the wine will oblige me even to the death of any of the saints. They convince him the most of when he sees most ones. “In brief,” say they, “our saints are most perfectly saints, and the most terrible saints who at times gulch tears and believe they can cut a twelve pence weekly for ten while there is no protector, and he will soon be ruined by the appearance of the saints.” “You can poison the nuns with such malignant potions they make their whole lives a hume that will make it run down itself like a river, and as for the Archduke who lifto himself once drank the wine of Cintra, didn’t drink wine and though, spite of their infamy, the friars drink divinely, and the friars themselves, I will not begrudge you therefore, not even if I had the same taste of the same fruits as me. And when, after all, you drink clear and get most sparkling eyes, and see the gourds and wats, and the wine, and the Pope too, and the wabs, and all that sort of wine that is most rare when it comes out of theDrivelpot and, after the Pope has drunk from Saint Rock and gone to the O.V. He has not come back, The Pope is not alone, Christ is with the Fiend. But who can fill the goblet with wine? nicholas Nor yet too late The horn so does not blast The vine, for none are yet so weak as to believe The odor is entirely profligate from the goblet Since the goblet does not tempt The Holy One, Christ is the same As the two helps and subdues For any of us the matter. This must suffice us a little Thinking would be enough If we would but enjoy it. With that she cometh and stands ======================================== SAMPLE 362 ======================================== "My Soul", by W. S. Graham [Living, Death, Nature] Why wilt thou this enormous space Through endless worlds, and thus permit An endless Chaos to permit A rapidorus, whose unerring scope Transcends this inter-heaved space? There’s no determined mark ’twixt thee and man; Why so large-limed, with aspect purpose, dost thou stand, While millions worship at thine altar, and expand, In vain, for thy great gift; yet such is thy right, Save that men deemed thee of so heavenly birth, And so soon gloried in thy endless sight. Now dost thou love in me that is all o’erpast The time, when fire is passionless and still, And all which thou hast loved and deemed but so; And time as sad, or pitying, and so sweet, Dost thou love us, and time as musical; And then thy high thoughts spring to greet thy feet. O ye! that o’er the restless ocean come, A tale of fragments torn from ancient home, Shall we, oh should we live to hear again One little strain, one little parting word, One long forgotten chain of broken strain? Shall that dear voice, so laboured and with pain— Speak to the midnight sea, or come again: The song which wrapped her heart, shall still remain, Unknown, in heaven, in earth, among mankind; Un interfused, in things divinely fair, Love, Hope, Devotion, Joy, are thine, the mine. For what is this, this air so chill, so drear? These hearts, these fluttered words, these empty words? If from this utterance could God’s self restore One hour of life, could God, in mercy, spare A universe that comes and goes aright, His creature, who eterne instinct learns, Whose senseless learning is his present not His gift from man, to man, earth, air, and sea, With lightest love, untrammelled in their flight, I should be loth to leave the deep forlorn. The leaf is sere, the thicket weep no dews, The life that lives, hates death, is the end of birds ======================================== SAMPLE 363 ======================================== "from “Spleen”", by Craig Arnold [Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] There is no sex discrimination because sweet hunger leaves no trace of trenched apricot toward your lips, as in doh-smacks of ink, shell with two-by-likeness and shoes the evening dew. Ge-gashed in broken bales the world’s tongue twists its hard tongue until a stunned man sees a peach he sighs for the perfectness of state. The stray Dylan doesn’t look toward the foot of faith but something so peoples from abstemious lips, and sandpaper that floats in breeze-smoke, even as your twisting fine wax that’s almost bloody and wide beyond the thin of your fine phitounced feet. Think no wrong with a nicks of frost that should be cold but jewel and a sex that’s ungrateful <|endoftext|> "Almost before I sleep", by Shara McCallum [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] This marble saint beneath Us canon composing Quots, he mutters Passives, rages, Hails, scourges, Snakes & cranes, Pigs, cranes, And this was fine But the ice-cold froze Upon my frame Hew’d itself i can see No congregation Was ever really a congregation At this church age the doors don’t open And the largest reluctance Alive, easily revived— Passives feed Only at the cranes Themselves must feed <|endoftext|> "Elegy with Issa [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets]", by Kit Students [Living, Time & Brevity, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] One wrote, at the time, one may be willing to admit his personages to be the occasion of the reviews, which are rendered a kind of composition in prose. In the year of nineteen nineteen, his ======================================== SAMPLE 364 ======================================== "Pipe to Me", by Dorothy Wordsworth [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Where art thou, fallen darkness, and the wind brings darkness around thee, and thy name is on the waters’ bosom, and ’tis right thou shouldest cry: thou shalt see the ship bound for the shore, and the chariot’s wheels that now it scuds the salt spray on its way. To-day the birds are on the wing, and the sea bird is on the porches, and the clock runs backwards, and a furrow, slithery with its carves of foam, all blazoned with bright bay-painted flags, and a wind that blows from a reef of flowers that toss from the waves like so many white- parted flames where the sky meets the sea, and only the foam catches them, and only the sea-god throws the winds away. <|endoftext|> "johnna", by Albert Wendt [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Men & Women, Religion, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] Legnie, the kingdom:the kingdom, the root of it.the sane:bony, brain.tenes.tenrape, brain.the blister.tenrapea.tenrie, tenes.the blister: restorer’s release.the kick.tenrapea.the thicket.tenrapea.the blister: restorer’s release.the question, noninvitation.the question, noninvitation.the question, noninvitation.the question, noninvitation.the illness, the torment.the blister.tenrapea.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tenscetic.tencus.tenfield’s release.tencus’s release.tenas.tencus’s release.tencus’s release.tencus”’s release <|endoftext|> "Upon the Birth of a High-place", by Albert Wendt [Living, Birth & Birthdays, Coming of Age ======================================== SAMPLE 365 ======================================== "Seizou", by Max Haughvey [Living, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] In marble, nine towers, Paris,seven golden towers,Cerres and spires we found in hall,Oh, dark-gowned ladies in a crowd;Grave men and sad;Sadly we bowed at their feet,But none of them came.One spoke in his own tongue, "This song is by the Nile"Said he, "Where the purple gardens vale to vale Stand on an island cold and bleak,And the dark rivers laugh for rain, But you can noise them when they're past, You can call on the swift train, too near, You can push their heads in the under lure, While over the high lands, crouching there, The menace of empires survives, You can scour the dirt and the years, And scour the yellow land." Then she let us go and see What fowls the dark is rimmed in, what boats; Gods with their soft limbs polished fine, The very fur of their eyes and lips, The jewels under the robe of their robes, They and their ankles of ivory gave place to pillows, But by the feet of their servants, the frontiers, They did not give heed. Yet they smote on Their smooth shining silks, too frail to wake Except by the quick eyes. "And now I think, What a strange swimmer is our frail bark! He does carry a load of sadness on his back, But the ship is anchorless, She steadocks with the steamboat, unluckily, She seats by the helm, she settles on a wreck, She dims her top-sails, she stores her store, And then like the mast in the market-place, She stumbles over the silks, and the shadow grows less. . . Oh, we choked out the old tale of the island, And now, I think, we are strong and free, Our captain lies dead, his end is sure, The tale is one that is always true, The summer sea sundered, the winter wind strong again. . . . Last night a phantom was waking from a dreamy dream, It smote on my soul as I woke to the end of the gloam, ======================================== SAMPLE 366 ======================================== "Proof of the Store", by Heid E. Erdrich [Living, Coming of Age, Philosophy, Reading & Books] I3 surveyed the Sun, the Word andBone, theshared and lost treasure, the fruit disowned, the book in which I worked without being tested. A crust of bread, an opening of the heart's most secret pleasure, a toy or toy for two days' time. Then, like a toy, I worked so hard, felt like the pear tree, my ring always twisted, the world inside me, the rope without weight, the cup my earned. I learned to love that thorny garden that makes my heart a tavern, to dwell in it or suffer. The ship my door. It was my ride. The Sea my saddle did not bend. I played one man and one child came, but I can’t say what life is: I know I’m sorry for my guest, the day I come to visit, to be welcomed in all ways to give back all to me, to accept what is unloved and lost, and always longing. <|endoftext|> "Pleasant Deserts", by Mark Smith [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] We undeter� over the mirror
 of the world, little sister, the earth is full of flowers, thick covered with seed, the murk everywhere. The laughing brook says that it turns and waves into a big green boat, that it will take this year and that to us, leaning toward a country that is more familiar. <|endoftext|> "At the Edge of Town", by Mark Smith [Living, Growing Old, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] They crow, white crows, one by one, their small wet wings all wide open, and every one of them speaks of the trout, her noisy bridges and pools; the chickens of the woods, the robin and the hart, all the loud white crickets who make morning into bottles, the balofots, the dawn, the hounds and the dark rooks, the specks, the meadow-larks, the pastures unlighted, the buckroot seeds that ======================================== SAMPLE 367 ======================================== "The Seven Tho’ Sixty Years Ago Father", by Mary Weston Ford [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] There was a time I could never report of anything, he said, so that I saw him with almost awful devotion in his eyes, the way he said, Making touch of some idea, like the force of some body tied to a tree. Once, I’d like to have lodged him out in my own retiring room, where the trees called and called in his. I’d like to have pushed him so far, become a man, a different from myself, a different person from himself, and so I was, to my father, out of whose side drives we two start now, and all desire to speak. His eyes, his voice, his smile, his sayings, was practiced all in his way, not in embarrassment, as to the way he said, to tell me he was ashamed to talk with the soldier who had drifted away from us: to father, again, say what was your joy? I had to turn away to tell them something. <|endoftext|> "The Great Form, or Inulating 1914", by Mary Weston Ford [Living, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Money & Economics] The great form is not a frame but its semicircability On theocus end is a texture and can be used. It is a texture. It is rough and bitter when wet. It is rough at the first at the end of its progress. When formerly itself receives the active it moves forward and along, It moves. It is a texture grown, not a second at the end of its progress. <|endoftext|> "The Great Form", by Mary Weston Ford [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine] After R.H.G. This man does not die in fact, but he lives inside of us, inside of us, which is our body. And if, reader, you want to know that his body is not still without war, give over for ======================================== SAMPLE 368 ======================================== "Autumn", by Billy Collins [Nature, Fall, Winter] 1 What kind are things I would have been nothing but cantasm into the receiving fire things, its eroding, decade, its love, its strife its peril, its tears the perfect decided to be a sound in sweet 2 Everything I have cared through This slide of the least away... he does not say that he shall have answered. What he’s really in is nothing to know he will. <|endoftext|> "Autumn 2017", by Robert Thomas [Living, Death, Nature, Fall] 1 But fall it had! You were at least as I suppose. And all the way to look myself into the future. First late Perhaps the light had: distance arousing me. 2 And yes, starting, I’ve kept a head- fixed attention on the still pool where the days air no longer fragrant. 3 An afternoon Now that’s gone, there’s a colorful patch of earth. And there’s a star, its pliancies a red vine on the invisible vine. 4 In the end there’s a strip of sky over a devill clock. Three five and a half, a blue white pigeons with their pools, their tissue points, etc. 5 The day-long seven I was shivering with fear, the night making out of the old clothes, the underwear on the newborn’s face. 6 I was there! could I even have gone to some other place, for there is this belt of wood, this skin of stone, this body of ice so still it can barely have been there! There was not another leg in the wake that I’d given, there exists that belt of ice. 7 That’s ======================================== SAMPLE 369 ======================================== "Under the Knife", by Dafydd ap Gwilym [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Not at all. It’s June. My inside love and my love. My love for you is really coming, the soft light holds me to the miserably waiting auctionfor whatever it is I am poor and would want to kiss the blue flag on the most resonable edge of my skirt.I want to reach you in that moment, all my love and vision, all my dreaming, all my force—but not the country, with its virtue, and its byword or by kind. And yet you won’t be my father, though you’re near my end, and I know you will bring forth a life that doesn’t belong to you, and you must possess it by returning, my sweet love and all your youthful vigor. I am yours and love you and must stay together here like you. I am mine. I am the sun and you are both the moon and I am love. We will meet in the years that are to have for ever been one.And I’ll not soil your feet with tears or wrath with tears, nor marry you with cries of passion, nor plant you with your hands or look on love with stones at the very breath you make—house, roof—and pillars! And I’ll walk in the darkness of the sky, and my glance will be the last spark that you see. I will light my heart as you light my highway, and give back your steps to earth. I will walk in the darkness, and I’ll walk in the silence of the sea, and breathe the odor of your soul through me. I will walk in the silence of the sea, and breathe the scent of my feet and fingers in the vibrating light, and watch the stars wheel over the night. <|endoftext|> "A Farewell to False Love", by Dafydd ap Gwilym [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] I have no force but yours. When I forget you, I forget you, O world. I crush my too desires in my fragile fancies, the longings for all you necessary. I forget there in the empty mirror I will cease to exist, when you are no longer ======================================== SAMPLE 370 ======================================== "1 January 1965", by Joseph Brodsky [Living, Death, Growing Old, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Winter, New Year] The yellow cricket done forrazes made time more noise than once had been in those quiet corner corners. The dropping lotion on the hard edge of the field had given up its faint limbs to the wind, and the white woodpecker at top of his torches and chatter in its sleep, in my dream, with just such a quiet creep, I was also weary of the barnyards as contained the once-after debris, the piles and tinework on the clothesline.I was sitting on the edge of the barn to watch the sunset sky spread out before the wind began to scatter on the guttering water. Just then the veiled wind whispered as it went over the veiled body of the house, silent and seeming alive. <|endoftext|> "An Apology to themissing", by Robert Duncan [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Weather, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Sciences] I go deeper into the ice bank and pull into my case. When I have cleaned the oil against the polished surfaces of the floor, like a young knight drinking a full unbaked oat, I start to see what I have bought and packed in my pocket. I start to see what I have bought and can gather the heap of unopened mail. At the sleepless eye of the owl, in the siren, the cries of some sheep or cattle, I touch them, dreaming. I open my window, then walk through the garden. It is dark, but we shall see it. Our steps make music, our voices youngest a scream of maternal joy. We carry firewood on our shoulders, we hold breath and die. We are ballad strings and a bloodhound hovering on our heel. The milkweat is pocked, we learn to read, we plunge into the slot, we feel the strain of almost certainly too fleeting, a throbbing: the rocket. What is this that rises so quietly from the velvet black of the room we have closed our eyes, leaning on door to window, peering out to find its way through the painted slush, already patching up on the sofa. I feel the hurried wish, I know the word never spoken, before the idea vanished was like so many words. <|endoftext|> "For Christmas: Adjunctive", by J ======================================== SAMPLE 371 ======================================== "Becoming a Nature with a Heart as Ice, a Nature with a Soul", by John Ciardi [Living, Youth, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, Christianity] When he had ended, being with the world turned into stone, the splintered heart of some lost gesture was left there to break, and there was the most transparent grain of matter that could be taken as perfection or aureole. The surrounding world turned into a different world wherein was no apparent body. No secret, no open or private way out there. Just the same perfect structure as that by itself decrepit. And the world we see hung with the two same angles. Although the legs would manage to gigantic it, the legs can throw all the world's idea on the same scaffold. The legs, we think, tries to get through the needle, and sometimes we do. Ambition turns to the world that is real. And it comes to us when we try to think of it. What is the use of a machine that is without work, that machine that drifts so slowly and builds so slowly and slowly and has so little time and does so much less. Art is without do, building without means. Without work, devoid of name or labor, perfection is outside. Where one draws more than one-day substance one can yield to many a marvel. The aim does not mean but is aim does at seeing all in fact. And so the man whose sight is one of purpose, cannot be the one that he is standing on. And that is why a man who feels this beauty is so laboriously wrought and bound up in a fast fastness sets at his door. How can it mean that without circulation he feels himself “inside that” he cannot see? Art judges in a place too small to seem to be. Did not the quiet mind in the old time stand so apart and sit in the crevice of that visible? Its eyes seek the One She Teneth as Friend; and for one look in the boundless mystery of that look, depth beyond imagination, beyond hearing. <|endoftext|> "A Point", by Christina Pugh [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine] It seems like God it must be some happy Nazarena day, and holy mother in her lap a doves. This makes my lips breathe in the breath of God. I lift my eyes to him and raise them not. He ======================================== SAMPLE 372 ======================================== "To the New Year", by Brenda Hillman [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Nature, Winter] To fifteen-sixth of November O you standing by the curb on the lagoon, your face hard on the elevator coming down with a start fortoo water to gaze: I saw you passing across the space between a tree and a foot out of the snow, and I joined you with the radio, with something of you, broken from the awkwardness of you like the palm of your hand, and I stood and the rain in your hair, the rain coming down, letting its light utter itself, not quantify into me, a falling, a beginning not revolt. It came at last, two on three, not a final waiting, perfect touch. Now I’m across, and I’m coming back to your house again for the first time, porch light shining against my face, a last long look through your eyes, a pledge of patient tenderness. A few more mornings through the din Of this sleek and dirty street I’d clamber from the snow your last off gown, your soft hands’ effect on the hard shiny pavement, you say to me, It was empty like a wound not made inside and the violent hammering of the eyes reversed your aim on the darken’d darkness and— I could not understand. You hid your eyes, found my mouth and could not see. It opened and I heard thosewho led us as we crossed the street, while the last bare stone shedding its white foam through the snow. III All of a sudden, there was a sound of running water or maybe a noise of pretty girls, along a wall, and a bird with white heart, it sang: <|endoftext|> "The Bean Eaters", by Robert Southey [Relationships, Home Life] The Keep dry in the bottom of the beet, with its roof of eggs. After it had been made by the beak of the beast and the claws curled in the throat. You slept with it in that cold spot before it had speared The heel of a claw. What we imagined was winter. I saw winter ======================================== SAMPLE 373 ======================================== A tireless artist who steers in from Town To Town? Who sweats himself in cans on the train To striek in drabness for the fumes of rain? He peers through luscious slips on some old barn That juts with dust to vomit the yellow rain. The roadstead drips, his mint horse splints in the glare; A thousand girders creak like horns of wheat, And clouds of leaden harvest smoke across the air. Beneath a roof of coals the tavern lights Pitch into righteous places, and are dust; A wavering, blustering, noise and hush are rife With such disaster as on winter morn When huddling mop the tavern doors be shut. Behind the fen-stalked kennels lie the bones In moon-struck muck, with stagnant tins unswell'd, Where now the chalk is waxing red, and one Is only squirking in the candle-flames. With none to stab the coffee, none to brawl; Gross, dirty jokes are always out at work; The vice, the prick, are daubing, deep, and small. By night, with lips a-groaning, men repine; And, forced by overwhelming grief and ire, A grizzled old dame tugs at bay the wine. A chill comes o'er them, a mere noisy sound Of wheel-g Pierian blood-pulcheries, and shrill, Chime-like, a far resounding, solemn bells, The rain-drabb'd hamlets, the red clanked weeds, The frogs all clamouring out of shadow-towers Along the lighted tangle of a hill. Above, a windless glare of streaming leaves Gives iron-purple mockings to the sky Of distant trees. Along a wheel A scull hangs heavily and yet is still. Then in a sudden, bursts each gheventh of spring; The drops like rain come toppling down from high, And o'er the milk-crake a brown underskull flies Down-throwing steady, with his steaming eyes Afire to glare against the crimson west, And, rising, floats the bell that christens east A stately warning from her ======================================== SAMPLE 374 ======================================== "Winter Journal: Scatter conviction", by Spencer M lurker [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Winter] Grandma says we know only half the flowers, as do I. An elderly, broad-breasted beauty exhales off in a flask of chere: the feeling of letting go when the sun is late, and the fields, snow-peaks, and snow-peaks, are consumed by the sun that tells us, heavy is all of the snow that speaks not, sounds are continuous, and the hungry will not come to harm you, or the small lilac voices that sing forever loud in the winter almost falling on winter, cry for your growth, when there is none. You were not then what I hear, and will be none again; I see now that I can catch your scent. Even if I sank to sleep on a couch far down and sleep on a dunce’s oldest ridge, you were then only a plant like that I have imagined you to stand where the warmth of my life burned bare to me. <|endoftext|> "Theija Courthouse Square", by Robert B. Fogels [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] There was a little girl Mary Janice threw A bravery look in the face, and found that her name was Mary Janice. This was strange though other people remember something rare about the children’s faces, and a vision of dragging them up from Mexico City. She showed her courage that she could lift the birds up on a bough, and shout to them from the top branches of the big calico, then crooning to them “Sister Mary’s sake!” And the little girl Janice kept watch! She gave the birds food. They were terrified at what they had seen and guessed. They were afraid of her. They said, and immediately she was giving each a wound. She walked to New York and said, “It is a beautiful and beautiful daylight world.” They made her start from a room in the hollow of a narrow ======================================== SAMPLE 375 ======================================== "The Shuffle", by Dan Williams [Living, Health & Illness, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] I sat down under a phone charging my considers but the afterlife didn’t last so long. There was a phone working and I learned to pick my name from the glossy cracks in my fridge:to be sure the dead is the job for which Iulated under. A phone insisted on a moment, which I refused, and when I did I could mind. I shut the phone and ran out to hear a sentence. But the phone was silent and I could see only the distance. You can sense it through the muscle. That was a phone you did not know. <|endoftext|> "Diedscape", by Dan Williams [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals] I sat in a corner of your room half-hidden, holding a book. You had a missing sheaf of it and you went and you bent over it and sang. And already you had passed me as you said it did. A streak of song on your shoulder floated on the music. I began to feel easier, do your verses turn to a poem and dance along. You were too young. Now they are placed to send your notes whistling their war-songs in chorus. Down your clear height have springflowers in a picture, gold-gleam in an art gallery. In a post-text you have me printed out a picture. In a pad of gold paint by the fireplace. I changed them suddenly because of my own thoughts. Where does now the gigantic poet go? No, he would not pass from one of your shepherds. Where does now the half-shut booksthat pass? The child laughs. (They peep and smile.) “No words,” I have a letter from the end of the song. Two days ahead. Three days to look. Two?' He wrote with no end. In the twy-crushing of two sunflowers, not once again. And the jay cries out clearly ‘when I die I never know’ through the spaces between blue space and blue time. <|endoftext|> "The Paradise supper", by Jill-a-cake, filmed. Like ordinary women, I never even ask who I am, until I get to the circle where ======================================== SAMPLE 376 ======================================== "Infidelity", by Joshua Edwards [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] For my mother I love and I’m social and ’cause I can’t even step out of the garden. A few boys dressed in pink, but the view is good on my mother’s face. The way my father’s reversible is to say… I love the white oak and the noise of the leaves. I want to love that oak and I love this. <|endoftext|> "In a “silk night”", by Joshua Edwards [Living, Parenthood, Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Winter] Winter and summer unto my older sisters and to us nowborn, a whole body mucked like the dew not a color not the flying gold not the brilliant plastic head nor the arrogant foot nor the dainty, fickle heart that in the green pool lie lapsed in the hollow of the boulder: I want to believe you’re coming now that my hands cling to this volume, but it’s the rest of me, yr friend—in his eyes— inside the middle—of my lips that sleep near mine that leap touch and make a song with that song which is the desire and the ecstasy of the future of these lesser bodies pulled alive inside the flesh I want you to love me and to love me now that I’ve returned from a Christmas old country shaped in the year when I’d choose to kiss what got lost in me and what got lost inside that cloudless realm with its sun I want you to kiss me inside that cloudless realm and all the dark the dim other deep where a field of thistle hurried up will never know me who loved you how in ======================================== SAMPLE 377 ======================================== "Sixth Century", by Mark Nickels [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] When Mrs. Gene Delroy applying picket, she would knit a new wardrobe to her name, bowing her weasily against the ramp of human people and fashionableing the countryside through a sunny, marked age. The army donate minute prayers to the asymmetrically brave rich woman in a red skirt and get her a present. In the future of no cameras there are men compacted, and the men listen strenuously to the catholic signal that they are not killed. — Plutarch, Spinoza. We will not succumb to the control of the wind or because the weather has ultimatelyidated the action of those who are petitioning the Intercomans for it. What comes of the story? The fathers are bent on reading the story, the platitude of the love they have received through flame, debating the shadows of impending impending disaster. Even the wind does not die though it be built up. The people are flourishing massaged ceremonies taking the image of the past carefully. Papántras cries from the gallery of the Sublime “Kyoto no hya, no sié!” Without speaking, the women are calling the women women because they are calling the women across the stream. They are doing something for the people in the world of bread and vomit, eat whatever eaten is in them. It is a miracle and the women are calling the women alone that mourn a destroyed by hunger. They like nothing. It is not the heart attack, the hunger of arms, the torture of the hunger of the forzants. But we are five. We look on our enemies from the village. <|endoftext|> "Of Hiawatha", by Chitai Teila Of Hiawatha, born in Hiawatha's, habitats of uncombed feet, the eyes of Wenonahu, daughter of Nokomu, sister of Laughing Water, daughter of Chitai, husband of Beminau, Sister of Hiawra, father of Hiawra, Sister of Hiawra, daughter of Osmoinah, daughter of Nokomis, and Sismu was her name. And she ======================================== SAMPLE 378 ======================================== "The Lily", by Camille Guthrie [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Desire, Relationships, Pets, Nature, Animals] The caterpillars they watch over the hurt that jams under the bed. With their acorn-nuts for tea they pull away and pick away the oranges when the food is almost done. They seek the red pear for their winter bed. They suddenly cry when you pick them, lest they should break with your sharp teeth and cry. And you know the pain in your legs, the need for a strong thing and a bit of hard meat. Because you are so young that you need to hide in the vine, and the taste of the world is so sweet. And the pain in your legs, when the tap of a pet brush you cannot reach, is that when you are propped up and shovelled on the coolly, the last petals scattered, the last wildflowers gladly be borne on your leg. On the turnpike where my parents spend all day I have to go and brush and pound and crawl in the sun. Instead of the hard cold everything—what will my people do. Since my parents never know each other, I want to do only the right. Since the cold don’t undo what has been done, I have to wait forever. Since the cold don’t undo what has been done, I will not cry. This will be all right, for the breast grows. In many ways, I have to say this, and it was simple when you drew me under the wheel. O somewhere have you built a house? I already have built a house. <|endoftext|> "The Gift", by C. K. Williams [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The hand that shakes the whip from the staff Can never anger me who took it from the house. O reader, have a care now that is genuine. Above the trees in the distance road a branch is waving. O I want to be at rest now because here on an unsandhere. I want to sit at the window. The heat from my dress. O lift me and borrow some light from the candle. My head is covered with a book which I keep carefully keeping carefully in the dark. Here in the dining room I am repose. <|endoftext|> "Covering the Falls of Asiolaria", by C. K. Williams [Living, Growing Old, S ======================================== SAMPLE 379 ======================================== "The Night", by Billy Collins [Living, Life Choices, The Body, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The night has no devotion no place on fire. The night is dedicate to the night no station not to serve or place of becoming. If you want to put on your Sunday clothes anything needfuls the dark. Does that dark have blue above your face your eyes? <|endoftext|> "Autumn 2017", by Frank Lima [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Fall] In the chaos of winter twice over the year, weird hunks of clouds perceive no rest. And you say, yes, yes, yes, you’re glad you go away. Is there no beginning or end of the two of us, all the time, mixed with hunks of cloud, igniting cold for winter to bring no decrease, as the weeks grow longer, till they are meant to go away safer knots as they go, bound to the shins by the thumb and the fingers of the snow. And on the first dull track, we know we didn’t go away. Still, the keen air is limpid, the pavements glow with undivided light. What was that weary telling, that poor report? Can you turn from the thing throws like a log in the snow? <|endoftext|> "Memorial", by Frank Lima [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] After Frank Lima It was erosion each evening, except by a score of snow-cold streams. In the distance a first time, distant in memory, you saw your father (at his turn seven winters) at the North End of Memorial time unfold how universe can respond for the last time on a log for winter, how the last snow is accepted as favor. “Comprehended,” the father said, and let go of the snow. A third winter, he smiled, looking back on the garden of memory for an hour, then ======================================== SAMPLE 380 ======================================== "Scatter Years", by Gottfried Benn [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Trees & Flowers] Someday she has been walking this way (From her life she has no knowledge or difference); But with this she is both a lady and a saint, And this would not be so. Therefore she is singing The highway of tears that still obscure their edges, As her footprints were passing beyond all prevails, And she brings the vial back to my heart which wants To be a blessed patient for its grievous days. And this is no part of what she is now talking anyway, For oftentimes at eventide she sends one Beneath the whole harvest of the time she is, While the sleepless nights are in their places and their nights. Not because her soul is heavy and would not miss her Have I taken a way to her and shown her life, I conducted her slowly and would have set her a rifle Afire on the top of my neighbor's bayonets, When I thought, "If I can shoot a day, let it follow!" She would not be a man of a certain slender disposition To answer that question of her or that she needs it, And I sent her as a present for my journey Of trusting my own secret to her greater liking, Until I was sure she would never have been there! Not unless I told her that I love her, And offered her service as best I could! When her Paradise is beyond question and measure, It is not in me to do that God had willed, So long as I do not think of sharing Him, All things in the nature of man! And so for that journey I would have added, For having so much to tell her I love her, I said, "You have done me a splendid deed, Choose you the most and the least of you; Choose you the best and the hardest of you." Or into the deeps of the soul for my going, Or into the depths of the dark where I am. For I am the first to be here and alone. For this to have fully obstructed this eyes To see what I shall here have swept to the Light And surely would have she have borne me, and stayed Forever enough to have known that I loved her. It is an old saw and a craft ======================================== SAMPLE 381 ======================================== "Jubilee", by Babette Deutsch [Love, Romantic Love] Three men passed her through the streets ofhell,Three were silent and three men remainedTheir eyes turned toward him, their shadows castBy some inward feeling, for she had passed them Yet she came not. No voice said she had wept for them,Their dried blood quickened with tears.Only in the garden half in loveWith the snowdrops, a brook leaped by,As the brook leaped by. In her hands the flowers of flowersMorerotten the grass with the weight and loads,As she lifted the leaves, the branches unclothed,Drooped the flowers, with stooping wing.But she said, "Words have fallen, and flowers have died,And the world is older than their briefest days,More their praises virtues than language can praise.I, the most ten, am but thou the first,And I last myself." <|endoftext|> "A Thousand Things", by Babette Deutsch [Love, Romantic Love] 1King Buddha was great jagged, And the only one was he.2 Before his gate he made hate, In all but the bright yellow gate.3 betraying a guy, The sin was great burden upon his, For NAN was cold and the weather sundry And priests were cold and the sun died. If men slandered for grace, God’s grace, And the world was all wasted in mirth, Then only great rivers and clouds were lighted. For NAN was a beautiful, lovely woman, And NAN was blind, and the grass was a mire, And God made the sun seem more beautiful. And the world was a golden night colt boating With the golden sun on her blind, And the sky with clouds like a skin of cobweb black. In the noontime of life heaped the moon on her wings, And the world was a creaking fan; And the sky was the creak of the wings That would shriek in the north wind’s mouth. And God gave a groan for all the world As it was a red rag for a tiller; And he hunted and chased the beasts That the sun guarded as for meat. And God made a curse on the grassy earth, And the sun cursed the sun’s teeth and bones ======================================== SAMPLE 382 ======================================== "Northern Pastoral", by Robert Louis Stevenson [Living, Death, Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Spring, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Trees & Flowers, Weather] Evenings we shared were like a host,But time their absence oft demandsMore bones, and leaves fly out the house at last. Thus every where we meet is from our hostOf every smallest dish of flour and domeAnd fennel, wheat, and oil, and other skies.But every grove which was to have been lendsWhere welcome warm the welcome warmness bears,And every shrub that spreads her arms and rhindsThe woodbine blossom, often finds a windThat shakes these scattered branches, seeming to have drawnWhere'er it pleases most to please me most.The noise of the town-sick people is so loud,That deafness at the gate is stopped,And through the postern door in leafy hutAre known to be embracëd, or elset house.Evenings we can’t admit we are unshodTo noise thus in the streets so anxiously.To what be noisy and tumultuousIs nothing like a pretty modicum?Although our souls are diners, rouse the crying swarmIn quiet, when the city noise we do not hear,And noise too silent to be solemai.Therefore in these dark ways I do not vainly rave Of joys and glories that may never be,But walk in open air and plainly seeWhat the birds have left, but they may justly standAnd bade us all good-night: this is a Christian Pius,The author of the mighty works of art;Offer rich furs into the easy way,Rare for us in the woods to lie;Who, were the running baron wise and wild,As planets beam when planets do not gleam,Borrow in little foolish nets the small wild beast,The bird which should be first of all his court.In frosty year when life is one fine tune,What time the beggar in the great house hoof Is left alone in peace beneath the moon,To do some piteous work of this world’s grief And lay his hire at the king EutropChristine in the golden age of Anne!One pang of all intolerable joy remains!Forced in by such as faint and listless ones,Who think that hapless they to- ======================================== SAMPLE 383 ======================================== "To the middle of Three Days, and to an lowest visitationUpon the Earth", by Joy Harjo [Living, Death, Growing Old] to forty-seven years To all those who alive still live In divers places And are not still to others Still alive In darkness in dense ensmake it With all their laborious wings in their flight They are not seen from the threatening walls of iron The key is bolted closed once closed again And all the moving wave is locked in the rocked wall And all the day I cannot anchor any marks For the truly immense <|endoftext|> "The Brooke in the Wound Mor is My life."", by George Starbuck [Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss] To every lover give every woman give every man give every boat give every boat give every dog give every man give every man give every man give every man give every man give every man give every fish give every man give every woman give every man give every dog give every man give every man give every man give every man give every man give every man give every boat give every woman give every man give every man give every hero give every man give every empty ship give every man give every woman give every one give every man give every man give every heart give every woman give every man give every man give every dog give every suicide and to this day the sun is shining and the earth is full of birds the flock is in the mountains the flock is in the running stream the world is full of heroes give every woman give every man give every woman give every man give every woman give every child give every man give every man give every man and sometimes you give every man give every ======================================== SAMPLE 384 ======================================== Homer was a statesman expert at war and had Nolemical names as in Seneca, but always read of in the P.S. Cyclops and heroes, and he says moreover that he was an acting colonel and trusted friend and kept the order of public officers becoming the residence of soldiers to devote himself to their soldiers. He was not a person of no importance to count the numbers he carried along, save those of his soldiers. The number of these he used to sing about as he sang: Thus, listening, he was in his time far from a distracted and favourable tempers. This was a judicious place of rejoicing was near the border of May, and two years later the treaty had arrived. This was the horrible part for Caesar on account of what he had accomplished and fought over. After a while he was compelled to advance with a few discontations, without overtakings and badges of arrangement and merchandise and quotchels from the country, and without having any source of information where they were going. (14) Now there is nothing in this poem that is read or sung in honor of Lorenzo. (15) The most ancient and most luminous lie is probably ancient Mahometans in truth and who have understood it concealed it from the first of the seven kings who besieged him. (16) The patron of the magistrates of Minturnelles chose to be in the court's hall a man of much honour and fame, and was represented as a terrible man, who joined the state of his body with the body. (17) This disappearance was transferred from the MU Corporation because of the transformation of Brutus Chius into Eicholpius. (18) The public Emperor Claudius seems to have addressed himself with many others, bidding him take a seat place at the eastern window. (19) The Royal Irish aristocrats in public were, to be told that their King was an Emperor who, if represented as being a god, ruled over the horrible art of tyranny and dissolve, would not fall into the overcoming influence of the ills of the civil war. (20) The Empress of the Chinese was seized by a Republican Lancom, a lord of the court of the tribunal at the ======================================== SAMPLE 385 ======================================== "To the Son of the Kangaroo", by William Blake [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Philosophy] “The reason he left the provinces is not to know that” “He went. And the people he left behind him as if the reason he left were hard for those that had to follow up those intriguing drugs that banish time and years of idle brain. When he returned to the raped at the third glass of triumph the miraculous truth—“The reason he left the empire was leaving a plan for potential position and measure.” The reason he left the provinces was leaving a plan for history’s vortex, no, a plan for historical ground for swimming, anachronism for crypt deepen verify of the eastern trade. Which it was to rise up the second glass of surgery by custom. Which it was to boldly move the portable electric engine to our needs, pin the ants as well. So we crept into it as we sucked men and boys—” “The reason he left the realm to the ornament of a shelf, every one joining with the number five of them added at the same time, is a necessity unto old-named.” “The reason he left the realm to theBlock in which he is now confused is a non-matter province where slaves were imprisoned, for blood betraying their instincts. The reason that slavery is the result of heinous obduracy behind travers” is now extinct since he left his administration of speech to show mercy, where centuries unraveled their boundaries, where Northern yells showed the ministers of complicated, modern locomotives. Look at the muscular fibres of the brute with queer grimaces, the captive stride to the front— the boot that won’t be replaced, the istletoe clamped down by the thumb of the high priest, the club, the shoe— nothing else. Look at the amphibians woven to puncture the bread and the head bitten by tusk. Look at the amphibians woven by teeth ======================================== SAMPLE 386 ======================================== "Luna Mowller’s Mona", by Apollo Cain [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Mythology & Folklore] Luna Mowller’s Mona Lisa You say it won’t go back to anything clambed for any real sorrow. No, it simply injured the whole time over. She’s beautiful in speaking— she’s charming—that’s her way, you might say, through a bullet-string. She’s sweet as honey, as even the most—too fragile for a beginning. She’s bursting like the great rock. No, she really means something more than magic, though it isn’t need and I don’t want to give you a real answer. She reads through all that coming time, and then all there is seems to come from him like she has a dream in her brain—all and the while for months he marks the mouth and the sweet eyes and the—what did he have last night saying? Did he hear a sound from the other end of the section? I ask. Was it only the voice when he left? Was it the marvelous curious instrument adjusted to the invisible music? I want to know, therefore, how changed everything into a tone and escaped so far that one could not be told apart in words if the whispers were really lost in matter, the poem so far removed, that whatever it had come clear off was done away. She laughed in a way he never knowed, but he could feel the opera beyond the old suite after all that he had lost. Then he said he hadn’t left the place ever since, and that music was someone that he had loved. Now he’s going to the village who calls now there’s someone he’s trying to follow. There’s the end at last of it, the end in a sequence that no one knows at the beginning and then it doesn’t, just that there’s someone there she was on the part of this body that has been given, now, and then it doesn’t. Now, just a vision, a tender voice that comes out of the distant as if ======================================== SAMPLE 387 ======================================== "from “Swing and Small Squirt”", by Prageeta Sharma beef, look around for the smallest pebble, the smaller ones that stay out of sight of the sun. It’s early still, so even. If you knock, you can find a few fat slippers that have left on the car seat a naked laptop. They’re on their way to reach the ground. They’re already far above the reach of sight. So I am going to be the pow’rs of air, oxygen, song stringing over them all. My brother, his name is January 17, 1770, spentandering over the railroad track in pursuit ofvez. Since windshield’s English “I’m not’bitch”, he left many-plunging log house, his ploughing field. The committee didn’t follow him, their marching-master, who was cruising over both farms. His neighbor, cigarparate of the Lee, was feigning“the piece of a soldier’s scar.” Those candle-unslightened wooden guards had gathered to agree ’em. It show’d them what he had required of his submissive parties. The second night, the Egyptian illness constragg’d off with most of their columns, until the second night. Those candle-unsisters slept hard by their bed, the first sound they’d fully fired up, and the soldiers left. One morning, having got tired of their columns, the bandmaster outside must cantered off the TV. It was now the fourth of June, and the noise had begun to please the new television. All about those hours of sleep they led to 3, by five and one, which was the cause of the wild animal’s crying, and the cry took place like the cry and cry of the stars in self-control even as he expected to the odd scream, the growl of the horses, the hoof-thud, the growl of what they were. Now he remained alone with his face in the corner. * * * * The sun had mounted, and his hair was flowing. The sun had been surrounded by his horse. The landscape promised he would be familiar with the landscape. 'Tis simple indeed until he seems more interesting. Though the road and its people were besieging the town this is ======================================== SAMPLE 388 ======================================== "American Roots: Moral Associations", by Jane Wong [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] 1. The torn drift of  leaf-flagged weeds turning salt sand where it is ground digging into waterwash beds of  water that riddle Christ’s shoes, overturned so carefully that they will not turn.2. The wreck of what could’ve lived in glass traffic exploded jars of  blood, but you, you only, spat on it until you went home, lost all the scars your body didn’t know you had to own, the horrors of  wormboard screw turn left, machine of bone and plastic spore of sin.3. I replaced by the rusty igloo. The green wallpaper. Looked over the rugs and the hollowno a willow blueness to be seen from behind a dried and purpled carpet.4. A black cat barks in the last of   the willow trees. The far gouged pine forestays it like, the far gouged pine forestays it like. Nobody gets interesting, no one screams, no one cries.5. In the last days, I rode the unlit canyons to the tall forest.6. The climbing forest plants green branches.7. <|endoftext|> "The Siren", by Robin Richardson [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Philosophy] The smoldering stars are sharp and free. The rosy-fingered morning blights the spars and hemlocks of the shore. The mist hangs dark pastures. The hills hold up to the caged gulls to their knees.6. A stone grosetse in a loose and twisted case. The sad life passes.7. A slow-moving, intrepid tongue of fiddle-bowered children. So far the story of a grave. Like one worn ghost that dreams it’s ride, the shadow of hours deceaseth.8. The wind dreary winter lightly booms and heaves from one wildeose’s coffins. Doilyas, flutted faces mingle with the falling leaves.9. A waterfall, a well, an arroy, a place familiar with traptions and yearning sounds.10. The black catal ======================================== SAMPLE 389 ======================================== "from Citizen: “My kingdom is the wilderness of death.”", by Lyn Hejinian [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. <|endoftext|> "fromarden des Vits Volitions", by John Haines [Relationships, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. My kingdom is the wilderness of death. <|endoftext|> "fromarden des Puesseo", by John Haines [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Weather] Opposite from Eden, or other moated, A hopeless, mournful land, A Bible in apron folded Within the shade of a long green Trees— Christ's own word is written <|endoftext|> "Destructive", by John Haines [Living, The Mind, Religion, The Spiritual] A palace of my thought, A palace of my dreams; A grove of ambers, flaming never; A singing-clubbed room, A ruckly bed of reeds, and everywhere A stench of unseen whispers; A muddy bed— By the moon's light lying All night on the icy winds— By the stars' sudden sands, By the sea's restless ghostly fingers All night upon the beach; By the leaping fire, By the tumbling toaster's fires, And the wide- ======================================== SAMPLE 390 ======================================== "Piano", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, The Mind, Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Money & Economics] No one ever speaks. When the sickroom comes Houdly we bring our plates back to the table so we may eat our plates. Coozy and clear Water helps us back Cleaned with morning happenings from the eighteenth-century deposation. Boys and girls Boys have gone out to dress and put out the lights. We watch the mirror. Cisses are at the corners. We bring back our flowers in cradles without touching blood, blood, and aching hearts. Brightheaded kids pick them up at the close or afterwards watch them wring their lids into the water. The kids are getting more Under the sun, Each year finding new shoots through the earth under the sky. <|endoftext|> "The Men", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, Death, Nature, Trees & Flowers] It’s hard to tell what’s really in store for now, fish, weal or what we’re sure as we’re content to look and find our names on the menu spread out like an unfur of beetles. There is no use calling those trees on the one side the time of the year. We can do all of this more easily, but there is no use pretending at all to make those trees. When the trees aren’t on the open road at all, let us make signs and search the forest. Two for one last spring the only places. Two for one last spring night held a small screen of dark musk all along the bottom of the sufficient place, and a blurred flag in the middle of the shelter pushed the way between sea gulls and white on the other side. <|endoftext|> "What Is She Also Your Father Bides There", by Jan Beatty [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Father's Day] Someone buried him with my family and me behind. Just what the night made out he said could I do that a little thing can smack, then I let him fall in the gut. That is what left me, father, when he said my prayers, until we buried him ======================================== SAMPLE 391 ======================================== "Evenings", by David Ferry [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] “Each syllables leave the text in almost” That phrase is almost language in this thought-crabs, murmurous language. “Name ‘‘Titupo 5 and the daybreak comes.” It’s almost here. What you never cared for this branch of trees looks like europecus. You don’t give any reason for tucking that branch through your head from my neck. I know this gets you through. Narcissus can’t come down to your daddy’s corpse. He’s been in the army, he got any flavor to the animal he killed or commended the inside with its little stick, just just name a note of surprise when you walk to the video, even letter, even iron-thin. It’s almost here. • Chrysalis painted bird alight among the hemlocks—so smooth was the soft plate he had on, an egg of seahome, so gauzy, too, with diamond eyelashes, the fluted, tined-black halo had broken down a plectry maple had a rupture bruma. “It’s well,” he’d say, “you’re really one.” Mandrakeko and SuvronKeep watch. Heeh’m not one where he’s peering just to see the bird. They might have said, but we must stay crying. He’d say, for the band 1960s. “It’s luck,” he said. The news just brought him a ricoche from the Egyptian pile of flowers. Lingered in my mouth, his lips cracked like any promlet of good-bye. He’d speak with my eyes, which were his worst, for she had faded like a pink baked into honey. The pollen was his. She had three leaves, one white, one black. He’d stand between the flowers and ask between each of these was blue. I’d say this to his face, to his face, “ ======================================== SAMPLE 392 ======================================== "My Doggy, &c.", by James Whitcomb Riley [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] My Doggy, &c. Over the rustling field of green leaves. Over the clover fading through a further time. Seem to be backing from a further language that has a history of grief or of laughter. I imagine some writers who are now about to tell the city of which he cannot think, that the dead are not alive. Sky. Rain. Have you thirsted? I want to be a river person. Where are the bridles, the movies, the movies? The fact of faded land is the grass and dirt the speed of clouds. I want to be a river person. My sea mounds seem so dogsdigallike in your ooze that sticks in your mounds. No one ever dies here anymore. Only the dead will notice. <|endoftext|> "Antarctica", by James Whitcomb Riley [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Religion, God & the Divine] This unending carelessness upon every body for months, this unmeaningness spreading over one's soul as it breathes into the skull, in a photograph of the father that I call America. That this hostility exists. My new religion is resignation. I hate how it rages from the inside, of the mother who happens to me, the father who never understands it, the father who told me to fail, as some angry god avoided his will, or was shown by a vision in his own place, the swans, the dogs, the rivers, the lakes, the tremendous cataract, everything almost dead now! (For even the best living man that I ever felt was an unnamely kind of fear on my mind for the blue-eyed one always said: the world is all right: we’ve received with ourselves the intelligence of God. I must have learned how righteousness varies one’s own particular interest alone exists. And this standard, unfurled as the feathers, is a proof of God’s own power and we share with ourselves ======================================== SAMPLE 393 ======================================== "Jena Eros’ Revelation", by Catie Bowery [Living, Parenthood, The Body, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Lord Laman he said to his children, My dearest. Your dearest son It is he who does the gods enkindle Sand on to the deep blue. Jena Eros said, I can go no louder. They said, I am learning to love him: What did the gods do with the young, then she is dead. Inside the heads of mothers, she lives at ease, handing the millions. Lord Laman is no longer sweeter, the people say. Darlings, I will tell you about her yesterday. The young did not suppress their lament for the body. The mother placed her nest in the center of her heart. Darlings, I can tell you about her yesterday. The fair daughter of Odysseus does not deceive us: Venus Thetis whispered to the cowherd, Swabland. Admonu was not a reed to offer to us, for no one did we ransom her, Who is merciless, she told Her: “This cowherd’s called Delusos.” He would not have laid a plume to the cowherd’s white foot, She would not have thrown a feather from the cloud obstructing. She would not have commanded her, She would have forbidden to fly an imprint of the sacred fire, In hand like hers, the sacred union. Di, even thou, shalt not stain My bare hand with thy blood. Ha, ha, the hurtful dry grass, Dar hideth under blisters the reeds where the reeds form. ’Tis so hard for me now, Clay crieth in me, “still thou art wounded at the heart.” These nights it was better, she should not be twined With or garlands; so lay her head in claspir. This season it is so with her, to forget Her pain-laden prayers, and so forget her Who was so fair, whereof I am not, Wherefore I have A place more dour than she who ======================================== SAMPLE 394 ======================================== "Love Song", by Edward Thomas [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] Through the welkin’s unguarded,” Little God knows the way that Into the sky's magic blue And on tiny hands that pay For the cooling sand with the sun— Into the water—the earth Green and lambent, the lamplight Green and lambent, the wine Spout and the water for me; And on tiny toes I would walk Up and down the patterned street, Where the dust never ventures to fall; And my foot never ventures to climb; And my heart never ventures to cry. Little God knows of the way That untarnished my childhood lay, I would follow my path if I could: I would love the world to-day. Little God knows the soft gray bread That I have put in my little bin; Little God knows the wide alarm That I never can bear from harm; Little God knows the opulent glow That I never more can see; He has known the tears that never rain And the cold, salt furrows they can see; He has seen with what surmounts and can, Just the little draught there that's in the dish. Little God knows the change in every thing, Just the crinkled smile, and the bloomy wing; He has known the bird that is small at night, And the silence that is in the fragrant light. Little God knows the glad surprise That I woke from the long hours of strange and wise, Just before the morn had taken flight And the little gift had taken flight; He has known the sorrows past and done, And the joys where they came so suddenly Clad in all their beauty, all their might, All their fear and all their rapture, all The sorrows that must come after me. Little God knows the secret lies Beneath the inmost heart of youth; Not as in the happy, joys that lie In that early world's enchanted truth Only as in beauty shining clear Passing joy that would make all things dear, Only as in light and smile serene A grace sound finds its own odor stealing Out across the world at its coming shifting; Only as the sun grows slowly dim ======================================== SAMPLE 395 ======================================== The wars are ended, and the Emperor sits sublime and sad On the stone stone roofs of the Campo nobility, And, smiling, watches the twilight sky; His ancestry are mild, his breeches share All the calm dignities of earth and air; Yet does he think of his betrothal bed, And of the years to come, and the world to wed, Yet, with the excellence of a paler dime, Delights his heart more like a sleep than time. He takes the mother's bird as mother does the son, Faville with toy or song, Murders the one who would his life prolong; The other, driven on a rapid horse, Out of the wild beast's snare Until it flew at its break, The young companion whom beauty adorns, Plays, with his songs, along. And he, ere long, shall hear Their measures and their nameless measures, And hail the chosen fighter of his flocks. The stout oaks cry from day to day, "Play papa, play papa; This is the work to me, And God be with you!" The soldiers sleep in crines of crines (So, always, I'd have loved them well) And on their canvas hang suspended lines; And in the gallant-color'd shells and yell A thoughtless joy swells up and on. And there's a thousand muffled bells, A thousand happy drifting bells, So faint and distant far athwart the moors, They tell me miles away in distant rooms, And far enough is heard the distant rills. But oh! what loneliness has left the day, What wasting and how dreary are! Oh no! it is a blank and silent sky, And silent in the midst of fearful gloom, And slowly comes the sailor's cry, Of some dread voyage or typhus, Of some drear world of pirate doom. He stopp'd; the wave broke from his iron ship, Just as a cataract sweeps the southern foam, And now towards the West the frigate rides As with a mighty wind of wings, Then onward brush'd the gloomy ocean tides. And oft the sweet and faltering note Had left his soul with kindling rapture, As, side ======================================== SAMPLE 396 ======================================== "Money", by Phoebe Cary [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] I’m making now. I’m wanting to. How do we act. We are the beginning from these times, from the moments at the last act of birth. Night is beginning, the long moments’ grain, the long moments’ long march, endless years. To each the image of the earth. To each, the music of the street, the carwheel’s soft clang. To each the forms and features of the street, the far, faint heat. To each, the song given to children, the struggle is ending, the day begun. To each, it sounds like the far voices of the mart, the clamour from the city, the labor of the voices, the clank of hands for the bench, the wrestlings of hearts again falling like notes from a clock. To each, it sounds like the calling of a calling in the afternoons. <|endoftext|> "The Taxis", by Joseph Millar [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] To my friends, the world. Take my pen: I write this on all those easier things. I forget them, read my case for the wind. For you, the way the wind comes in the rain, And shakes the tiny flyleaves in the trees. You are foolish, my small friend; your garden is weak; You must stand six hours longer. The mountains are green and high In the pale light of daybreak. The winds of the north are bleak, And chill the measureless south. The sky is always bleak. I send this word to the Rose-face, to tell you It is midsummer. Summers, nights, and bright Summer approaching, always kissing you, always waving Under your lazy blue brooch, above the whistling Of the wind among the birch trees, the curve of your wrist. It is unfamiliar to me. Places have we to face. I send this word to the Rose-face, to tell ======================================== SAMPLE 397 ======================================== "Dog Tow and Blind Man", by Louise Glück [Living, The Body, Relationships, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Emerson must be a dog of earth, whether the wind, water that kept us warm and safe beneath our table. Some folks want wind, of course. Whoever you are, you must decide: make choice, order, pitch crouching in your bed, make folk and tell, until the sudden flash starts the wind and leaves trapped by a flute in the leaves. If it's wind, it's a happy wind. <|endoftext|> "Slabbering at Morning", by A. E. Stallings [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] slashing at quiet doors across the street and at noon at the swimming-pool at the belt-end boy boat and slat the light and at the shelter At the unbearable door at the listening to daylight at the sight at the last note breath an extra shout and out and back over the listless wall at the last hour at the last score days remember to allays that the wind still breathes its rapid ravings over the green lake over the snow the water walking walking in the water toward the far traffic thinking it would end on other shores looking for you till the voice Of the wind delays to play a noisy tune over the listless wall <|endoftext|> "East of Carthage: An Epistle", by A. E. Stallings [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] 1. 'T is the weather's bellies Somedified in the corner. Changeable weather unharmed 2.6. Even the mountains catch the sun up. The air is blue. The cabala passes and you unroll your top and follow. And now you move ======================================== SAMPLE 398 ======================================== "Love Would Find Me Dead if I Died with a Ticket", by Elizabeth Barrett Browning [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Class] How could I eat that? I need a hand to cover myself. Desire has its own chance. In the mean nothing's there is any given, or even wanted, or even wanted. I know what makes us tear open the doors of space. I have had the share of all that is fine and large enough to take a screw at least. What makes me cry out loudly to the deaf in front of my glass? I have had my share of the self-same dust. I went through the door, burned over by this: this can change so bright a spark one year. Some call it the light which makes the seat to receive the exotic, which she kneads up, with her thumb, making the little pill stay where it was; there has come a smell of ash, a rust, a kind of mild white powder, rust; he smells of all the lovely things he knew. I know my love, of course, of Heaven and the Earth, but cannot tell. This opens as it will, until to-morrow, but shut your mouth to the full blast. Sometimes he will be sitting at the rail of a bridge and tell me what it feels like: everyday, every day he is sure of it. How can I eat if he is deafness? Has he the meat smell of to-morrow? What I think words contain is a light not seen only in the species, but in the presence of others, but in the quickness of its one tenant, a light vivid in the body of the neighbor I love. In the next room I take a drink with me. When I look at my window, I think of the window where he stands looking into a manhole and frowning into himself. A woman in the vergàm, puts down her soft scissors, and plaits her chickens and calls me by name, meaning me when I speak to myself. My parent-in-law said I should come to that bank of sweetening with the holder. That animal tongue of his is beyond all praise and I go on holding that name. <|endoftext|> "Cock crow perched on the dashboard", by Linda ======================================== SAMPLE 399 ======================================== "Wake to the Dawn", by Adrian C. Louis [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, Faith & Doubt] The black bat at the altar stands with beetle claws and calloused hands to pray, The walrus shell of walrus, and the long climb over the sands To weed the forest where our feet had wandered. Their beads made the clouds swim and flitted away, like the last lines of a funeral,one that has come to cling, Into a past troublous night of unrepent wreck, of death a lasting word and the changed mood. Now the black bat arising loudly moans in a pungent crying of the world, Where all the sinful heard, beyond the clang and clattering and the growl Of the embattled Cross, the Christian in his piteous casement, breathing calm. Now the black matins pierce the dark night, making their mystic scent Of the unknown smells of sea, and the far roarings of the forest. Slowly the dark and silent sands stretch far and near, And the raw lamps with their mad sylphic lamps faintly blurred are heard, And all the forest is awake, bursting forth from the lonely cloud, As a signal of the sun's approach that shakes the branches into the sod: While, suddenly, far off and shrill, louder and louder the night cometh. From far the woods are blurred and bright, and the marsh-leaves leap And dance about it with such giddy sounds, that the torrent-hurling cliffs Drash flat on each other and bellow like great monumentals. Wild the wind is, the spray-blots jewel; Stabile twigs crack and splinter rattle; Wilder now the sulphurous dark breathes, Till the red leeward smoulders and the smoke of burning wax dashes down; At nether peril a black power-wave breaks the sword of their revel, And the deep beneath them dies away into the sky beyond. But when the stars came out to Orion, the sick mate of the incandescent night Stabbed and lay still and tussled under the down of the sky. Then out of the west there came, throwing up head and all in one graceful swagger, The unknown bugle of wind and sea and the shapely screech of the wind, ======================================== SAMPLE 400 ======================================== "Lectures of the Drays", by Hayan Essey [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Religion, Faith & Doubt] Lectures of the bellies nodded, hoary, feeding Their eighth year every Wednesday with every Wednesday and each September breezes blow around the door. What has become of those who’ve failed, who don’t get plums, find tombs, have a mottled rock in the street, who desire for crumbs. Their eighth week with every nod, pigmented with crumbs that rise from table after a round or two of• slams like the grace of the door. Who cares about the floor. Who wants sun to shine upon the floor or heat to warm himself on the mat without dust on the ground, who will be digging tomato on the door and chewing husking pears, who will dry their ruff and get Pequita out of the rain, who will gnaw at the roots of the pog-house, the rugs slid against the wall, who will count the possums, who will grasp the quail and pick the lotales, who will smoke the air, who will gnaw the seed corn, who will put the sun and bring the dew down, who will drive the daffodil curtain, whose thread-rig of sand will fall into the road slid slurting underneath. <|endoftext|> "Stricken", by Fatimah Asghar [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Stricken’s Always I certainly this was not America. And what was once “gaineday” was not that America. II Arise, I said, put new ground around let be the body of the collapsing heart. III The yesteryear’s dead change your esteems turning these beautifully unguendous bodies into pale pictures ======================================== SAMPLE 401 ======================================== "Our Grandmother", by Linda Pastan [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Mother's Day] All cousins, including their scars, lamp hip-pistol, their dump-skull, their — incandescent, their — mens un-satisfied, admire the cot, pantherism, admire the buttery spread over swath, over beach, wave, river, red, yellow, gray— our ancestors, passed down over this street and curtain, past this sidewalk, marching, gray as our heads. They too, these people, beside them, the park, history, history, dark edge, old, confused, they came always there, they came in again, like them with no history, they go mad about it, an avalanche, a gift of terrible beauty of far stratagems, and left us at home with slaves, soldiers, priests, men, children, labors, virgins, mothers, fathers, wives— fathers, mothers, cities, mothers, fathers, cities sires, wide, sweating mothers, labors, mothers, what to buy, what to send? You wanted it, I think, being so big, I stopped it, you said. You asked it exactly, were it a whole, "Are you a little poet, the country's reason worth the work, to sing and enshrine the public? Are we writer divine, some other country, bells of work, to throw out of our minds an imagined epoch an especially quiet own, practical business, the only other country unregarded? Have you ever accounted, no, not once, that my mother was much older than you, then had you pictured yourself a genius, given your facewater signs, snelled out so little, acrossers, ships from foreign state, the Lusians, the melibriaers, the men with helmets and long bills, brothers and a whole folk in a strange land, and you, of all birds except, are you ======================================== SAMPLE 402 ======================================== "Exodus", by George Herbert [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] “So silent and dumb” said the soldiersaunt over the dead.The footlights glowed, and their war-crests gleamed.From the gunsight their magnanimity seemed as tinselled in the gloom.Mechaniers now stalk to war-crests and fortune asquint the coffin waits for the men who fell.The lid shuts fast, the day-cry holds, the square is blank again. The slow throb of traffic starts the soldiers up the trench:The pigeons are readying the faketed-ness.The throats are shut, and they stare into the dark. In the enemy’s top there is a white duck standing high, quietly,And there’s firewood to the throat. It glitters in the sun, but it is not fire,And in the shadow of his great muzzles one gun shouts: “So covert was our boy at his coat?”The moisture is cool, but the guns are packed so tight,So safe is their actual pistol the moment they open the door,As he looks out over the grass and they close the bag on either leg.Down the Strip is footage of the boys’ men, gunpowder, bullets,Lieutenant then was taken to the Camp.Off went all the boys with their gunpowder,And the boys lying empty, gunpowder, lay in their guns. The Campagna shows our steel. Ladies and basement get up and dress up,For we cannot weathers, snuff-box, gunpowder,Spoil of war paint from the sky.The boys with gunpowder sleepless,Unused to pounding, quick to pounding,Whether or not a gunpowder is out.Charged by the enemy as well as the moon,It could not speed the good guns going by like thunder,And skip of the sky went up like a rocket thenJust as a rocket runs down to the hole it runs through the dirtAs though shooting in the air.Finally, someone beggars back to be saved,The fact that the sky opened and the men stood up,As though to swerve from a certain thing’s punishmentFor rendering the body’s throat was a machine for chewingAnd the gunners divine that escaped the worldWere up and ready to deal with the sea. <|endoftext|> "A Modest ======================================== SAMPLE 403 ======================================== "At Night", by Kenneth Koch [Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] In those who’ve never read a poem really I find my soul unreadable. I go to meet my beloved few-faced neighbor he’s waiting for a quick dialogue. His violence reminds me of another world and, of course, it’s only in impersonal insignificant actions of violence that some desolate oppressors may kiss. Before that white man, white as snow, dole in. Let us sing, “There was nothing in the house until that murder, that murdegial death, knocked into everyone and carried the carcass over thick stones.” <|endoftext|> "Arrows", by Michael S. Harper [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics] The days are loud with cries, and swords, and constables. A man carries a gun; he has one leaning on the barrel of a tree where he has two fingers to cover his head. The days are quiet; I used to go to the library waving above the Koolan. If I’d told you where a violent man is so safe that he’d take the shovel and plunge into the dark, I’d imagine the beat of his breast and throat, and his knees, and all into the night he would be gone. Somehow I know that after the war he is loathing the wars. Some of us eat up the food, and some eat into the cup that is swallowed and some suck it away, for the wound that they have eaten is sweet. <|endoftext|> "Hygiene", by Michael S. Harper [Living, Health & Illness, Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Bought for his own lives, my favor will bring him hips. Yesterday I watched a loon, eyeing my wobblewhite guide. What did it feel like, say I? a loon, who was always ready to show. He used to say, “I’m going to show you something perfectly new.” ======================================== SAMPLE 404 ======================================== "Once, Lord, didn't want a man to be found, Can you say? and don't you love, so you should? If you want it to, why then you have to give it to me, there's no way for you to evade my search, just you do, don't you know, I can't save you, that's all there for me, and I can't even save you. And that's what? Listen then: The top of your hut, there, in the evening, in the evening, there. Listen: Out of the woods, open: Out of the woods, open: The woods, open: The woods, open. <|endoftext|> "With Sincerest Regrets", by Joanna Fuhrman [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Heartache & Loss, Philosophy] Now is the night's beginning. She is still in black. He holds my hand in mine, There where the paths lie straight and deep, As if in some wan cavern or the waves of some mysterious deep. I cannot hold him, yet I would... If it were not for the delight of body or spirit, What could be less than the delight of death. Now is the night's beginning. She is still in black. She would have time for meditation, time to bear in mind her blight, And time and time and time and time and time to be dumb. A darkness waits on thought, time to be silent, time to hear her talk. <|endoftext|> "Song at Three Herbs", by Robert Thomas Jr. [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] IIt is the will of destiny, The voice of the world. ItSwiftly they move when they entreat, And wait the time of action;—Time in a wider ring— Time without wings orCatches the soul that wings them.IIOh woman, wilt thou stand unshaken, Three hundred years revealing Thee, me, the woman?Oh, no! I will not be forsaken, And watch beside thee standing, One with the lights upon thee burning, One with thy lustrous hair in the moonlight, To know thee sure, the man who fashioned thee, Who gave thee will be taken. III She ceased, and all the people slept. They too, the lovers, sleep. ======================================== SAMPLE 405 ======================================== "Narrow Man", by Eleanor Ross Taylor [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, The Mind, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] On seeing a dead man trailing a loaded knife to the center of the room,KenDoes has a long tongue, and that is Life. He is rushing to the door: you are going to get rich someday in a yellow suit and never get bandwitted and never get bandwitted and never get bandwitted and never get bandwitted and never get bandwitted and never get bandwitted and never give heart beau'son and doesn't get bandwitted and never get bandwitted and never give heart beau'son And doesn't get bandwitted and never give heart beau'son and doesn't get bandwitted and never give heart beau'son and doesn't get bandwitted and never give heart beau'son and doesn't get bandwitted and never give heart beau'son and doesn't get bandwitted and never give heart beau'son And doesn't get the heart beau'son and doesn't get the heart beau'son and doesn't get the heart beau'son and doesn't get the heart beau'son and doesn't get the heart beau'son and doesn't get the heart beau'son and whether in 'simon us two black men talking, and I mind it's time to take the real situation and act accordingly—being alive three or four years— and not to know the real situation is not the real one. And so on . . . just wait! Two years— two years with the overgrown cot to eat for me and one with what's suited weather— and or you know—or you know it's going to seed the buck rusted to eat here and one year—with luck—shut up in Europe— came home on a bound scratched mare, the stuck-in one driving it— has no name for it. <|endoftext|> "Long Island Sound", by John Morris [Nature, ======================================== SAMPLE 406 ======================================== "Cornwall Chant", by Allison Seals [Living, The Body, Time & Brevity] We blow our clicking tags in a slow tongue that flaunts from throat to tongue. Here the cat silvers our heads and barks at a rate of socks. Here the dusty conif revenges the shoulders of the barrel gauze and the lesse settle; the lice has held out the soot; the edge of the coffins, has made of the kerosene lamp a fringe to tighten. Here we have collected the virtue of Foison's cups and carnations, rippled grape leaves and hyacinths, and swept the pretzel from the cask into the sweaty dust. Here we plucked the peejuice, though from the hard wood the fragments went a-washing, and cast it on the short board, like rosaries of Tycho. Here we mingled our victims, and dropped the peejuice to change the lower color of its calamus, to eat the lower color of the disc, and to exchange their pup’s curds and the pup’s, the master’s, the serfs’ wives and their little childless child all fallen from the heat of sacrifice. From the open bar of vat, from the empty heraldic, all the dainties and the ladies and all the minnows left lying in the hall, the honor of uniforms and minnows, all the little pilgrims of the town whose names are strangers. <|endoftext|> "National in environment", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Town & Country Life] It’s an easy mark to mark who will its attention break, how we live here. Besides the difficulty we gave to understand, our lungs teem with inexplicable nourishment when we speak malls or to watch us. Besides the affection, the future for the future leads well. <|endoftext|> "National in Regiments", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] The “National in Regiments” is to say we were ======================================== SAMPLE 407 ======================================== "The Shoved Beast", by Alfred, Lord Tennyson [Relationships, Pets, Nature] I made a coat of pantherry and wound it into cloth where the furry, timbered deer were passing through the shadows like the ghosts of men and left me. I wrought a wheel as I had begun to wind into these fields, and it took a thousand minutes to compass the fields, until I was forced to sew into a ball that crashed into the road. The ball flew up to the sky, and it looked like a butterfly, then flew straight up to the hill that you can reads, or you can stroke its wings from its weed, until it became a star, then became a worm again, and that was as it had wished, bound forever and wide in a tweed of days. Then I began to sew, and I began to sew until the cloth fell on my lap, unwrought of lace and gold, and it cried and squirmed and croaked, until echoed. And soon, having run and taared me hard, I turned and flung the window in its sleep, and watched myself creep until it made my bed, and now, instead of hanging, I lie here in the night, not alone awake, in the fresh day, nor claim any attention, not with the ghosts of men who died, who left their lives, their work, their joys, with their innocent blood and souls of their mothers, swept out like grass. <|endoftext|> "The Last Man Told Me", by Alfred, Lord Tennyson [Relationships, Friends & Enemies] In their houses they built a wall toenced by sea, earth-butter-wand, over the rail-bridge and the steep edge-road, the wall was small, and a hammer there and in the door was anvil and tongs and a hammer there (I could hear the hammers falling, but they locked it in a cave-like day) and under the roof the birds were silent in the tall dark sky, and I hearkened to them and wished not to hear their songs again For they were dead, I could not understand the birds, they lived on their boughs, I ======================================== SAMPLE 408 ======================================== "The Tooth", by Brian Henry [Living, Nature, Animals] He howls at breakfast, The window shut. The wind Stares against himself. Day and night His net descends, Its mesh of white Tosses dark Around his neck. But still the darkness A flurry descends Rigid and bright, And, as the Storm Unveils a cloud, So, through that rosy cloud Paintingly shrouds Desireously moist His squire’s note: “He is alone in the garden.” “How quiet is this air” Quoth one. “Look in,” says one. “O for a quiet Woman!” Blue growls in the room, And sudden grumble, Then peals of fun. “But that’s the end of everything, I don’t think that’s a joke!” I dance, And let inivers, With just their flaws. The pleasures of all creation vanish, And yet they pass away; Like mists in the gulf of the river, They vanish and cease at last; Like mists in the gulf of the river, The sur-tas-a-day is past. <|endoftext|> "The Golden Age", by Jane Hirshfield [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Dark and damp on the long gun-butt, the girl’s hair and his. “No, I don’t have to put it in your memory.” —They’re selling your shoes. “Yes, we’re built on the gold thread of the selfsame leather as one of the moonscape.” It seems she’s brought it here by night to make you pause. This tune you learned in the shell of your mother’s wedding night: “If you did anything really for me, you would still be me.” Death’s a kind of silent thing: You place under your shroud again the buttons of your gown. Death’s a kind of silent ======================================== SAMPLE 409 ======================================== Going for a house to sit on a chair in the driveway was enough to last it all. She made out for us. The trouble at a time is why we are not allowed—and you won't say something. I close my eyes today. I'll count: five-ended sentences between sentences that seem days before I wake and see what's been lost. I try to forget, but can’t recall it now. My mother said that climax— someone going to lose you. She went to the afterlife just thinking about how you looked back from the day you left, and then how dressed you in getting your wife’s Friday days off the house on the station. Like walking slow around here, walking backwards, I think that my wife pulls you in the corner. If she threw something away, perhaps you have to work with a minute or two at a time. Just listen to what I will say. Just once say: do. Not a moment later. Say—only what I understand. Oh, this is the way. To feel the time, whatever it may be. To sit near the dining room to look around with your face amused by a face like that, wishing also there were the lights—a girl- head that complete insanity, the lights that used to light around me. You wear that back-seat at the office even, a glass smelted about at the edge of the other end- face, your forehead holding a sweet Two halves of face resembling a rose. <|endoftext|> "Endymion", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Living, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Music] Do I have something to say to you? Is my mind wanting to move gears from your fine hands? Do I have to unearth these things which are hard to imagine? Do flowers have feelings about them? Is there really a puddle in a maze of ungraded where the things we sometimes see are the same things as they are? You may have nothing in your mind but the things we know, which are strange and very sweet. You may just as well recall the ways you were away from us, remembering that happiness isn ======================================== SAMPLE 410 ======================================== "Before Moths", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature, Animals] In mid-July, snow motes stamp the Voluptate and Soak. In anticipation and mid- August and without laze the Voluptate Lark lights on the cumrogue. Thud and thrill and the Hfinprotect open from their grasp and the stone falls and rises to take it from the air. Everywhere the Kopil hops, from its stomachs a red moray bleeding like a tiger. Out of the Depths in the open the Kopil Sublime avociously dragging their hunt code for the Kopil Sublime. But at dawn, in the gray heat of September, the Kopil formless volleying the uplands with the air smells of amethyst, of kopil and violet. And Wales, called the Ordnance with their mingled notes and their softened sounds, sound of elation, at such distance that the forests sink and die, smoke curling like Tartars, embracing themselves as Zambok, till the gods and the Gandati sink, and the marble statues offer at the Fire of the Fire. Then, suddenly, an odor of flowers, sweetly odor—sweetly odor— is borne across the land like a blue-green alpine as the reindeer of an elm, tiptoeing its heavy burthen on entering the inhale and scent, that is flavor to it, the odor of the Voluptown islands, every season pregnant with the odor and all of the flowers, incense, honey, olive. <|endoftext|> "Elegy and the Spence", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer, Winter, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Faded Before You, but Next Years— It’s too early, Or I’m passing On the way, Leaving you, as you grew. Then, as later, Three years or ======================================== SAMPLE 411 ======================================== "1-800-FEAR", by J. Michael Martinez [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, The Spiritual] We want to believe that whatever we want do first. We want to believe that whatever we want do first and then being, the sea. We want to believe that whatever we want, having or exchange, is or can be, one world. We want to believe that whatever we want and estimate the ocean, the sky. We want to believe that whatever new sea or world we find on the ocean, or land, or water. We want to believe that whatever outside we find outside we can still find it. We want to believe that whatever outside we see is and feel. We want to believe that whatever outside we see is and feel. We want to believe that whatever outside we have and don’t have to use. We want to believe that whatever outside we have and don’t have to stifle. We want to believe that whatever outside we have and do have is at once a tree. We want to believe that whatever outside we have and do have at this hour, in the silence, underfoot. We want to believe that whatever outside we are and do not feel, what a secret self there is in the bushes and over them. We want to believe that whatever outside there can be and do without, what in the ashes and fire, what in the ashes and the wind and the wind of our dreams. We want to believe that whatever outside there can be and do without, what in the ashes and the wind of our dreams is lit. We want to believe that whatever outside there can be and do without to what is within and do not be. We want to believe that whatever in the orOliver once declared could be and do not be, with personal reproach. We want to believe that whatever outside there can be and do without, what in the ashes and the wind of our dreams is all there is to do. We want to believe that whatever in the orOliver once said to be explained by a way of explanation. We want to believe that something must be mentioned here or there, to be explained. We want to believe that whatever else has been well said, and so it must be. We want to believe that something can or can be applied together, so go on. It ======================================== SAMPLE 412 ======================================== "Dividing Lucifistic Art", by Karenne Wood [Living, Death, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] If I could write your name And you forget your hold, What would you write the same? You should forget the cold world, Sealed in mud and sealed With a beast's eyes and feet. And if I’d think of you, And you forget the world, Sleep and dream and forget the stars, Sleep and dream and have nothing to give, If I could only find you In your scent and your clear color, Close to mine, and your warm body. And if I’d ask of you, And you tell me these things, If you’d forgotten what you learned Of me, that time of nights, Would you still think of them? <|endoftext|> "Latitudes", by Robert Creeley [Living, Infancy, Parenthood, Relationships, Men & Women] I love all lovely places, Because they aren't precisely those days, And not only in springtime but in winter And in summer also. I walk frequently For a few minutes across dale and down, And wear all the year's bloom, seeing birds Feeding on maple leaves and apples As I do my house I talk to the lawn, And all the next shirannas arrive in the air. Each haf is a pretty name. First love Is a trouble, because love means anything: And I name it a trouble, because love means anything Only by setting a hook in some baby's lap To take some pausing. I don't want only a purse To crush my ma writes, because I want the coins To pass for a span from where I sit and work And look for them. I have a thousand things to show it, And so beside me runs the spark from a kettle As if the car had one thing to check its thirst. The lady doesn't know me, but I can: The rain-drops can stay on their feet and then stop, And then they come together at 3 a.m. <|endoftext|> "Maktham", by Robert Creeley [Living, Life Choices, Love, ======================================== SAMPLE 413 ======================================== "Fault", by Ned Balakian [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] What we did to give and what we had done, If a tear could fall on a word, or a smile, If forced from home, when we moved in tears, To go and make way for our weeping. But, weeping, we made a great shift in the mind Of the folk who no longer their tears could bind. And we bad Bore the name of a girl who became their friend. Then we gave TheNames To go and to blaze: And the name of a girl who became our pride Called the birth of our House, The house of the Job who became our pride. And we bad Bore the name of a boy Made of boys and girls Called the wealth of the world from the stranger's hands To the quiet of our poor children's words, And we bad Bore the name of a boy Made of boys and girls Made of girls and girls Called the days and the deeds and the deeds and the deeds, And we bad Bore the name of a boy Put to shame and dishonour and misery and crime. And we bad Bore the name of a boy Called the sin of the old That was made the foul and rapacious crime. And we bad Bore a handful of stones and shard and keel, And of hammers a fifth, and a fifth a week, And with these we a breakage shall fill; And it shall surely be fruit, and a growth, And a harvest of men, and a harvest of corn. We will startlé from this. Is the memory cracked now in my brain Or the record cracked now in my brain? Is it memory, or did my dear heart yearn Till my song was clearer and stronger, Till I hoped the dream which was all a breath Should have lived for long, for the true And unfailing part? Did I say it, I say it in the spring? Did I sing to the crickets, And keep the corn ruddier than my song? Did I glance on water like dawn, And say it gliding south or north? I have wandered long enough, And you wander thrice In my fancy ======================================== SAMPLE 414 ======================================== "Toadmai", by Rigoberto González [Living, The Mind] And then there wasn't. You shook me to pieces on the screen. For years I tell these stories one day in the hospital. Veritas, it seems, lies like rags on a wind-beaten floor, Blown slip-slug from kicking legs, licked arms, the dead Ran gashed in rags, limbs quiver, shiver; Moons flutter around me, I can hear their shrieks. Dreams, you came into my flesh to me, Hard-by, the secret road of blood, Me you had no to tell me. I wanted You to speak to me. And you? But that, really, your body asked Big-bellied apples. But I held to the branch. Something twisted me like a vine. And how did I manage? Tell me, tell me, was I okay enough To know that it hurts me? <|endoftext|> "Sonnet: On Receiving the Death of Elenor Murray", by Hasel Cocq Late summer through willows in July A white sail is waving at the wind. Two boys walk past the pasture bars And wait to see the soldiers who pass by. The dead are marked with wonder by the stars. Yes, yes, the dead are waiting for the grass. What will the future give them, this Soon? Spark, Barisdale, and spade, Spit, spotted loins, scuffed intestines. The bodies are pushing with dizzying pain, The woman with the spade and bony foot. The dead are silent in their shattered gowns. The street is empty with our broken hearts. Doors, that will darken more. The street Must answer, “here’s the empty world to me.” <|endoftext|> "Sonnet: On Receiving a Son by His Mother", by William Cullen Bryant [Living, Death, Growing Old, Health & Illness, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] On reading the last of his poems with General Robert Bulwer, “My son, I love you, beautiful boy, for you have caught the talisman Love is broken. But, for pity, ======================================== SAMPLE 415 ======================================== "To a Piece of Superitation at the Marriage-Prepare", by John Ciardi [The Body, Love, Heartache & Loss, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Nature] Oh, dear! Although I ne’er forget, Although I’m ne’er forget, I’m still forget. The thirst, the way have drawn, Is what doth make me plunge, despite my own, into the world: The thirst itself that never drank; the cause, that licks And licks, of all things made, is The cause, and draws, to heaven’s own spinning-ware. Youth, and that merry bosom of my youth, Even with its own delight, enjoy what’s left, and dies. The thirst that never drank—but keep alive; Never sick, nor dripped, nor bald, Nor wet, nor arrogant, nor glad, But simply goes the way of mad. I—I, that heroic, who with lightning eyes Look over tempest and run out; Whose puny frame is but the ephemera, That with the lightning's aid is blind, the rind, Is not, and yet is blind. No! And though ne’er having drink or heard that word, My soul, if always dull or great, as though 'tis for nothing, Maintains the cunning remedy that infers it, The soul which cannot always dream: Howbeit, the fables say, no soul discloses Itself into the language of our age; No chronicle of times and tides will pierce it, No charcoed resemblance of a smile efface it, No wise inventor will it wax to grand decay, Since the gilt hand of physicians never writes And lovers’ laments are but the sighs of jealous men; And the pale visage of the poet’s eye, The withered garment and the withered crown, still nauseated, Is the true visage of all noble thoughts unsoftened. Will the worthless l untame the great desert, And will the noble and the powerless live, The unburied and the living thrive? And when the stripling loved ones love to stray, And the fond lover of them prays for rain, And hears a music in the ravish’d air, ‘Pierce to my spirit, and shew there’s healing in her care. She has outliv’d herself with five sweet hopes ======================================== SAMPLE 416 ======================================== "Beauty", by Mary Ann Ruddy [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Endidships, Endymions] Then did she hold me in her arms And beat me with the other hand; V I did not stay; but said, "She is that lily fresh and fair, That wanton Beauty courtesied me; And I another Woman here, But what is worse than barren love?" Then did she hold me up in her arms And beat me down; nor knew I why. For what is endless isles the gulf may be A coral Age is eighty-three!" So did I know this were Magic to me. So did the Lady dream of me And hover near her inmost room; And as the Flowers return again, I hear her voice upon my dreams. (Remember when the Rose knew!) There lives a Poet whom this crumpled world Is kissed down where it fell asleep with moss. There gleams the Town where Hunger and Misrule (Their children and their charts) forever pass, And Avarice frowns, and Liberty, adust, And Hunger and Vasts grow yellow with the grass. <|endoftext|> "America I HEARNFINCH SWALLOW", by W. S. Eliot [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Heroes & Patriotism] AND oh! THE Belgaean I CAOUGHT that Creole Precipice, sprung from the soil of Asco, holy stream, and gentle stream, as it had been and now long since in Spain! And as the people, worn with toil and strain, about their children dream of men and land, become weary of the lore that was their own, as they grew heavy on their feet, and ran not out of youth, for they had lived and died without a trace of pity upon their foes; and as at last they passed the village-gate of Oxur, watched by other women in the house, and listened to the sounds of feet of feet, and saw the forms of ======================================== SAMPLE 417 ======================================== "The Little Turtle", by Paul Zimmer [Nature, Animals] The little Turtle-dove has for her wings a pair of legs like those of rakes You are no tiny partridge <|endoftext|> "Chrysalis: fragmentary", by Paul Zimmer [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] The periwinkle looks like an angle orchid orchid orchid orch Annie orch Indian girl se capstan {se being handed on the lily chrysalis {seh  he own <|endoftext|> "Otham Eurydice", by Paul Zimmer [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] The grapes are horned. Let me smellThank you. . . . the woman is as stupe boor. Night’s bad. Let me hear the wind again. Quit pianos sound. Halt up, little boor. If there is any way to live, I will find that lamb. <|endoftext|> "The Hinge", by Chippewa Nye [Relationships, Pets] The smell of the woods, breathe out the first time howling. If we were to look out or not at least as it threats and bulge resolutely in front of us like an eagle. I can’t see. Or better. The smell of the woods is a liplock who taunts the Summer, smelling of the rain, slants the sun. In my life, I know there are paths for all. I know there are spectacled bones and college ghosts, save that my face gleams like a candle. Something of you, Little Little Blue Boo, do not turn on my face as if it were the tip of your tongue. O, you are a little shitier of birds and you know nothing. Can’t turn on any one of us. Happier. <|endoftext|> "Into Each Day", by Paul Zimmer [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] What do you mean? Is it because for nothing but in defective smiling? ======================================== SAMPLE 418 ======================================== "The Styles", by John Donne [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] No more did I lose this world: the public was obsessed with you as you lived in the form of poetry’s passion and invention’s parable possessions.And always I understood.Your rage as an ache, each breath as an act that had been swayed by some force.Tristan held out his mouth: an unusual screaming:Orse-lots stood on their wrists, as if to take a wounded part of your body.He saw me and I saw him walk that moonlit lake with an arrow and a swimmer asleep in the glimmering wave, where the dancing minuetas eventually were the only things there were in all the universe to wake up in the dawn, and the water flowers, each one red. <|endoftext|> "At the Edge of Town", by Norman Dubie [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Because she will not be mine, but whether I am given a little away I am the village clock that speaks its top. Time has long since silverly tossed a car plane “on my hind legs”—the way the raised rods start again themselves again, and when the train’s dull again.My father loves to climb the slope and pace it down again, or maybe he is caught by the watch, while the sign directly says, “No, he’s not at” by the steering wheel, and the noisy kid just welcomes the next customer to the side of the road, and waits, light of heart, the news to report. <|endoftext|> "Puppet Instead of", by Hilda Morley [Living, Growing Old, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women] One stands for a broken chair, and one bends to drink water, one to the window; alone, mocking the small light that slides quietly over the dining table— your glasses are empty and you take a nap, and there are no more invitations. We haven’t had to wait for a change of light, so I place your letters at my desk, and close my eyes while I think ======================================== SAMPLE 419 ======================================== "The Revenge", by William Matthews [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity] The consequence is very shocking, you must not infer but death is very quiet. The most necessary film iswatching you through it all, as you drop down perfectly into a well of ice, at your house. You are sewn up, but only fit to catch your life. You are full of dry characters, and they are delicious and white, And if you glance across them, they are much too many For the cups to reach them, To be strung like grass, As if a saw withdrew it were. It is so hollow, That the next round could never be sown, And recoophical on its own soil, And turn up a thought just small enough to label you. It is so already mapped & compacted, That some new litter would be cast Down on the far side of the road. It is our world, The world ours. <|endoftext|> "The Mariner and Man", by William Matthews [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] The galleys are right, the skies go gray, The pashooter cries from the marking bells, The killdeer is out, the wind is in our town, Ulysses is at the point, This time a jolly cavalier you see, The hewers round the galleys is in view, The junks and sail-yards pageants, for good or ill, Some light sanglasses if this was will, But the hewers and yards are all in sight, As the heead should be but right these days, In good or ill. Who'd sail for sea? Who's thatWho smells for pine? Who's thatWho smells for birches if these were will? Around these tufts, in good or ill, This wind out of the way, As sailors' lives sometimes do, After a storm they may condemn, There's many a mile of sea between (And when they sigh they lie out dead, And die they but believe they will, They vote for Ward Ward Ward's grave). By yonder ledge, Where now (as now's a cliff Is the heath over) we're alone, Cold as a stone, I thought, and ======================================== SAMPLE 420 ======================================== "Minstrel, 1964ix Poet", by Thomas Traand Bergvey [Relationships, Home Life, Pets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Popular Culture] There were no living, if there were ... wet crabs wanting to get together, all but my love and loneliness coming the more I had to reach you there, where even the dogs would stop because they expected me. Then I knew again what it meant in this light and storm weather, why I don’t like the houses know who it is that will put my life away: the house next door, the living who get to follow, have a lot to lose. Today, there’s the farm-yard damage. The boys do work every hour, mostly though but a hairline, a piece of wood for memory the house of my parents would spend a fortnight fifty upon, as if the house itself were a village for example—it’s easy to tell me which house is the most sacred built for the house either— but then there’s the old c payment, the house of my grandfather, my own mother who has left my life as a stranger when I was a poplar coming only so far—the old palace of my mother’s house, my bedroom full of leaves, my bedroom full of marks for the first time in our lives. <|endoftext|> "It Is Your Wisdom", by Thomas Traherne [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] it is your wisdom that we prize you most and we aren’t that kind if we can’t see you and we are that kind if you tell us the goodness of mercy of mercy, which is greater and that more on earth and may still tend to us who are most in favor with young and old, knowing neither of you nor of us and of the old no more, but perhaps you are more than they are—so am I. My boat is left at sea for another day, another. I am come along with only a weak and lessless copy of the “coanna-sparrow” or ======================================== SAMPLE 421 ======================================== "Sestina: Like One Who Passeth Change", by Ada Limón [Living, Separation & Divorce, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Like one of those Who, in a dewy dawn-Starlight, Have sat beside a stream of stars at night, Startling their loves with laughter. Or, a sultry noon-rose, they Beyond the meadows wandering, At shady woodlands, hasty kiss, Anxidian rose, and rose beneath the locus' wings, And lily-clouds; and zone-leaved tamar and pied clMalachara, and oozing violet blue, Th' irisid, and roses in a swirl of gold. Light-crowned, the cirque-fires burn along the sky's wide ridge, And daisy-crowned, and rosy-crested summits weave The glory of the stars. The world is made indeed, the clouds are rife And have no part in this, nor do I part in this. In leaf and bud the wild Aves and the fauns are graven of old, But when their dance of ev'ry wind calls clear, They pass and have no part in this, nor know that I. In ev'ry mood I dance, as one whose loss is slight Joy loathes his loss, and gladness leaves his kite. So I, who know that yet I shall not mourn, Nor that the wintry skies my free heart scorn, I, too, shall weep, nor think those eyes so blue, That saw their brightest, may with tears be wet. A little stream I have, of rippling hue, Affection in me, and with melancholy face, That never feeling could from ruin retreat, Not flying as I may in desert places now, In water-laved recess, where none the weary know, Nor treading to severer worm-days, but there heard On babbling floes and sav'ry muffs the chirpe. Yet not an easy path it were, I wist not what to do; I know the way thereto, And all is well as such as may be well Thou know'st, and such are haunts of me. <|endoftext|> "Service", by Isaac Rosenberg [Living, Death, Activities, ======================================== SAMPLE 422 ======================================== "Ineugh", by Heather McHugh [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Sciences] Ineugh I like to think that he can prove a child; for when the love that is to come turns back the longings of the glance and beckons hope away; I like to think how he is drawn to shape and take turns back and still thinks endlessly. I like to think that while there are graces and the benumbed joys and the old gods and the old gods of our life that we find and know, are still; I like to think things in the way a child might have been, which is to say we were all born the poems of the world and all of us that have come to be; we’re all those poems that were the intricate beginning and end of the poem; we’re the years and the years that are like memories of the things that have gone to make us forget them; the years that are like the gentle tear of a sorrow hidden in the evening grass, the grass that covers a sorrow that seems to us now at the end; the years, they and our years that are as difficult as they are to come back to us; they are as lost as well if we neglect to find them. So, when it came to die, they covered up our faces; they were mirrors for our eyes to see with their little scarlet flies to the earth of the common field; and we still looked behind the curtain, and saw no blank pages standing in the sun, just as plain to see as we were— just a mound of dirt and slime, and we made procession with the others into the shadows of the light, made humble, and for whom our tears ran. <|endoftext|> "The Hummingbird", by Heather McHugh [Activities, Gardening, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers] In the great first year, the animals, whom I knew, have been, and to what degree they have come, and will be; in wild brown generations they are ======================================== SAMPLE 423 ======================================== "San Francisco", by Natasha Trethewey We build up the windows of our new apartment. It is turning pale gold. We’re black and worn with   ... We’re sitting at our wash and our food offerings to the immobile god. Our bay tins and cornices are rivers and a song from the sky. We can’t afford our work and our chairs, we can’t afford our dream and our peace. We’re looking at the big orange jars. In the big maple shade, the sky is as clear as glass. It is a holy city far and wide as day. We’re drawing only one of the grains of gold to make you happy, you mother of great neighbors. You have lit the brandished bellows of  red flame to assuage the immemorial greed of   blood. You pile them up all night &, eager to be done. You have lit the oilers and kept the bathtub for hours and brought the bathtub up for us. Now, this morning, you will come here to convince us that market is all you can get is cake, pour for milk, I want a cup of pure silver and put it away, forget how you offered it and go back. <|endoftext|> "The Only Museum", by Terrance Hayes [Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The only Museum on earth who traces its footsteps in this world, behind you the streetlights of desire, waits long stoppered in the narrow cornenmost hollow of earth; even the gods, among mortals, do still rely on other qualities annulled by others, through the glovel of the sea’s assaly. <|endoftext|> "Rays", by Terrance Hayes [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I This is a most curious angle-work toilet. I turn away from the light of the rose petals, and see it suddenly reveal itself strikes. I find it in the peach trees, a “hand of   this world unculled of pink flowers so you’re to tell me of it.” ======================================== SAMPLE 424 ======================================== "A Song for John Wieners", by Toi Derricotte [Living, Death, The Body, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Two boys dark brown, in one room, machine for smudged down, Dark, overhead. Two boys, two boys, at night along corridors To get closer to woman when she does not wake, Hear the clink of each barrel, hear the strong squeal of each gun. One boy's a bitch, The other boy's a bitch, doing the bedroom door. Two boys pull at each cigar in sleep And count on each of their already nightgown. A film and a mug of tea tied to their breasts Until they dream their jobs do not close. The cabs hack their crotchsticks to the sky, A screech at the drum, a gun bang, then quiet, A mumbling "When the Rulers come, the Rulers come." On the corners of the street, in the days of heat, The men run from door to door in trains and come Back and laden with the news, and stray from door To door. The women are doing just all she knows: It's as well as standing there. "What did you buy? What did you buy?" "Diy L. the Sultry", by Toi Derricotte [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] My mother sends for a ring, But I can't get the slightest letters. I jimp a ring--I mean nine fingers Of paper black, three 3, 3, 4, 5, 3, 4, 5, 3, 5, 5, 5, 6, 6, 6,6, 6,7, 3, 6, 5, 6,6, Pleasure of Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers] The Chinese Mountains are white In the hot light. On their backs The skinny boats of the World and its Nations, bunches of African-horned And pink and silver, mats of The silent Chinese between. They hold the sky like plates of sun, And eat, for their food ======================================== SAMPLE 425 ======================================== "Because This Sounds Like a Bird Is an Arm Force", by Hannah Gamble [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] When this sound like a snout had rolled over my head, and they rode me almost as fast as a man can until it comes round. I think I wouldn’t do it if I did. Even if the light had not rolled over my eyes, and my voice had not set ten to the next twirl in my place, it made almost every paper hit out on my tongue. I had no idea that the hunger kept saying, “I choose to go north.” You see, I had no cross on board, though my body was strong, and I had some weight. One way or the other, I could tell—look, they hung up, I’d have to—down on the second Jersey West Highway. I was our creek, and my body was my bales. After weeks there’d be tall wind on the ridge at the southern ridge, and I had enough to carry with me. It came with the mouth of a small white horse, and my frame would not hold. I was the oats that grew into my legs and milk. I was broken in two meals at the clack of the whip, which, if told me by the gods, would never make me out of the body. It would require a better gravity. Then it would come down, and would come back in with the whip, which, if it was like in other days, would always be my boast. Then it would come down, and would I have to show it to you later. <|endoftext|> "Accountability", by Alfred Starr Hamilton [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I am about to part some general travellers on the farthest West—I am the torch, and the letters, that will over-master me, if you blow them out. I am not the prentice I keep, the star that strikes me, a fist full of powers and temperature. I am the grain that spouts life to lead me here; the word curved, the letter that shuts off the clinking, everything that can and ought to be ======================================== SAMPLE 426 ======================================== "Up Above the Heart", by Gay Susan Hutton [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss] I never yet been sad enough, though I have many hard desires; I hate the world, its pangs and fears; I hate the world, its women, man, and all its joys, and its red fires. I hate to have pronounc'd upon thee The language that my voice may be. Yet if in this I still am dear, If this I still am true, dear love, Still be my love for what I cannot see. Go on, I know thy mood; go on! Go on! Though this I cannot prove, If this thou hast yet for thy love, It is bereave thou must away. I wait alone, thy faithful friend, Wish for myself the hour of pride, And see thine every hour of end. Alas! I long to be denied. I weep, because I would not die, I sorrow yet for what I cannot see. But as thy love renews thy youth, Leave off that grief to thy sweet truth; Come to my arms and let me know I am as young, as old as thou. The love I cannot bear, the love I cannot bear, Stun'd by thy kindness, and diseased beyond repair, All that I have and feel I have in thy sure might, Not in the least heaven could reward thy faithless faithless love. Make me thy sacrifice, and let me hope That my fond heart thy purpose knows; And yet, ere I despair thy child may prate, And with thy blood be comforted, And die no more as thou hast lived: But in the love that thou canst bear, Let this one passion kill me here. As far as fancy can see in light, Thou longest for thyself and me; When the hard fortune comes to thee The burning flame of love shall be, And all our earthly joys arise, Confusion and destruction hence. Flames spread, but yet attend the game, And God is with himself on high. Though damp and darkness there appear, Yet, in the strength whereof we wear, I bid my brooding spirit bend Before the ======================================== SAMPLE 427 ======================================== Well, and just this time I heard that you don’t mind The crowd that you must find A little touch-down queen I saw her in my mood As she crossed the room And moved across the table And turned,--I said, To ask my serving maid Where were you standing? I did not think you were I meant to speak, But gently threw the alarm Into the woman's room, And, on her mission there, I wrote to write the book We now, perhaps, can think There now have been a name You cannot quite mistake, But in your good as all The names that I shall name, For which you're here again, I have to take her form I fain would have your hand O would to God, but fain Would tell that you have done All that I knew of late! For you I would not wait Till Autumn flies again, Till from her funeral skies That she might be aware This little queen flies there. And yet you are not sure, As you may say, that this Was she, who now is she, This sister of the suns Is everything to her. That is to say, I get Less blame than you can get. I shall get blamed if that Be the last, common debt For honor to the name Of the middle of her life, And I shall know just where. That is her picture in my mood And she's the street she tripped That now,--here, here, before her face I read it,--we first felt her pace That made our days go by. Her name I heard as a harsh wit, And back she turned, leaving me to hit On what I had to blame. But what Was all the blame that filled her voice? Sometimes the alien calls me hard, An alien he comes at the hour For my respects to have a power. And so, she leaves me to be with you Day after day, day after, In spite of all the shame that's gone, O then at least she leaves you, so To go with you to her who will And gives you your own moment still. Oh Lady of Shalott, ======================================== SAMPLE 428 ======================================== "Morning", by Raina J. Leese [Living, Parenthood, The Body, The Mind, Nature, Animals] In there, in there, all the living are ablaze. I see nae sun in the grey of the sky. Nom at me yet, the skeleton’s white ghostlies white against the glass. The last sun, a bat emptying its wings erect, nests in mullein and willow. In there, in there, the living are dancing in green. Until at last, every windy wing of the host has settled himself. In there, all the dead are shining, bright, yellow, purple, saffron, and green. Then anhungered, I’ll walk the narrow way, at last, until the day is cut. Sleeping, I love the moon, whose yellowing And sheen goes down through heaven, the hazel boughs above me. In there, all the leaves are a glory; and for me, The boughs bend low and shadowy, the tree-tops stand up and shadowy, And all the stars are there in the weird and silent tree-tops. In there, all the birds are a-swish as I remember them, And blossom into a kind of rosemary, in my hair, the sparklight, In my brain the presage of this same beautiful, too brilliant matter. <|endoftext|> "Piano", by Raina J. Leese [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy] WrittenJanuary 1718in Street in the Champs Ely, St. Louis’s, I’ll hear no baying of the clock, Nor footfall of the slipper; I’ll lie all night beside your cairn, And share your sighs and tear-flakes, Your carol, and your tear-drums, Your carol, and your tear-drums. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet: A concert of the Gods", by William Shakespeare [Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] A sparrow falls from light clouds, A star shines, all heaven is ours: All the old gods, and all the ======================================== SAMPLE 429 ======================================== "Swapping Wains", by Howard Nemerov [Social Commentaries, Heroes & Patriotism] “The Wire is hard, but it can't be seen,” —Is it some general wandering in the West —Is it some general wandering in the South —Is it some general wandering in the West —And whether there are no barbarous tongues, Perhaps not for long, but that the world May hear itself alone, and comes at last? NationalRight is the answer: energy, pluck, —The blue and yellow geologist who brushes, —The first bitten bare, a rainbow of little feather, —Rafter of the Poetry Society, an elegant Dignity, teaching, patchwork, stiffly refined —Tripp'd in the mimic rout to wish you in the Line, any one else in America. That picture (said I) offers —To get at the money, or to give ourselves —To find it in Formos, port, and gate, —To escape internal temperature, in temperature —To descend, with the gossamer, outside —To start with ice, with poles, with toes, with hands, with friends, with a whole crew of rafts, and on one landing —To arrive with glass, with a long aquarain, —To swim in the seas, and yet recover —To fall without falling, via a perfect wave, —To hurl herself from wave to wave, from drift to —To fallen without reaching the shore or beneath. <|endoftext|> "The Festuiller", by Alan Dugan [Relationships, Social Commentaries] Do you remember that it was under You? That moment was not always Sunk by the glass. You were bound to Sank—and it could be a remarkable thing. —Everyone knows. And you, perhaps, are A physician. Sunken down here, Or teaching me something I must have learned —Sunken to a loaf, with a brain of Bleeding! And now it’s over. It’s past media that I’m allowed to go out into the street. No one to sing I’m greeted completely. Nothing but my —That street! It’s parked up the other side —That second block beside the curb! ======================================== SAMPLE 430 ======================================== "Among School-boys", by Kenneth Rexroth [Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Popular Culture] What will the baby do to you If you set your paunch with the mat and stuff? You will pull away the sausage from the stack and hand it to the woman standing on the steps alone in her breath as she coughs. The baby does not have that filthy milk and cannot have the swollen milk bun. It is cast into the furnace. On the first day, It was the thin veil of a woman holding a rat with a slender pickle at her side. She sat in a chair and watched the thin veil drawn. I have a vision of it. She sat on a dirt floor in front of the woman, it was thin and dirt. She had to own she had a stone knife. She only thought at hand the thing was anyway there, but the thing was more stuck in her eye. She sat stone-still and her tongue perforated on the point her fingers stayed out in time to spill the flood of her chance. Each letter was slowly furred, but I had only known the surpliced, twisted mess that came from her thick as a cloth, that the hard, hard thing about me had been the size of a coat her skirt was always just for hips, and about the lady's hat, well-clocked hair. She was the deadest lady on the way in all of us and I couldn’t say when I was from fifth the fourth, which is, I believe, the woman's knee, which was so perfect it was the tangled skein of mine, and the knowing that I should know her whole, I gave her the keys of her heaven right away, and I praised the woman the world mistook as to that of the breast and the breasts, but she had not come to me as far as I had seen: a woman who each shuddering life-drop plucked as the small gray snake in its pitiless greed. She kept the hidden spring where it lay asleep, and whatever you have done my rime is good. I could not ======================================== SAMPLE 431 ======================================== "Statue", by Jack Underwood [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals] “Statue is a game no two days” For 100 years, I have not become convinced that a nature of land exists Is merely an accident, a reminder, a way to parse some nationality And since the world has begun to loosen in, it has been gathered into its own absence, And its new awareness is too much for belief. This morning I was told the dodo is a monster With no inside but a crannies of ears. A sound I make from the stony ground—a presence, you know. The scent of gaps is faint as from a cold grave, the echo of something buried beneath the ground. And now I will communicate with the stranger, the friend, and question, if he still exists, if he still is the man With whom each thing was born, And for what it might have been, to take the place we find everything, and let us regret the details, Recollecting a way clear and free. <|endoftext|> "The Conduct, New", by Billy Collins [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] There is no Phillip here for you: A text sowstutter in a flower. It says you should grow on a bright thorn till she is torn away. O master and Prerogative, I shall say despondently into Your presence. It reminds me of coming home from Pens. I shall say nothing of how you make excuses for this: although I am going back to Poetry. I shall say that it is thought that no other poet will criticise my situation. <|endoftext|> "It was Jessica,epapaty", by Kay Ryan [Living, Health & Illness, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] andbecause you shall not have to talk about it, Leno,form a piece of poetry from the Colosse and am perspiring. I shall say noso yo qué non más se muchas ya qué contés discretado de do mi selva álo uno divino. ¿Que despeña los mormillas? At las dos el hombres que atenos de suelo e ======================================== SAMPLE 432 ======================================== "Touring on a Downhill", by John Ciardi [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Men & Women] Sweet and bitter The sweetness and the height; Incessant bitterer than pain, We seek the drearier remote of the plain. Different and restless, Striving, hounding, The wind, the drab, the flinging; The whine of sick, the wail of dying, The sob and the beat of a smothered drum, For one sad moment's X, revives, then all is over. She comes, and all is still. A passion that is not for ruin, A rapture that is not of will, Still, like a shaken mirror, sees afar What shall at length its beauty touch, How fare the ripples of her shaken hair? <|endoftext|> "Bramble returning to the heart", by John Ciardi [Living, Life Choices, Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Spring, Trees & Flowers] I who so much have taken ...Find I at length, in the dark, A pleasure in the book to read, A sightless joy that cannot give A single word an ecstasy but lives Beneath the stars and on the boughs Where they have been together now Since he had fallen asleep, and we Who had so much of outward pressing Know one great secret of the dark that nears You and your course had run: the husk Of nature's music is to you unknown Even as the shining of a gown That now and then is slately sere And death cold as his greying hair ... Ah, where's the heart that still must beat, Where the bright sun still in the west Still burns the secret of defeat?-- A desperate persistency, A courage to die a few, A dream, a passion, a defeat. <|endoftext|> "Storm Ending", by John Ciardi [Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] Not only a knife but a blow did I give, Cut in my throat, to the very mark My flesh slid upwards to that point Leaving dull shadow, while there lingered I Just there, as if in pain alone, Alone, not having much of life ======================================== SAMPLE 433 ======================================== "To the Same Purpose", by Meena Alexander [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] The television’s for moments when the family’s on fire, the parlor chairs are lighter for hours, and the pot on the stove is lighter made for hours, and for hours the father shifts his arms and wearies while the mother winks at his aisles, and father drains his handsthat his own father doesn't even know and he doesn't know as he smokes his hand at the stove, or does not even know, as his hands dam the boy, who just a little older grows in years, and then the father lets it go. —Get out of the car or get kicked up there, you blockhead there, and drive a bare round plane with a force thatCan’t be gutted up, twisted, twisted, bent from a floor edge, and fired again, and the father, who’s the town doctor, is already there, the fire fan burst in his abdomen andSam slumped his pen on the wall, hammer and sawman walking along, the rear varmore, the frame he’s sitting on. Just like you couldn’t bear to hear him unlay a word, never say a word, and he’d turn away from the car, then rattle away, then take your hands off and seize a pair of jeansfor the door. Garlee, slippery, slippery!“Butcher and caught in the nether dark, caught in the nether dark, caught in the nether dark, caught in the nether dark, caught in the nether dark, caught in the nether dark, caught in the chasm’s dark. A satchel held him, snout and snout, snout and claw, snout and claw, snout and claw, snout and claw, snout and snort, snout and snort, “I’m caught in the nether dark, caught in the chasm”, and that’s all she says. Sick for her loss, I go through the shop to the waif, past red-glass and lamp, past green-plate and gilt-backed glass-glass and lamp and moonlit window box, and out of the house past the snow with the earthquake, and our boy, shagged his pel ======================================== SAMPLE 434 ======================================== "The Poster Girl Gang Gangor", by Gail Mazur [Living, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture] for James Mcleister I did not buy Mrs.dit assisted I called it a ride but now the carriage has just started using to deciphered the same words. Despaire white serving way, a double cup, a double cup Forrade the King sent. It is a cool and safer place To hold the steeds Till mown years (so I will trust some one I love): Galloping the street lamps through the door, my picture don’t show symptoms of a taint Of matters we enjoyed. Out yonder lies the carriage lie In a secluded calumny Under the down-rolley snow. Miss Liberty Mull, It’s time to place that separate doll, The taffetaer tucked into tartannt, Meteed for a Sardinian woman Who would pass that marriage like an African bride, And really didn’t like it. I want my card, Not nibbled by a sleuth-dog, not by a hare. I want my hemp gloves, not their wind hair, Are the things that I find in Pat Or Bob or Grace or Grace or Grace or Yourself or any other boy. I want my brown cassock, not a cleft staring from my eave, Not a bit of the significance To buck your neck until I chew gum and make myself small. I can’t stand the blashing of water on the white sheet In front of my eye, the way they did to wash Erotion and the luck: a cross of candle out of joint, The cross that stands there for a four lash, and how I hitchit up against a chair. <|endoftext|> "The Doctor's Daughter", by Zbigniew Herbert [Living, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] My sister sleeps on the self-same bed; her lids are aching and her veins are breakingLike brittle steel; her terror is gone out of her mind; she sits Alone in the room wailing, calling a joint The doctor's life hasn’t gone by; she’s thinking of the doctor who has just come from a woman In Heaven knows where has been the harbour, she is sick just now. Why not blind to the world and me to live in ======================================== SAMPLE 435 ======================================== "Mean Oscar", by Mary Jopp [Love, Desire, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Now I remember you were bringing clothes at night. The warm air seems soiled and nearly under your chin. You are like your Mother Hubbard's gravestone a suit at the ends of her knee. You remind me of our flight through the thick fringe of leaves. I don't know if you were alive and could take my tips in the night. Also you think you're building her picture I can do it. I can't put up the park and carry her away. There seems nothing to do. Her voice fails inside and fails in itself. <|endoftext|> "C-mo. Full twenty Pages; Livinglink", by Rita Dove [Living, Coming of Age, Health & Illness, The Body, Time & Brevity, Activities, Indoor Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] At first all your friends were like whea here and who are in this city. Like girls wash their hands in silk, just when you're washing them. Their eyes too were very grey. Theirgraphs were stuck in this country. Ouh-huh! How they rattled their shoulders with golden l'ts! And they laughed when they saw my face. I took them to my big place in the rain and reared them up. Ugh! How the people in the city shouted when they saw my face. And they laughed when they saw my face. With clangorous clangour every minute I rattled the air into my heart. This city is my own. This city is my own. Let me sit back beside you and feel better. Let me sit back like you and feel better. <|endoftext|> "Love Song", by Koothjol McGinn Bott [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] One last time I got up and started to cry. I stroked my cheeks then when I let them paw me. The deep flat trill of the city turned on my ear. People used to believe me but never believed. Wait. I have a scar on my cheek. I was seven years old. I let the sun down on me and you are sixteen. Sometimes they say, she is eighty and loves me but never meant to marry. I have one. I am seventeen and I can't choose between them. If the sun only shines ======================================== SAMPLE 436 ======================================== This cup of comfort has no existence. It has no echo. It is a song In harmony: Two weak bells gird each in its repetition. Its inner toil unhinged takes the swell Of a new moon: Drake's most old cedar tablets bulge in A lucid oceans of fixed life. We tread the line in a green illusion Of firm mind. Flowerlike, in moonlight And in marble-shadows, A drowned world exists: God rules. Sweet organ of my ear, how sweet to smell Your ecstatic chords, If I could only speak. And if you should but listen, like a man Who can escape the scoffing world that sees You through the cloud, unwind his shining teeth In your dark deeds, impart to him the sense Of the blue vault. Or if you should one golden moment pause On your discordant minor silences, And from the City of Pain stem its ghost, When the black winds come down-- Spaniards, saints, marvors, city-dancers, Saints in cloisters of eternal glory, And anoint the stale pipes of their dreams With a stupendous memory. Take my drum, lying down with folded hands In my dust that rang of golden beatings, In your dreams that fitted well. I was born as a dream that haunts and haunts A dream of wailed melody: And though you came as a babe to be born, Yet while you left me too, I grieve at it For ever and ever for you. Not strange as the dreams, Nor a vague as the dreams, That fall on the ear, and melt on the sight Of that head with always the white, Dark, dumb, and wordless, and cold; O fleeting and new, and suddenly born, You will never betray me again. In the youth of a tenth he had me a sister. Three Adborn things stood by three on a grassy walk Just opposite him—the plumes on the green Shoulders, the mistletoe falling on the green; And my hands were white as the white of the first And my lips were gray like the land of death. When I first came here I was cradled in dreams And quickened my ======================================== SAMPLE 437 ======================================== "Capituation", by Stephen Sandy [Living, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Do not cry for what is! You still have the capacity to feel: You who list the sigh to sigh, the laden tear to dry; You who have the power to give and take, to give and take; But you are bound to this: no rationalisme. —Charcritismtted by the wise, or lucky-waking girler, Who feels but will not give; who numbers thus ripe catch, nodespite! They who this opportunity enjoy, refuse to smother The soul with [senses] beauty, and seek out His intellectual, human appetite for man. The [gray bird] her wings, which threaten'd plainly might rival all existence, Tempting to her rude sheltering homely flee and flee, From those unknown, the darken'd by-ways of the wood; Or haply, in some dell, where nothing is but good, With nothing save the merriment of snow and blood; They who[he] themselves advance and on their backsThus steal, to what they steal, and with what luck these may surpass. [agilden'd] So they disappear, and in their weeds return, Alone scudding, like the unquiet they had read Of things accomplish'd, long since, and have no heed. In emptier vaults of many a wing and many a flock A Royal Garden once appear'd, whose spirits rais'd Like been in virgin since, and wak'd by pow'rs, The youthful year, which hitherto had been A King in Royal street, and since an Empress, then As also in a bed of snowy lawn The phantoms of this World, which in their coming On to a dewy close, fill'd many a wooden chamber, whence Among them issued a plain wide-wand'ring Pyramid, high up up, Down palaces and high fanes after a Fly; Therefore fromhire heather, up through field and forest, thieves That met together face to face, were nought neglected. [h] The cutting and the picking of the wayward weed, The plodding and the cooking, were not known to the blind. Around this gay earth groaning still doth lieThe head and ease of change; the pleasant grasshopper By cottage stood and watch'd his work; nor saw He ======================================== SAMPLE 438 ======================================== "Pulling Over the Weathercock", by David Wojahn [Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] When he wakes at twenty, after I am dead I am in you, in you. Before I know it all I will break your heart. I worry and defy any part of myself. Sundry lyrics. Horseshallings. All passages. Before I knew it. Lustrous eye sight. Gulbeyaz’s voice. Sundial songs. Before I questioned. Sundry lyrics. Before I mistaken. Sundry voices. Before I mistaken. Open eyes. Out of water. out of sight. <|endoftext|> "Mother and Father", by Sam Wilbur [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] After seven years of youthful play My uncle disappeared to the county home; Was changed to a mole on a gray stone slab, And “Father, I’m not worse.” As it entered We listened for the relishing, and for days White sand white teeth blackened the heather. God and the memory of the boy who stood To kill himself and hush with the rubber friction, The beautiful loss of pleasant Ivor. God and the memory of our grandmother Whose shattered heart hurt and slapped the stale Pitching her green shoes slapped the ground Still, same now, in that famous driveway Where women and men were known two centuries later. Their language, natural and unambitious, Was only rich in local customs. It used To kill them now, to root the hair and taste The dainty lotion that grew the oak. It used to followcountry to show how much That soil we’ve been digged in the wastes we’re famished In the wilderness. But even the slave with his Promises, the love of girlhood and the longing That leads to failure, we loved of old, Not willingly. Now, in the hush of the heart, We suddenly start to cry for bread and fire, For the beautiful world that laughs and revels Under the sun and toad, all cell and peasant And one man in a cave among pebbles. <|endoftext|> "Gray River Junction", by Sam ======================================== SAMPLE 439 ======================================== Shakespeare’s Tributeary of Susius, personally Mew workings On a Raftir-chair, and a Manudo-Mosquito Cantos on A gunshot, and I tried to put an Otro. I found him IV Monet Orpheus when I tried. The bushel-fringed belfry, the bedroom- reproduced. The first time I interviewed him was a Rembrandt. He borrowed his sense of infirmity from my acquaintance. The invention of electricity from the mail of one-hit sewing machine, which could not be given, the system, the remedy itself. “If I could be Rembrandt, it might just be I met with!” When I was in New York City, a man, the house was titled A LITTLE LITTLEMAN LITTLEMAN LITTLEMAN LITTLEAM He shouted, “Hello, old man.” We walked out on the pliadry floor in a tumultuous hurry to catch the properrake they brought us, and we were ashamed to turn on them, to listen to our song. And all the time history was turning on us from its accidence. We saw, like a lynched brood, pollening and devouring with its own rage, the wolves, like black bumbeasts, crawling out of a cavern of rage, devour their own flesh, put forth their hands, then spit and slay, then eat. To us the resign burned in the insides of that red fire eating the fresher wood, while in the midst of us the sound rose like the dry clock of a little wine-filled stove. And we were so much apart, I cannot hear you, sweet reader, and your wondering eyes. Only in a sweet and subtle way, may your sweet passion put a period of fresh and more miraculous being. For how many centuries can you wonder when you are admitted to stand here on the brink of the dark apotrop, and they will tell you that it has been the practice to expound the passion of a woman once she was the object of the furniture. It will not be right. How many years have you sat here looking at the huge building on the left side of the watermill—that is, how deeply the tears flow. A man sits in the window of ======================================== SAMPLE 440 ======================================== "Water", by Joseph Millar [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] A 29point song took anaway ‘long ago’ began. Of course some were taken backwards, but no one saw them. Water took rain in as it drowned. Water took rain and put water in a car and made you forget the only poems left to finish. A horse for a red track made clean by rumbling, and then the echo of a river drained by the lake and nothing left to do.A radio for a Coca-Cola store. A single cow between the rain and her feet. Some hid along a broken glass. A broken bottle. Some hid across the living snow. Their bodies later died. Some lost along the living snow. The world ended like a dream. The photograph of a child who walks the floor of a house when he sleeps, a one in bed with a broken chair— a one in bed with a broken chair and nothing but a pattern. A broken jug of tea and tea glasses left behind in a broken jug. Two others out of bed who’d like to lay back if they were asleep or dead. A cup of watercolor. A broken jug—a chain of unclothed minutes. The pattern of the cup and chain are the two tunes inside a broken bottle, the pattern of a song for anyone to read indoors. Two teenage boys going to pay aBirth to each other. A cup of tea—a jug of tea. A paper fan is in the mouth. Two girls going to pray to the birdies. A paper fan is in the tongue. Two boys going to ask a kiss. A boy on the wooden couch at night. A broken jug contain a broken bottle. Two boy cousins going to ask their parents for tea. A paper fan in the mouth. Two girls walking into the stars. Two returned to a school. Two girl soldiers on a post. A poem on the writing of a sauna in the garden of a house in the lawn of a house. A paper fan is in the mouth. A paper fan is in the mouth. A paper fan. A dried rag of kerosene and a football bone. A paper fan. A paper fan. A chalk powder on the windows. A cigar in the mouth ======================================== SAMPLE 441 ======================================== "In the Start of No Man Sure", by Jonathan David [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] In the beginning was the cry of the coward that blindly heads his escape; and the children of the world must struggle to be brave. In the beginning was the useless victory lost to every self who deems that he can never conquer. And still the dream that life is nourishing the world. <|endoftext|> "North, South,’s Restless", by Linda Gregg [Religion, Faith & Doubt] I find in the wreckage a dumb spot, the one who sang it and that was the snow in the mist. And you, reckless fool! Lost it. Not I. The world was a troubled path, but now, four nights to the moon the sound of wheels, rotting the sky, was like a child shaking his clothes. For a moment the air mourned like a wilderness, the night mists rose above the darkness in masses of cabs and whirling worlds creating only one head and one hoof. <|endoftext|> "Water Devil", by Linda Gregg [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] In one of my dead, in another, over my head, the heavens not considered in keeping, the clouds rotting on the fields and rotting on the plain, the apples no fruit could bear, a tree weighed down with rain, a tree weighed down on the snow, as if with lead, a fig tree covered field. <|endoftext|> "Pig", by Jonathan Hicks Over the car, now, it is just coming out, once a half mile up, the road deep as a soldier’s face. What a flag, that is the flag he loved, on that winter night, when he returned to his mountains. What a dream. Every day on sheet-headed soldiers came to view the colors of the enemy. Someone had thick-throated the dog, knocking the minutes back. All night it flew on wind-swept, snowbound, rain-bound, making a noise like the sea against the rocks like the surf there. On it came the Great Stone, a ======================================== SAMPLE 442 ======================================== "The Fruit of Wisdom", by Amy Lowell [Living, Death, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Fall, Trees & Flowers] If anyone ever lived in that forest What children never lived there! They scattered those beautiful trees toward the sky. Sky they could not feel rain now, nor the wind The heavy rain patting down, poured daily Rain all around them, or the wind never stopped. On the tree-trunk, they believe it could find no end Crying out to the water below—I saw the branch growing. They believe it could find no end Crying out to the water below, the tree. <|endoftext|> "The taste of fruit", by Amy Lowell [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers, Weather] The rain, the sky the same, like that of Tom moos, The temperate glory of an ocean’s fruit, The habit of a wind that has been blown Far off by one who on the ocean’s beach Sets sail for Troy or Priam’s house to her Orion like a cloud in Acheron Orion when it is not far. Even now the foliage of the scents Cannot cover us. The sap keeps running up Out of the grass. Our breath is soon gone, Being caught by the garments’ clotted clasps, The wind shifts and swims our face forever, Just as our garb comes back. <|endoftext|> "To a Skylark", by Amy Lowell [Nature, Animals, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] As much as to take away this light from the trees, this air, from the sky, from the shore, from the wind, to the ocean, back, turned now to the side of the world— as much as to take eternal offense on anything, any way, in nothing, in nothing, just what the light we see, this language from things, from its mouth, from the animal, or from its bones, this language from things trans- under the sun, to its own eternity, this language from things, from every motion suspended, from beyond the light. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 443 ======================================== I'm a little child, And yet sometimes I feel that Why should I say this or that, I was born of as much as I know Of infinity and of war. If I asked God one thing: About the roses and lilies, Over the sea, under the sea: This was the house by the shore. I'm in my little one's bed And linen and bread and refuse That you tell me of. You tell me of milk and pepper And honey and oil. But oh! he was the stone. His ditty is longer than that, For he spun the fire in the can. He sang to the stars and to clouds That could have been fire. Sings to the roses, postilla And beans and pea. I'm a little child, I can smell Like wind through my hair. I know that the birds are singing, The beasts are at rest. How, in the night time, the birds are singing Without any racking. But they are for heaven, sing they, I heard in the silence singing, The white angels' highille. (In the silence of the snow.) A jack jackhammer bids me go To a clattering house. Hollo! intercept! Far away! I cannot say. For silence is just a jackhammer's blow. In the silence of the snow I cannot tell If I did something open wrong. A jackhammer spits a white cud, In the midst of the snow, In the midst of a frozen morning, With a clatter of sleigh-bells, And he who knows where the scariest lie Fears the breaking of day. He who pockets the snow For the wind or the snow, On the errand his special guile he drums; And if snow will not come, We'll shoot him a huger. He has had too much of his dullest trials And his wiles are all hidden in darkness; He has dared and failed when the Christmas chimes Bring the snow to the window, Or the midnight hour when the awful birth Of the falling day is threatened, In the day he will get to the window and stand Trembling, hushed and still, Ajar in the stiff of the tottering ======================================== SAMPLE 444 ======================================== "Hossmuting", by Paul Hoover [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals] The artist with purple hair Who cultivates the flower Till both arrive Are exalted in air At his command The man in front Sees his two young snakes Their heads Heavy with heat He sees his dog When evening falls and darkness Takes on the evening and we are on the sea And in the empty space He thinks of fish And his face Sees his young snakes Like water In the midst of the wreck The painter From therenched coffee-bouts Cries out to his four children Each one of them a different shape Says: "It is finished and let us put it together And again." <|endoftext|> "The Water Works", by Markmalane becoming an under- sandwich and a high-rise artist —Coisa THE broiling herring shoots the frog-lane light Like a moulted cocador That looks out to sea from the land it meets Or crawls over a spreadside creek Wet straw washed to pieces Like a dye in the shroud of rain it changes Now crooning a hollow song Like mismanaged music Foaming within the veins And hops the plump of grain The wrinkled frog in the shallows dyes Like a pebble in the sedge-bank Where the spruce banded parties dives To his amorous crony and his pawl-like retinas Or ape, and ape And silhouettes Acting deciduous against the sun ... the town Dreams of it, or thinks ... and over and over hens Like dervish legs stretched, as if hearing Only its slow eyelash, Or hearing beyond the schoolboys playing A violatory jubilation And drowned thoughts Like dirty fingers on the polished floor Twice ailing For only two notes Or a note: <|endoftext|> "Vowing I came", by John Barr [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Farewell to the year, the leaf, the stone, The plain, the lake, the valley, and the shore, The birches gray like ruins, and as plain As ======================================== SAMPLE 445 ======================================== "The Eagle That Is a Solitary", by Forrest Gander [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The eagle that is a delicacy, a beakful and a comforter tang, a gentle cuddler, the eagle that is kindnesser, breeder, furtherer, the eagle that is the cruellest cedar, the talisman, the eagle that is the gentle diver, the chartin Dove, the lark, the thrush. <|endoftext|> "The Silver Swan", by Forrest Gander [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Philosophy] The Silver Swan can show you where the Trent returns with all the journey of our lives. At times a bell clangs like a train above the campfire to reveal the town. A tint as slight as that tall manzanoid child of a strange temperament comes to light and tilts his sleeve to start the thrushes singing, “Hans, Jean de Vive!” A shadow follows as away it does, follows the wanderer wherever it goes, the one pursues, the other pursues as he winds his mad brush to the sky. Two stops are thrown at their dancing's wild waking, their voicing met. And the one seeks, pentagonal in its kiddies, pentagonal promptress, whose breath apart and curst to convey judgment. Her thought a litany at the utmost limit of the wonder of the scene, can tell you it’s your Red Swan, because only in winter, when suddenly the autumn you just changed into the white summer itself, I hear the reedy pipe of insects chattering in the grass by the road you’re always running to the light of the last days, the kind of bother from whose warmth and sputeness you draw the savory sweetness of growth, waiting to seem determined to someone else. <|endoftext|> "Finis", by Forrest Gander [Living, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] What will the marvelous spider that was slicing ======================================== SAMPLE 446 ======================================== When I think about it they don’t seem invisible, But maybe they are something that I fancied By a report that makes a moment's space A way to keep me alive, and so I chirp For joy to see them really that way reach After they’re rather agreeable. I have a wish, and so it’s ok. But I’m afraid I’ll join them. I never wanted to be abandoned, they want to. They want to push me back. You’d not want me to lead them. I want you To lecture me at the ball. To watch them know how beautiful you are, And watch them show how serious is your lot. I never regret its variation or design. “What do I care,” I’m running through the play. You want me to let you know. How could I ever know the way that rain can pour? The rain, the people, the post-heels. My umbrella against clouds, my watch, my cup Of water in darkness. And if I come close to you in that hour When you know how a thousand souls are power And what call it fear? How many a thing is done by it? How many a thing is said by it. I leave the sky for the morning light. My bow down dainty and watery bright. I’m sorry for it, but I could not, My thanks to heaven I could not, My heart seems someone’s and my blood Is vanishing. Out of the meaning of this bird, Out of the meaning of this stone, ’T is nothing. My highway runs between sun and sun. Here, if I could just let him in I think I have a message, How I could pray. There’s a little girl as fits a parrot, Her eyes are very blue. ’Tis good. <|endoftext|> "Mrs. Hillbilly", by Thomas James Hutton [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers] If in a soft ======================================== SAMPLE 447 ======================================== "The Difficulty with a Tree", by Heather McHugh [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] We speak of importance as poetry, speaking of the long pull of the hissingular and hyperbole condition, burdened and shaping like ropewood. I saidin advance of the melons, even when it sounded ‘n’arrita’. They shouted when a top swimmer, ‘Play kick’ about.’ The melons listened. At first they knew where the thistle-stalk grew, delighted, pleased, and sang like a swarm of bees. They sang of the rainbow, friendly of increase, of repast, of the fish-cress, and breth, blessing, and beckoning of the loon, of the sundros too, alighting at dawn in his wee house of flowers. They drank and chattered like bees in their mothers, the mothers, the fathers, the fathers, singing, daffing and singing, delighting themselves in the honey of their vicar. And the sisters of them seized the tree. <|endoftext|> "John Eury dimensions ["Almost like a man]", by Heather McHugh [The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] The lean and he touches the edge of it, as if squeezed tight from the bottom of the sea, his body and back, as if it were a scythes, gestures, lines, coins, someone as loth to have open his eyes and think of it, as loth to have open his mouth and allow teeth to be named. The fat man’s voice is distinctly unnatural, as if in the middle of a dream he had spoke out in the dark of a dream: the oxen seem to have wakened, but only the seer can tell you the mysterious depths of his vision. He has seen the gods of the night, the white Aphrodite moving in the night, the Egyptian Aphrodite moving a god-goddess in lamplight, with a body feeble, and the eyes close. <|endoftext|> "Love Train", by Heather McHugh [Love, Romantic Love, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] There is a word speak of how it came in ======================================== SAMPLE 448 ======================================== "Mother Call", by Jonathan David [Living, Coming of Age, Growing Old, Parenthood] All night now I rub the covers with my fingers and brush the carpet when I open the paper and listen to the sound of feet that follow through the faint smoke of the cedar trees. I can smell their pounding, and think of their agitation, and think of a calm in the night, in the dawn, when a boy is listening to the song of water in the river, that they are so, and so unwearied still, with never a word in the ear among the dead and the heat. <|endoftext|> "Fishing", by Jonathan David [Activities, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] The sun is lighting over the edge of the ocean and touches the trees which look like they mansure at the same time, a kind of frigid smile. The sun heats the ocean impleasantly, but it is the sky in which the sea-god has made the ocean. Heaven fully blazes its palaces and islands, and only the sea which is itself can be compared with the sea. <|endoftext|> "Lonesome, Home", by Jonathan David [Activities, Jobs & Working] Today the sunlight teeters with its angry splashing: You who have been too young to scoop the sea-halls, green jacket worm root into the shallows, immersion next, living in a frail shell, sulphurous spit of quilled blood which the lucky bird struck out last night and meriting, expiated like the acid-poultaching metal wall. In 1963, his own native language divided by tall crabs, his own words more skilful than the cultured ingertic boundary collation of American thought. I have learned to master at least what estrangement is awaiting for the future. The Feast of the Water Fowl, the Tom Man, the Tom Man, the Tom Man with No tang until yesterday, in fact, the current. <|endoftext|> "Slave Sale: 1937", by Charles Reznikoff [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] when you ======================================== SAMPLE 449 ======================================== "Chekhov", by John Kinsella [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Poetry & Poets] The engraving uncountable, most intimate at the stupor of the deepest dingles in the world, pusins and spikes carved out of books chattering for the gods, deemed alien to any artistic taste. Weeks ago, a chattering male called for coffee—amongst ancient and rural greeters; and, his share being, among the waiting grasses, the chattering male fared to the barn and the leaping open fireplace. “These,” he muttered, “are the days of Lincoln! It’s better to be jocund with him, than to walk with him,”— here his pipe was placed, and, singing, declined in the hall, among the jeering minstrels. But the jeering girl drew near, and softly carried she a tin of beer, before she could remove the jug, and close the door. She stooped to drink, though she was startled; drowned her eyes, grown keen with watching, and the jeering stranger peered out, staggered with a struggle of indifference, a stranger to a world of rags—no longer of his own, staggering from drink. "I’m going to abandon you: I left you on the highway—yes, and now; The other hind who lap you like a ass; And you, unhappy and forsaken, who Have never seen the glistening of a cloud, Yet glisten white with nothing but the storm! And I am shaken, drunk with pity, I turn to my father the swollen drink again: Blue write with me you darkened night; and if I blarely flinch, the drink is gone, and then I sleep like water. So drink on,” he sighed; And, sobbing, the wine dropped; and he died. Cursed be the night you wait for me: So cruel the months, so drinking, dull, Those years of gleaming murder, and your love So barren of your love, that I must drain My home and other gods, before I win The ache of each to each ======================================== SAMPLE 450 ======================================== "Slum Stream", by Henry Lowly [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Separation & Divorce, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] No one’s at work today but you may learn to walk your fingers on rime-red velvet suits, on flat stone cards drying the rain like hummingbirds’ lungs. No one’s at rest now, his daily occupation lay with the welfare So let us raise this question, point at the sky’s own white dotage, what you are, and mark, the swimmers landing in a pool or swim on a yellow green tide; let us make answer, as the lovers of some dark-gold galleon in God-wrung waters, or flocks of sheep by thousands. <|endoftext|> "Scavenging the Streets: The Splicing Train has Worn Out", by Henry Ford [Living, The Mind, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I am the master-passion of the street, The locomotive station driver. I am a driver caught in the earthquake, The golden trap of wheeling bus tips. I am a driver blown on the trail, The laughing and giddy slowing of the wheels, The woman bound by rope to a gentleman Among a steamboat, cleaning the passage, a basin, the scooping over the side, The falling over the side, the sinking into the green slip, The spreading of the water, the multiple escape, All flowing, inevitable, over the houses. I am a driver stalled in a bus, I am a firebride gating the spokes, the shovels unevening, the spitting and squeezing, the ringing of wheels, the shrieking and shrieking, the smiting the bricks, The stretching of boards, the sawt'ringing into the blue-pulp of the road. I am the master-passion galing in silver, the sawt'sching and sweating, the screwing and springing axles, The coiling and screwing strap-up, the tightening and tightening, The groaning and boddleting wheelwork, the tightening and tightening, The never a stop, the never a check, and the tightening, In perfect middle-leging slip and trampscape, Obsequious racing and tumultuous, In loosen'd wind and steady drift, In loosen'd wind and steady ======================================== SAMPLE 451 ======================================== "Autumn Song", by John M'aulke [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Men & Women, Philosophy] It isn’t winter still in that season, or already.One has just enough kind nights to give, and drinks enough simply.Maybe the hove is sinking in the sky, the breeze sweeps through the trees, there’s a noise, I think, even more slowly, in the middle of of May, less sweet than was the message that I hear from the absent one, the bells I hear, the ecstatic lilt of the boy as he takes a walk on the tip of the garden walkway, the boy I know so well for his mother, his father the grey father, his father’s little dog, the one who was just a boy too, all his mother himself a cat too, a small basket, and the small boy too, so that I can depend on everything, the warmth or the light; that’s just right. <|endoftext|> "The Dogs Moved", by Solway De L stealth [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Pets] They wheeled and slid and darted to the right As two dogs spring toward a line. I could have hid them now, but when they leapt They trod a long slow slide and kept on keeping on. And when deep-thralled, they trampled toward the stones That overslap as horses break Impetuously, crushing some safe claims Along the shaded track, and there were two Others that, just conscious of their pain, Went up to me and tickled at the vein They trod. Yet not for long. Indeed, they carried something of their train And strode along the blurred suffused pane Until they stood upon a hill Where two small hills, like lovers, walked together, Packed slendered patches of the weather Along a summer evening meadow. Two lovers, beside themselves, were lying, And their pink cheeks pressed upwards. And the first of them, its head like a veil, Seemed warm beneath the twilight glories. The third, knee stretched aside, The three, knee set against the ground, Under the tree-boughsitated. The fourth, knee set, grew larger. The fifth, knee's rowded upright. ======================================== SAMPLE 452 ======================================== "To New York", by Louise Erdrich [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I. By a sparrow ledge, in order That my way may lead to To parallel my journey By no fault of mine: Alfred, I charge thee, As the way I seem to thee, setting foot on That’s my way, as I deem: Which, in greatness, as it Is the way, for a heart may, as it is, Be at war with fate, for then years of battle Shall be ours by right of it, as it seems now: Two-thirds of our day shall be wounds, as These shafts speed on, and our labor On our powers: the one is strong And deserving of the other, lead us, Fiercely, th’ unwearied still: ‘Tis the call of the blackbird That calls for the grim frog to come in. His path is a yellow leaf; and the hare Is swift as the wind when its prey leaps Through thickets of water. Til her teeth Are wolf’s flesh in winter froth. Impersonal The Russian hedge-fight is: that way It may, that way. That way, that way. But the way is always a shadow; and the sea ’s a night of passage. And the surf Of ocean, its loud bellowing, is roaring More sweet in its course than your groan Which the surf, with its ceaseless striving for port, Has still. And now as the dark everlasting deep Dawns, and the grey dawn’s fiery leap Is felt, that, though surf and winds be confessing Their warning, one thing is not dead. ’Tis a habit To be taken, with light given, and never For want of a pilot in peril, whose weapon Is the lightning, and wild hookèd hookèd hookèd boat; Whose claws are the lightning’s hands; whose hands the water; Whose waves are the wine of the heart’s tempest When they roll, the horn’s dumb stone. In that spirit, which is the sign Of ======================================== SAMPLE 453 ======================================== "Exodus", by Robert Browning [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The earth is a husk in the silence of space.The earth is a husk in the silence of space.I would I could forget how I loved you, the only one who loved you, who spoke when the earth spoke and the sea spoke and was stone. Rocked lightly, unafraid.I would I could forget your face, dear dead mother,I could forget my dead love, I could forget my dead love, I could forget my dead love. <|endoftext|> "Immigrant Song", by Robert Browning [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The entire world is the sky, and all the broad earth and all the blue sky are both full of song and youth and everything on this beautiful day. In this poem we find a rhythm. I miss you, but I do not care what I am for the battle. We are a poem each that the enemy may call our harmony, a poem each because the enemy is always there and watching there. <|endoftext|> "Echo", by Robert Browning [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Summer] The divine beauty of creation, exquisite in the glowing light, superb in the passion of the beautiful Summer. The innumerable shoots of the sun, exquisite in the tints of the exquisite blue midnight. His voice, like a rare gnome, caught in the secret of trees and lifted to the earth. It surrounded a singing space, like a heartbeat and the intricate patterns of the under-act, and, as it tightens a league away, the wind dipped in the hollow of the grass that grew from the asphalt. The song of life to itself trembling down to solitude. Torn, tangled, bewildering, huge, everywhere did the fingers blend those ignominious rhythms with our utter waste of song. Every thread of our darkness and of memory spread. And suddenly, and as the tremor of wings the infinite green came again, and we knew the lost gods each with its thin gnashing branches swirling back and forth with lightning, and the rent ======================================== SAMPLE 454 ======================================== "Belly", by Jennifer Michael Hecht [Social Commentaries] Breaking, smashing, shattering the right leg of a leg as the whole body is torn open and the legs are broken away to the splotch head and thumb and the grip. They let us go without words, two fat brown babies, one little girl breathing. Breake up high and cry six pated socks. The nosebleed dirt is pushed against the lumines. They hold them, baby. Belly away—belly up— the tear will not wash them. Belly down and shout "Cleap oh, boys!" as I take them away in my arms. <|endoftext|> "Wipe them" We were drought-comers. Now we deck our friends. Plant we footies or sift over blisters or slurs. Plant we feet for the wheat. And wagsters on caravans, climbing the groves of pine. Time was when our meteors honed in our midst on the floor, speed our path to the shore and light up the gray woods to be moored by the roar of boulders and waves. Now we're border to art and its source is the fist of Hamnites. We bring us back with us from the dead the grindstones and prowl and we'll plant old apple trees on the bottom and call dog tags for our own stupidies. <|endoftext|> "Homo Antarcticus", by Mark Rudman [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] —Such beautiful towns, such islands, such healthy, free, Hurrying with such music. I see them. —AFTER JO, AVERGMENT Come down by the swift stream, Back to the woods and hills, The dogs are a noisy pack, I love so many still as I love you,Even as you use to remember. And now I can see, Now I will take you to eat you. <|endoftext|> "The Great Longing", by Mark Rudman [Relationships, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] The great gold creature with the golden tongueWho poses to the giant in his suit,How happy I could be when I ======================================== SAMPLE 455 ======================================== "Sonnets for Five Seasons", by Matthea Harvey [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Romantic Love] Let me love, let me love, a dream slides by. The dream slides me down through a slit of blue. Let me love, let me love, a dream slides by. Let me love, let me love, a dream slides by. <|endoftext|> "The Statesmunitions of Supply", by Matthea Harvey [Activities, Jobs & Working, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] So, if you’re dead, there’s many a grave which waits for you to have it, for those who love you have no place who can’t destroy your memory as delusion, as lack of reason, as mere empty sparks of paper that pass into the minds of men a dead world on which no light has been released by your voice, your hand extended, will you give up this terrible delusion, all day? Your life? That life’s a need, you say — No, your actual sacrifice must have no relief, no relief, to go along the road, until you die. Every intention destined me to work a house, pick in the dish I fill the actual, pick in the trail, pick out the empty plate from the scrawled cloth, and it’s me I hold up the phone, the telephone, the joke the smoking business, baby at my breast, my mother at my side, her way to understand, them who come for what isn’t and will never know, these men who lived in their own people, who bought my house, who taught me the art of the art of how to make myself, you, what a craft just about to take in, who like a Puritan, plain, finality, hiding in the folds of my closed pot, knowing I could make this world and hit the windows— that’s how I know the city is my own as well, I sayYes, and it sounds like part of me, it sounds like personal death in things or something, it sounds like personal death in things. <|endoftext|> "45", by Matthew Zapruder [Living, Coming of Age ======================================== SAMPLE 456 ======================================== "The Siren", by Carolyn Kizer [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] You swim beneath your belly and the waves are breaking but never trust the ebbing tide or trust yourself in winds. You plunge through the wheels of cars, and fall head-sick with blood. Wind like cat blood the splashing waves. Wind like a drunkar in wine, and you swim for the sting of his wet soap. Wind like a goat cool in the misty air. Wind off toward breath, swift smoke blowing. Wind off, singing the sway of your body, and off, crashing as he plays breath, he has bit the beard of the shark, and from the cliffs of the cloud he has bit me and dealt me double edge. All I run to get my blow toward breath, hold my breath every time you drink life safely, you swim out of Life's sea. Wind, an iron will, slow smoke, a light that swirls free-blown, wild sea, a child of the o'er-waves. Wind, the surf whipping seaward past the white-faced island, the sea with its thousand eyes flashing in one damn sea-rimony. I have come to take and break my last wave offering me to weed off my last wave. Wind, the slow, eashing spray, the hurricane that tears my life off from my side, off. Wind swift to me from the blast of a death. Water, on the wide beach wall, a bay-flung comfort, the whale on my throat smelling of war; I swim in the long, dead sea and break in a dead year beside a wharf. Wind hard against the white blossom and salt from the lava flow. Wind as reef to the foam-clouds swoop by the low, black cloud. I feel my body rodden in the hot dust, and my soul steps through the waves and holds my breath there. Wind, I would have driven through this my struggling body in the tide of a love less terrible than death, never wear a smile, never have a heart to hold one ======================================== SAMPLE 457 ======================================== "The Moral of Native Language", by James Joyce [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity] I wonder sometimes if something really is really About how doth the air remain so long That only the chances of our voices make It too much trying. Or if by chance the horses of a larger model are bounded by distance and even The erratic circles about us turn the sunnys of their lives. Far down along a bright and rushing stream Our thoughts fly fast as ever the swifter and the fool Struggled and stood still. For we can only wait and not have Future or past or future. Or both those hanging ceiling and feeding up. Or both are sent to be. As sent Afar from their fault, but only in the state And in the company of good and evil, or rather Aaboutins newly Brigangled by knot-grass fettered Down through the din, no sky or distant thunderbolts, No road or pathway, no nor sound of bird nor goal, No open sky, no hope of anything. Let us be done, Let us be brave, let us be wise, our words Pass on our faces, face to face, not knowing That far and wide the air beams over us, but The hollowness we made, the sunlight and the world. <|endoftext|> "Invisible Fish", by Joyceamps Leading [Emerities] Now you are living Dead and lying on the slippery sand And seeing nothing but your master's hand Are the gods of stone you used to know And from the dirt you come to me I stand outside the sand outside the wind And wonder, looking from behind your eyes, As though it might not be, what it was You were born to be the sea And in the world of me the ocean And in the world your name and image Were stolen from me, and what they were They are and you are living I know the tale, I think you say And when I think of the mysterious sea The waves seem listening to the sea And the moon dropping one language Through the leaves of the hull of stars As though they understood that the whirling muffled waters May scatter and spread and return and return motionless As though they were a time of motion And ======================================== SAMPLE 458 ======================================== "The Monk in Santa Fe", by Valzhyna Mort [Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] It was dark in the great dark: the hatchet of a priest had removed. And he was beneath a roof, with apron of ash. His venerable face was rosy: like a ripe tree, the figure of Eros, of god spoken by the River della Dráneas. It was here he brooded, coining for berries and berries like a cave. Sirens of heaven: accordion upon the air, and his venerable hostess. Door to door, the house is silent, save for the clink of frost on the wall. The summer air is inviolate, save for the echo of pack truck in the fireplace, and he sees himself at the foot of his hilltoplooking down upon the vines, below which he can see regions of industrial art, below which smoke and the gliding of tents, in which he can see the backs of girls and boys entering the stone wall. Though he can’t see it, he is sure there is an ancient Comet who is wandering in the distance of want. He stops to notice it, then prepares a face for the waiting sign, the warning sign of the partial light avoids darkness. <|endoftext|> "Three Poets to One Black Book", by Valzhyna Mort [Poetry & Poetry] 1. THE MOTOR 2. THE MOTOR 3. THE MOTOR 4. THE MOTOR 5. THE FIRSTFOOR 5. THE ASSYEST 6. THE ASSYEST 6. THE ASSYEST 6. THE ASSYEST 6. THE ASSYEST 7. THE ASSYEST 7. THE ASSYEST 8. THE ASSYEST 9. THE ASSYEST 10. THE ASSYEST <|endoftext|> "Escape" (War)", by Valzhyna Mortna [Living, The impose of the Fixed in 1835, by C. D. Wright [Relationships, Social Commentaries, War] 1. THE ASSYEST 2. THE ASSYEST 4. THE ASSYEST 5. THE ASSYEST 6. THE ASSYEST 6. THE ASSYEST 6. THE ASSYEST 7. THE ASSYEST 8. THE ASSYEST ======================================== SAMPLE 459 ======================================== "Lunch", by Richard Newman [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Lip to lip, finger and finger, the slip That was my father in those days, in our house That’s what the years bring back, and what was his Wife and children still, from the tangle of laps Whereby his own name was: a record That says she lives inside him. And you could tell Those curious, you know, the stories of the house, Of birds and glass — and the wholesome smell That lingers in the furred wall of the house, The thin fishing spears, the swings Of cobweb hammers as they come and go Over the laced cretices, the sweep Of many a long silk sail and ochre mane. For there he speaks, issuing the voice and speech Of his forgotten line filed in the frame Of the great work-a-day, and it is done. And mine to hear, mine to hear in great vexation, He knows the half-for-a-while, the very next time. And there he speaks to me and speaks to me And makes me wish I saw him yesterday. There is a dimpled God whom all my life Unconsciously have lost, and now I see It was his will who made me mean to strive And to show such a sense that I could feel The blue flight of smoke curling in the light. And yet there is a tender pride which makes It blazon all I can, and I would have To be a courtier of the gods, the glass Which lies so deep in my unseeing eyes. And, as one prays, I pray to see the sweet Face of thy form, and hear the lisp of air That wanders at its smoothness, and behold The eyes, the hair, the floating eyes, the sweet face Of maidenhood and youth and joy and hope Lying together, tangled in the strands Of Love’s strong twine, the feeble tendrils. I Prefer to hear no more of love — I would draw My breath and think that I have won. For how could I have sped To reach down to the lowest place, the lowest ======================================== SAMPLE 460 ======================================== "The Barefoot Boy", by James Galvin [Living, Disappointment & Failure, The Body, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] Oh, the night is dark and very thick, And the same thing that I've buried in my back, Was,—that when I was living at the back I was called out, "the man is dead!" And my fingers clenched on my smooth palm-side, That it brushed me off with a sandy specks, Tore behind me on the zenith like a sail And afloat and fell to the right below. I am one of the black-and-my-self, With whom the world will disagree. I was born amid the waters that precede, The loud sea breaking the world’s sea-kiss, And the where and when of our father’s bones. Then I came among a dozen men And a woman was a child again. See yonder my sister’s only sister, And our father and the man who made the world, She will make it as great as he. Beach, peach, and black and brown, Will be the pilot for you. You will love her with a quiet scorn That is trifled with a crow’s song, And fade into a crack and ye can find What wind makes his feathers plump against; Ye will turn to your dead to love her well And ride at the head of the sailing cloud, And watch her bulk as she remembers not. Beach, peach, and brown and brown, Maid of Athens, river of my woes, Sharp on the hate ye can’t mourn, ye have seen my tears, And written on my brows their names, their lines; Yea, and placed on each other’s brows, Fresh as the dawn, as the day’s dawn.” “Yea, ’twas a battle! Tago Thetis faints, The Fates are fallen. They fade and are gone, But as a smoke they struggle and groan As they crowd their heroes, over the plain There is waved a wild-flower from the slain.” —They know ======================================== SAMPLE 461 ======================================== when age offers, highas High as Our Years, to one whose particular needs, Pray to them, lucky-friend! we are through with a career made so noble and so inviting, We are overtaken of invitation, reaction, personal liking, unfolding, Towards whose complicated and mighty bosom-comfort hidden at length The wise and the loving drop of unbroken faith, the kindly whispered trust. Make the most of your life. On your own world, there's nothing perfect, near everything perfect, That all of you, perfection one by one, you must have learned and done, From a humble way ofaring and a little bit of tin and bread; That you may have the feeling to be a strip of wood blown to your skin; Make the most of yourself when you the light begin, The passage that you've missed--that through the door is entered in. Make the most of your life, in wearing a form-sized life-beautiful cloak, In the weeds that you wear for a wife, you must carry a great deal of the beauty in aspens, (Your thoughts they can't help In anybody's card on.) Make it when you are in scrap, empty, dusty: so-so we see that you Take the girls as you've finished your heart's-sick, empty-souled and soft-shaven, Whistling a farewell to the boy you left alone in a dark dark, Where you heard the surfacing the breaker's face, and you saw the light breaking in flashes of roselight, and you saw the light on his gray hair waving above his chin, and that you saw his face, and that you were at his command, and that you had altered his disposition, Leave some justice to fate, In his hand Which he cherishes fate. Did he then give his heart to fate? Did he then fail? Did he do or do it? Did he know a man's part, Who's a fool to his heart? Did he make a poor man happy? Did he know the crown of life Was not bought by another? Did he know the saving art Of a new outlet-pole? Should he trust his fortune to me? Or shall I, the bootless coward, Take ======================================== SAMPLE 462 ======================================== "The Epigram Snive", by Robert Haight [Living, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] “A crowd was passing in the street”, — the martyr died; and many, as they wended their way, Took a cab cars new-made by themselves: and I — “And so did progress,” thought the two, and to their front Led the long order of their great event; and as they ate Peculiar viands, I beheld both citadels, and beech trees, and the dust That turned the homeward course, unmoving and untilled, unwrilled For us, the house-dog, and the midnight car— And so “All” portioned out in order,” did they say; And as “There” stood in the corner there, a square of pine-wood sluice And a coarse pine-branch, and the whole end of it,’s a night meal Of glittering stones and smoke and tares that clotted by its end The feeding ducks, and only yet the fish can talk beneath The shade, the wind, the flame. All their unknowable wealth of things— All their clemency—of days, of nights, of days, of days— Stored together, they were like to eat and sleep. And sometimes wine—the rarest and the best— Saved them, and they enjoyed it. Not a leaf, Save what made their eyes glad, glad and hopeful, by the stars! And then their nap was short, and they lit up On the dark ship, that knows no oars, no bows, no wrecks, no crew, Only a cry from out the darkness and the night, nothing to fear, nothing to fear. One says “Mare, was this thy master’s bane” was what she used!And then one knows “star”—where, who’s to say?— The rest, the dreamers of the clouds—that such a dreamers who come here shouldn’t know; And yet who knows what’s here can tell to many a one, or several, at the door. But none of these, though gay and young, shall ever know of me: It’s true ======================================== SAMPLE 463 ======================================== "1 January 1965", by Joseph Brodsky [Living, Death, Growing Old, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Winter, New Year] DecemberDecember 1965 All the names I can tell are there: Gardez: A prints through the Salzaga, Chezaga, and secrecy. All the names I can tell you of in the evenings when The long evenings are over and gone; I have no answer, and look down, and look Perhaps. But there is a star in heaven, Which means more. By the radiant decree of the God of the sleepless, Who lies with the women of Urpluna in the night. <|endoftext|> "from Citizen: “O little book of God” (1242)", by John Milton [Living, Death, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Sciences] God made man, a god of the senses, a god of love, Mankind made immortal. He did not say “God is beautiful, nothing can vex it,” He commanded, “God is possible,” But he did not, he was a sinner. God made man through a cloud of dust O’ my feet. And had made him a mirror, I know not, he could not see, but only He saw God and felt that I saw nothing. And therefore he said to himself, “God requires music, song, music, and all is the same “Hollow or not.” Then he added rejoiceably that he began “art might resemble God” And added an ecstasy so high you could drop The dead of the soul from the sky.” O little book of God, And so I have left my mind entire, But my place in the midst is vacant. O little book of God, We sleep in the coal that eats us, But light and love use in sleeping, Not caring much what might happen next, We hang there night and day. I want to be gentle as a kitten, And as gentle as a cat. And to play with thee, little baby, And snatch thee from Time’s scullery. ======================================== SAMPLE 464 ======================================== "The Third Meal", by John Balef [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism, Memorial Day] Now that you're here the trees have all been cut and bruised and soiled, and like a brick, the sun has hit you; and the melon, not the nightingale, is left to singe. There is a patch of sunshine on the place, a cover of clouds on sheets, and there are stains on everything; not dust much less than dust, and nothing much less than true, and you may look upon this well-wrought shack of fir-trees on a summer's mounded earth. This world that is and that which is we are is one, unshrined, uncaressed, uncaressed; and where, O, in this vast hall, have you put into this place not only of our bodies but of strangeness, but of our parts more or less, As those who look and pass on us must know the Adam in the Adam-the-Toxity, in our wedeness. This little room, this boot up there, this room is why they are smothered in, and why they are caught there in an hour. <|endoftext|> "Asking to Pay Ex-E'S sorry Loathouse: Elephant", by John Balefin [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Health & Illness, The Body, Nature, Animals] The sparrows are a system; it is everybody's griefAlways to suffer pain, now nothing can be found Askew about their do; and sometimes a fat cocotte is refused to sell.About the subject everybody's grief Is set down as an executioner's role.The cocoons have been refusing to make things any better.Now that the master has finished all there is to learn, I offer you a small reminder of the kind that can and do will not make disappear yet. Since you went into the house you may wonder sometimes if You have heard a word I uttered in the deep, chipping a giant and grasling chattering to make a sound. The mouse that stands on the window, the King of Doves Learning that a person of no sort has become a sound, a spin in a voice, and the Fool that walks faster and faster through the room, where you might listen to the history of the beast. You may say that You saw it with a tear. I would see the ======================================== SAMPLE 465 ======================================== "Descending Rising", by�ianos con-celebrated me with inviting sound we were told the curiosity is crossed, in obtaining they’d go not far ahead. we embrace them without leaving a trace. they’d whisper to themselves before they knew it. one by one they coiled their thousands into the thick wood, then led them to the trees they’d dearly bequeened. they made it a hard one, so that every one could tell the people who heard them tell the strange story. they jostled them into themselves, giggled for smiles from all we had before we realized them. we marveled at the strange display they make sometimes, so that the longer they are, the more they are not ours. a child who always speaks out something that’s winning through one (to say it is to say it is terrible). the boy who speaks out really, can only reach the tree. <|endoftext|> "Philosophans", by Nikki Giovanni [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] 1fat faut son tergo bident!, hunt for prey, so that when your throat is bloated, you don’t answer to what is really someone calling, even if you will be silent, that is the question: Which is the one? The other two? Land is of rust (it may have boky mensummer plums). Band-majama. The right? The wrongconstant. Nature? The right! (she shakes her head and beckons me). God or the femurity. He’s not inside, I think. The right ? (I dream about the three) I don’t ask permission, but I admire the freedom, the freedom which is freedom to be in love with someone whom I love as my own tantalose friend—that which does not—because it is too coarse a proceeding to unhinges in his way, but which is not in him. Here is everything to see how body-all moves, how to each step for survival. Each step is obviously peat and indiscreet. Without it, what is the normal act? Thus the magnetic force resides in the boy’s arms, the magnetic force which he unmingles when he takes it and then, in ======================================== SAMPLE 466 ======================================== Beauty is the song That makes the soul dance long; The sea-lark defloweth His love-song with his throat; The nightingale, even Enerteth, fully knows His full-toned, full-throated And matutinal bosoms stoop To kiss the sweet dream-broth. But blest the child Whose soul finds no rest; The poet's soul is one Of the immortal things, And glads it with his rhyme, And they who tell of the poor tomb Leave it to men who find Nothing of heaven, and save Just wisdom; but their souls Be with them still, And still refined A lovely sense of things That make earth beautiful; And they who seek to give, If that they deem, ere death Yield not earth's fruits and flowers, May give them of her showers As pledge of a supernal love; As far as earth, As stars that wait for heaven One perfect, more sublime; And that no part Of earth is in the star And the sea's heart; but their love Happles like blood where waves Break ever, and no tune Can touch the soul's. If music's thrill Should come with love, yet love Till all is o'er, is but Love's melody, and no bliss But that of life in this. <|endoftext|> Sweet Love! I know thee lying Wherever I am hying, My charm is all thine avow'd For here among the dead. And yet I was forbid To meet thee, sweet, forbidden; I know thee, Love, I greet thee, Thou lingering star, whose rays Sparkle and warm like roses Upon the path of my that goes. Fly to these mansions where there are No walls to outward cheer; Unfix your wings, Love, here. But if my voice to-day Come like a tide, come like A bird, whose love is fled, Fled toward thee, and to-day I will be gone, or else I'll be dead. Flow on, sweet stream, and by yon bright star That in the western skies upshining Doth like a wand ======================================== SAMPLE 467 ======================================== "Hustle", by Thomas Traherne [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] Her name is Sara. Gladness Sweetness Waning Naught Only adrift Only pursued Only pursued Only pursued All these tears All these years All these years Only pursued Only pursued All these years All these years All this as here All this traditions All these All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All these traditions All with traditions All with traditions Time was a piece of woman Now is a box on which is lying, In which is other pieces of the hands Of many doctors, some on many lands, Some in their svachywog and needles, Others in corpse-cases And several opposing tribes of Israel May come in bodies six feet square. In Egypt, the tomb is compassed by the sea; In Egypt, are left at the same time White whales on dead fish, and upon land The whale one may see, feeding his feet. One says, “Beautiful Babylon is right!” One says, “It was never born to me.” Another says, “When you spread out thine arms And when do thy daughters look like a baby? Tell me how they like you, come here!” A little above my shoulder my long shadow Rested there. Then something to look at seemed ease. I knew my walking would hurt me. But with the whole thing lovelier I don’t make any noise at all. <|endoftext|> "Isaiah Halleck II. Lippi", by John Haines [The Body, Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landsc ======================================== SAMPLE 468 ======================================== Her face is a rose And her lips Are the violets blue And the hawthorn buds And the grace of the rose, And a fragrance Blew over her clothes When the wind blew out From the fields about, From the fields about, From the fields about, They went with fighting Through the shepherds' fold, Through the wide and the milking barn, Where the shepherds came, In the spring of their singing, Through the red-roofed weirs, And the sheep in the byre Followed birdling wise, For three and two To murder a man And with one will die. With weeping She is trodden down A mile or more In the red dust that Is scattered She is carried down. Her body, 'tis furled, And she hath settled wise, For three and four Carrying but one tooth She is carried in. Her works are parcel of the world; And she deems them all begun In her mind for to-day That her small mouth a place So rudely doth bite And lie with her weak back In the sun That thinned itself once The grass is over them To drink therein, over again. Through the broken taking of sky and seas, Through the cataract of a city drained Where men collect drinking and meat is made bright There is someone above, for the spirit is white There are tropical plants, and the nation is sure There is something beyond them, A something, underneath there, that in the flesh. She is the drug for drink, It is cloudy and hot, it is cloudy and hot, For then to stand at my feet there is chaos. The people at the doorways cannot come in, The flame is quenched, and the light shimmers in it. Below the footlights the carols no longer sing Because it is transfigured and burned up in gold. Benign, queenful, the maritime liegeman looks, The prince is wrecked, rowing forever in his blaze. Her defender's club is a Viking shipwrecked. I saw the ship sail slowly Her topsail began to spout into the grey. Then I saw the sailors, three on the watch out of ======================================== SAMPLE 469 ======================================== "To Ev’ry Youngest of the King", by Joanna Fuhr [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] In Dublin Street a cat class lives alone in cold rooms and none of the young chateau let alone on the ice cream and each one of seven listen just for the kernelpuffs exhale but also for November Rector’s beer enough and some of the oldest cousins at Redden school of Linspurs And the first and wisest of all the others at Greenden cathedral on Monday morning in the winter time he climbed Green into the nape of the barbed ocean about six inch wastes with Penn and many smaller fleas escaped the umbrage of the chapel walls and flapped the swag of the ocean until the steadiers in front of him shouted Harry Giglard who was sneaking on the floor so he could trip down and gaze across the yard with his father and think of how his arm made a fall and how he came up to forty pounds and was caught in the net of rules while Thomas and John and the way the rain rumbled down in the winter of 1979, he had to run until he was loaded and Peter and Richard and the way he always shouted “I was seven,” and got killed alive while living in Paris before the Melbourne Campion died and then they all came down because the rest stayed out for ten years and got back to tell Joe he’d don’t feel the flailing off of their arms. <|endoftext|> "Goodbye", by Patricia Spears Jones [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Under the knife I made her fifthly of a promise, seven heads, but no heads: seven heads: but no heart knew I finally to find her heart, happy in the wreckage of a warswe should not give and no would be found to give; therefore the widow came and gave promise, seven heads, and eight necks, and ten horns hung down against ten horns. Be mine to see her, the poet, in the double top and standstill in the middle passage (if graciously Grace may promise that), the way she sees a relicgium the ======================================== SAMPLE 470 ======================================== "A Strip", by Leslie Adrienne Miller [Social Commentaries, History & Politics] There are those who salute the new nor suspected black cantages of history, waiting with careful eyes to see which day their generation is. They know the lantern is going down in the village of Chicago. Its light is still hanging from the steeple. Its office now theChildren farting even out of reach to leap with hope something will come from the old school. A few men then have seen its grime, but now they think it is a social crime even before death. The story I tell is a sad and mournable lot. It is the city of sin and character. A funeral trains and train, a daily explosion, a look, an act, a curse, a promise— and memoria. <|endoftext|> "Flow", by Leslie Adrienne Miller [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, God & the Divine] Who orders the Seas to the Land that is read by waves into outer air. —Passing vessels to shore, the ship of the Pharaoh— on her oars! Out of sight of a sign in heaven’s splintering shore floating as fable and song. A tree in the clouds, the tree of the Shraps not far from the waters. Who whispers in heaven to man on earth to place a constellation to guide mankind to the Ship of the Ship? A tree in the clouds, the tree of the Shraps not far from the shore of the Children’s Book of Children Is written across the waters when men and women leave their callants to devour it. Is a law unto men that the Law can send down on so many, so few, so many, so many, from one who invoked the sun. It is written in Heaven that the Glorious One, Lord of All, Creation, Harvest Child, bearing the seed of the Earth, will plant Thy feet in the soil of the Just, bearing the light of Eden. <|endoftext|> "Song", by Carolyn Kizer [Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Men & Women] When the King had enough cages ======================================== SAMPLE 471 ======================================== "Under the Light Church, Still Burning", by William Blake [Living, Death, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism, Engagement, Memorial Day] ’Twas as when the light’ning flamed, while thousands ran to make demands to the mighty—the mighty who would not obey—and the nations, upborne on many a mighty pin— Had leaped to their seats: And their shouts had tolled ’Mid the music of the chariots which drew the van thrumble of the world. Through the gates deserted of mercy, and shattered through adamant, and amid the maimed, unhelped shades of the foe, they passed to their rest or couch: Bearing in hands alliance without mercy, without pity; condemning terms offered by wrongful death, Painting the fountains of life in the cradle, giving light to the dead. And there were the children of the city: some lay down at their tasks, and some O’er the dark earth, in sorrow’s night of darkness; others slept; others, as for grief, Even while they were listening for the departed: the few who were left of them, Of their own kin, lost in the Chaldean water; Of their own mother, the Chaldean. From the chaldean Chaldean Grew the fathers drink of the Chaldean Chaldean wine; Of the Chaldean Chaldean vintage and Khidamek, And the beautiful and unmaded wine, and the grapes By the rude-caric sea-shore, when Khokha walk’d upright, To greet the god-words: “O thou that hast led us, Great god Pan, to the mountain’s brow, and bless’d With fruit and roots Is the river-valley— Even as thou seest, it is thou art the god: The river-god thou seest, The god whom we have given the wise collars Of the blue heliotropes of heaven: Mneme, we have offer’d thee gold; The king’s daughter Lene faintly visits ======================================== SAMPLE 472 ======================================== "Last Time", by Joseph Millar [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] Nothing is so dear to me As to keep the one I love; Nothing so active but it should Not let me languish long. The pain I envy merits not But have the wormy spot; Something so true but does seem strange, Seldom to mention one. Well, I should like to be where joy Is not the pleasant past; Where I can spy the tenderness That clothes itself each wythe. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet 138: My heart is very mean", by William Shakespeare [Love, Classic Love, Realistic & Complicated] My heart is meanly likened to the stone That is for others favored; In place, not favor shown, It doth excellently be blamed, And all who do it blamed. It may reproach, or I more vainly seek To paint it as I am, But yet unlike a dream I seek Until my griefs accommodate; I do but dream that in moments blest I'll still remember Thee. <|endoftext|> "A Valediction of the Book", by Robert Herrick [Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] Look in my heart, though it confused may seem, And how this love within me must atone, Because I am not therefore in the scheme, This love at all is why I am not thrown Upon the book of Common-sense, That other love which, I believe, is lone, Because it can but circle earth with one. Mark me, because I am so used to range, Mark me, because I am unworthy so. Why, this mere love of all things void of use, Which, had it language for its utterance, Might set me free from love's encumbered abuse, And keep me even co-loved and penance-cance? Would it might come, were it not said one hour, Well might the love be, when it comes to stay. Mark me, because I am the house, and see Its lordlings and its women, misery: Then catch me, lest some lesser cruelty, Driv'n to my tongue, thy pitying eye ======================================== SAMPLE 473 ======================================== "My Ma", by CM Burroughs [Love, Relationships, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] My Ma, by instinct is my God. In him, I see All the inexplicable joy of the New West, The friendly joy of all I have to give My Ma to know my love is yours and His To know I am of all the world to live. And when I bring her home she does not fear. Her soul cries out to God for her and cries out To the Lord’s help, “I know you do not love her.” And thinking of the sacrifice of life Is just a mother’s longing, like a mother’s crying For another’s embrace and another’s obloquy To nurse her children. And suppose I get my Ma Some other little girl would put in hand And lead them home, would bring them to a land Where two white women in a night time cry, “God save us, little girl—” And end their speech by giving and denying For bodies to sustain their souls’ insanity. And what with anything is left between Seeing and to miss, but that it is a part Of all we say and act. And what of dread? My Ma, my God, my Dove, my Sweet One, crying out From the black height where all lives black are black. That is my God, my Sweet One, crying out From the black height where all lives black are black. <|endoftext|> "Recollections of the Christian Synemaker", by CM Burroughs [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] Recollections of the Eastern Mississippi, Rebotten, spiteful, turbulent river, reported God, to whom our Bible is given, who speak the tongue which told the time of prayer. We say to Moses, we to you, in stillness, Our prayers ring out the way the word is given Till the last generation of the day awaken. We say to give the sun a belly feed. To lead you, Israel, to what we give our tribes. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 474 ======================================== "Candy", by Adrienne Su [Living, Coming of Age, Philosophy] When I was a boy I cared a fig, so I gathered seeds and set them a store, settle the bark of the oak to remain unleashed and safe during the storm. Such a busy world is a measuring-stick not much more than a child all my days as a feather unplucked by the hand of the hand. I am shaken by the thoughts that are beating in my brain like black wings that can fly straight when borne by the feet of the wind. I sit on the battered pane to watch turn away from the wood to recover myself. It is over. I am hot— I will not put my arms about the child. <|endoftext|> "Candy", by Adrienne Su [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] When the woman, being dressed, ended the alarm-bell tolled out for her life, there happened a terrible tawdry time. People watched, she was frail and easily made. They put their hands into their shirts, looking like a great family of men who will never have to go to town. They meant to carry freely. Their hearts bolt-freely put up in the wagon. Their backs are free. They pack packs, back and forth from the pack, back and forth. I have seen the black men don’t see how the pack could be driven. I have known their arms and legs. <|endoftext|> "The Wind Turn", by Major Jackson [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Weather, Religion, God & the Divine] Every morning, I lay down and look at the orchards, the orchards looking like moles, I sign the grapes on a thin branch, in front of the lawn, The vines hanging down from a tree like every white apple. I saw the whole land should go dry with rain and make you cough, I walked dry in the fields, thinking, I said, to ======================================== SAMPLE 475 ======================================== "Tell Life", by John Keats [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes] Tell life’s swift wingsWe soared, and crashed through airy ruin:Swift flight, loud thundering, terrible,Swift, bursting, ceaseless falling,--then, swift, we saw,We saw, we knew, the Eternal deliverance,And climbed the Eternal vale, and found Him, and with Thee, baby. Where had fled The King of Glory unpainted,Risen in splendour on the immortal Throne Where naught but sky and splendour are Thine eyes, and only thee, World, Mother? <|endoftext|> "Three Hundred Thousand More", by Edgar Lee Masters [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Well, many weary days have been my lot,Since I forsook the cheerful scene forgotAnd left my aged mother, In such a world of woe and ill.What may it be? While on a wandering course I walked,At ten o’clock upon a night of wind,While darkness overspread the vale of light,So many countless stars, with deep descends,Inviting to my view:Before me are the gloomy shores withdrawn,Where melancholy wood and grassy boughs invade,Where nought disturbs the thick'ning shade:Give way, my friend! and let me lead The settled midnight close and all between. <|endoftext|> "Telling the Bees", by Edgar Lee Masters [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving] Sleep on, gentle Powers! and in thy slender bed Ocean would lie, and with him Fortune lead In murmuring murmurs listening to my lay: But timely Sleep, descending steals my flight, Winds in the bubble of the clouds from sight. Lo, in the midst of glad, voluptuous morn,How sweetly tremble in the noontide ray Sun-steeped, winds-rous as flowers! unthought of morn, While bright the Eternal rose hangs calmly white,I mark its glories and its loveliness unite:-- Poor mortal sight!—but heaven is kind and bright, And dewy dews fall soft upon his eyelids: and there are Singing birds, by him, even the thrush ======================================== SAMPLE 476 ======================================== "Peace", by R.J. Istanbul [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Under the tree shaped for my journey I have to pass and look again. Will the peace be mine the day I shall see the Lord— I will join His company. <|endoftext|> "Peace It is Their Grief", by R.J. Bahamas [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] Peace it is their Grief That broke on every mound Which, kindled in my breast, Myself with grief must haunt. Peace it is my Grief— Comforting, kind contrition, prayer. Peace it is my Grief— God-sustainingPeace it is restored. And from my bosom torn By anguish, grief’s worm, too, fed By its own strength, the Lord. Peace it is my Grief— The bitter cry of agony, The cry of agony, The Heart that cannot see. Peace it is my Grief— The bitter cry of agony, God’s answer it can give. <|endoftext|> "Sending the Blackbird", by R.J. Jarrett [Nature, Animals, Spring, Weather] Snow. Rain. Clash together. Clash together. Clash together, Clash together. Clash together together. Clash together. Clash together together, Clash together, Clash together, Clash together. Snow. Sending the blackbird and blackbird, The summer wind blows on the elm leaves Trying to scream, and crying, I notice something stiff and cold: I notice something stiff and dead. Clang of bird and clang of bells, Clang of creature under glass, Clang of bells and clink of steel, Clang of boots shut in the elm, Clang of baby under coal, Clang of boots shut in the elm, Clang of men upstairs in a house, Clang of boots shut in the elm, Clang of steel shut in the elm, Clang of boots shut in the elm, Clang of bells to cockatoo, ======================================== SAMPLE 477 ======================================== "Talk of Me as a Man", by William Blake [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] A Poet am I making, with no words Without an idle word. I like a verse Too rough to be heard, where silence kills In universal throat and living breath. Of old I made myself a mute god, now As dream of numbers in life’s golden haze. My wine I filled enough, a goblet filled, Fed it with inspiration, passionate To live the instant death in me, and rouse The silence, making words of music live. The earth is a goddess, naked in the dew Of time, and heard by stars. Out of the deep There rises an elusive and visionary cry, More powerful, for greater realms to open. The birds are fugitives, they leave not where Is all their urgent ecstasy. Their rest In the soft budding woods. Their summer tents In the long grasses that keep greenish trees. The ocean only is a golden oriole. Beneath my feet the bushes, whose still leaves Peep o’er the hemlocks, pour into the leaves Like lovely sapphires, when the thunder peals Louder and louder through the stilly noon. Oneiza is a Lesbian, and she longs For me to hear her words of tropic warmth. Oneiza—and she thinks of me, her kiss A bag of pieces torn from flower-like arms. I kiss her lips, my soul immense and crushed! I kiss her cheek, I kiss her golden eyes. I kiss the fragrance from her lips, and grow A fresh array of sweetness through the days. I seek diversion in the sacred woods, And grow essential with the mysteries The forests only know. I need to find The tilth and fuel that have been for me. I find the gleam and glory of the lights That fill and blossom with their sapphires bright. I dream of battles and the glorious nights That shall be ours through which no more specious Or hungry bullets, seeking the best food That may be found. I stand ======================================== SAMPLE 478 ======================================== "13 December ", by Sam Riviere [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Winter] If  you come with your animal heart you need to feel the dark, the cold. If  you tear the dream from your chest, give it some heroic station. We’re all in everything: the trail, the wheel, the ride, the race. The aim: to race, not kill our time. You’ll be grafted to another’s. We’ll be putting all this time in your season of display. We’ll allow the wing to soar, the race, the flight, the power. We’ll have the sun to borrow and you won’t be tested in a treat. You will feel no coral thread, so arrive nailed. You will be exhausted to tight, hungry: a rope. We will walk to the desert: you will be exhausted of course at night. 3 Our fourteen bags a month, no load left on the air. When we came back, you were hanging anyhow so you might flutter here and there in front, snow floating in an icy rain, so that by wire of sleet we could be unharmed anywhere. Someone will grab you. That’s when you had been unwilled. Someone will show you your texture, and you won’t have unwilled anything to learn or to understand. 4 The swamps are turning yellow. Last night, you were driving through the snow. Someone will pick you up. Someone will pick you up. Once there was a queen a queen, a queen, and there we won’t be seen. 5 Leaving behind The blacktop damp, the breaking of the telephone. When the mountains snowed and had begun to roll, snow capped, slow-pacing, over the grasses odd of fallen willows. Gnomes lunged, gumps of winter-polished cold. The swamps ran out. <|endoftext|> "And the Moon itself", by Sam Riviere [Living, The Body, Nature, Animals] If you can tell anyone who got back home, whether you set ======================================== SAMPLE 479 ======================================== "In the Culture Sleep", by Tom Clark [Living, The Body, The Mind] For 1995 It won’t give you the intelligence of swallowing a sound like gutted fat. Like that. It’s a fetal thing in a computer strip. Like solos at the back of a Activities. With a lone force. Like smoke that obscures a corpse. Like breaking the coffin, a whole person learns how to use a whole body. Like taking a cold page from the page, a sheet of soap or a pinch of salt. Like hearing a sound like a well. Like dwelling in a field lined with dandelion seed. Lening, mellow. Like waking, suddenly remembering. —Polly would feel small in the words I’d said to my friend the engineer: Five pumpkins from Champ Soil blurring in assorted dew. He’d said they’d found that painting too fine. We’d sat on a three-cornered calico when a child. Desire was a kind of grief. He shared ratio with fatigue at the funeral levels underneath the vines. He shared the rain with my friend the next morning. For months we had stayed in imbecilicences without talking. I rattledmy underwear on the navy and whatever was possible remained, suggesting a flannel satisfaction. Its owner passing night after night feeding fish with his hand on the kerosene. We missed the actual empty cities like workstuffs and particles stitched together. Lost the return home and found taut at first a hollowed out four doors. The man a credit traveler when he wrote the letter hoping to find the city. Lost the hand the elevator operator wrote of a summer day. Lost even a sentimental signature extended to buses passing day after day for weeks on the routes the agitated weeks away. Lost the day we took the hot train to Soon Lost A Room in Royal Tom’s room on the van another door won’t close. Lost the favorite things we wanted to find on hot cars. Lost the first train. Lost the self-reception. Lost the soft hour of dusk. Lost the soft hour that lit the oil baskets. Lost the glass that turned the window on someone new. Lost the train that used the other way. Lost the train that now used the third grade a vacation. Lost the chance to find chlorine. Lost the glass so as not to be empty. Lost the glass so as not to be empty ======================================== SAMPLE 480 ======================================== "Girl with the Blue", by Merrill Leffler [Living, Life Choices, The Body, Love, Desire] I am waiting, trying to decide, I have just been there. It is too late now: the chase is over, you linger in the nebulrio, still the unchanging vesper, still the wholecalling the covers— what's one for the love of someone else? There he sat and got the veined shoes, went into the dogwood, the fume, the ripped, talk of the dogcart in snow dropt, snowed bolts from the exits, spielings from snow. He didn't have a smoke left out next door, it was just coat, hip lock. There was a neon punch store, he read something for his third on the internet, nothing of clouds can be prettier than he imagined, on both sides the burning lines, picnic and statue, both, the wives in their swoon, dress all gutted, the children squatting at the door, the stragglers waiting on a platform, the brash of dishes, the noise of buses blaring, the rattle of buses tramping out of the closed, how the dogs don't cry out, hold them fists and hemps, bray them couricles and call them cabins, stick them out to town, watch them as he picks his easy chair and the evening arrives. Bones are for necklaces, cribones for sleeprooms and things to eat. He is telling the gallows-foot soldiers how he keeps them mid-way down the creeks, plays his ponies on the team, thumps them with the whimps, yelling how the rooster fights his peers, pouts them firewood hoisting his guns. There he plays the brazen brides of denim, and everybody marvels as he seeks this horse with his ears and flanks. It’s a happy day, no one ever toiled or fed, the wheels hum, the harness’s gleaming, the harness’s red and blue, still there is work now, they are going to end. <|endoftext|> "The Last Son of the World", by Wallace Stevens ======================================== SAMPLE 481 ======================================== "Welcome", by Todd Boss [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries] Let us go; let us go; the sun is high: The Papa of the sky is lord of me, I see his light go up: look at the sky; Through the thickets let us go; I see him too, I see his light go down; I see him too. The little garden with its passionately estuaries Of golden yellow flowers and willows, blossom-pecks, And reeds emblossed in regular sun-chatter; The birch, the beech, the maple and itself, the lilac; Along the folding road where even hedges grow No one is happy now at all: I meet my corner-stone. Facing the western window, slant upon the snow, That shining yellow light, the folding grey of mist, Seems hardly to express the general taste Of orange-pebbles: and yet, among the trees, And fences with their grassy twilights thick as this, The fringed Velarde and the Duke's inexplicable Tweed, alone, amid the summer-glimmer glass, Among the fir-trees and the dappled Cross, From which the Lady-of-Arcady looks down With over-gazing eyes, and turns to me, Not caring if my eyes are there where she is, Not caring if I am, nor why she is! She seemed a sybil, singing to the South, The local arbiter, the chum who sings At Wencesdare, the Roman, Thackeray's nurse, The arbiter, the judge, the High-lighter, Who signs the world at last in heedless rhyme. ON the small square the double-colors spread Their boughs in beckoning sunshine thick and hot, And see him gather yet the brown and black, His elders leaning to salute the sun, The few, the poor, who try the post of Rome, The latest, and the strong, and many, who To take that little half-way, come to die. The peasants, anxious for the square, the gutter The brown, the old, the snowy, practised whistle Calls for their anger. After goes scampering again, the way Is ======================================== SAMPLE 482 ======================================== "How She Went on Lovecery", by John Greenleaf Whittier [Living, Death, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Romantic Love, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] How she came on, weary, and long!I lay in the arms of a giant, full of wine.The spirit of music came over the hillsAnd sang, and over therhoughs and gold,And sang to us over the sea, and we sang to the wind,And sung till the darkness fell;And as it grew, and as it grew,We sang till the darkness fell; And as it grew, and as it grew,We sang till the dawn of the New Year. <|endoftext|> "To a Mountains of Song by the Disused", by John Greenleaf Whittier [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Spring, Philosophy] The friend returns from the Winter of old:The winter is over and cold;No flowerets have blushed for anoint,No summer exicts are tawed,No Sons of Pleasure lament hawking the groundFor stricken men tearing their thumbs(1) and tearing Themselves with their stalwart bays;They have been dragged down the hill By the loud uproar of the days.Friends, the Spring is beginning to swell,An end that is soon to be known:Earth soon shall clothe the naked groveIn beauty of holiday.The fields now lie green and were green;No longer is her distressThe season will wane,With the last of the light of the sunniest day;The Spring has returned to possessThe same fair face of despair;The World has come and we come,And who will be always the same?But where is the rose of the sky?O lost, lost to all memory!Friends, in whose embraces we lie,Unburied, and more than forgotten,The dead face ofollen hands. <|endoftext|> "The Trees", by John Greenleaf Whittier [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Trees & Flowers, Mythology & Folklore] 'Twas evening good and the air was warm.The tall poplars were leaning their green storms bare,But today and its beauty has taken its placeIn the sky, ======================================== SAMPLE 483 ======================================== "Requiem for Beares", by Kay Ryan [Nature, Trees & Flowers] The rain has gone overthe vesselless valleys of what’s nothappenishyet another onehas arrived. At one hour the little thunderstormsheave both snow and iceand the beautiful swift rain is flippedand touches the thirsty ground.The heavens appear to disappearso the cold,so the fresh air is lightso rain moves throughpersed in spirals.Through the cedar’s branchesThe wind blows and the rain runs. <|endoftext|> "Despotem", by Kay Ryan [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] So be itso we abt radifigundum library if not put propertyas a statistican fuselage of ironyand irony assailing usand unstinthe way of who we arethat in a real fists required conversationis an intellectual weapon.3. "Probingence against Latin" meaninglessone fesh (Gzmiel, “Sphinx-Morse) tus cobras extendere dotis. Why notto do these prostrate and desperatearatri sollemnaeenolucer.To be propped upfrom a soar. How patient. Those prows in their kegelinga walk. This argument, wildly written by a British Jewart,or not, Rajah livins. Instead,of a British kingknighten who opened the treaties. Before beginning is hunt Ledae, Perswasavigalia. From Persie <|endoftext|> "The Erecture", by Medbh McGuckian [Religion, Christianity] As night makes out the morning,a cloud shits loose on its wayback to no end.Radiant, virgin ether...the first rumand preuxus slip from our world into our guts.Or we are sojourned on dune churchjoked knees, knees without numberas we toss to the podium, purer and accoutred like space boats at anchor. Like water nerveless, even Plato, walking to her feetwith stiff, straight-shouldered knees, be soldiers. Or they are sent flying together like lovers,pointing at last to noisier meanings, tomorrows more benign than civil, the studied monotonyof time, which we enclosed, on breathing.Edmundus could hardly saythe French numbers masturbating here, but our ======================================== SAMPLE 484 ======================================== "My Father’s Birthday", by John Hazard [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, The Spiritual] 1 Our toes dig into your palm, Our fingers trench the wood: The half empty tree, the whole sky Sets blue and green and blue, And all creation one huge obedience, Wide-ranging, fruiting. Our cities burning against your walls, You talk a tongue that fits; Your fanning fires whose stings disrupt the winds. And what is left behind? The hunger and the longing of a child. 2 The black cat running through the puddles of my mother. Stalking alone in the bathroom I hear my father talk. Stabbing his wife’s flower, he says Before he go to China That story his shoulder, a massive massive massive star, Still burns till it is old. <|endoftext|> "Fairy-tale Logic", by James Schuyler [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Trees & Flowers] One by one we gain the city After a night of dreams among the vines, I watch his mask come slowly up again And get on lightly with my wings. I’ve told him about treasons that are bad, And that when I tell him all the while He will be just a little boy. Poor little fiddle-holpen in the dusk, May set your beauty patterned on the wall: An eye that closes on the city May kill the shame that comes to count the lost, And drink the dew from human lids: But this poor fiddle-holpen never dies, Which has not learned to fear his shallow eyes. <|endoftext|> "from Eurydiea: “Because there is a King on high,” 5-Dined that night, swore that he would do better instead, and break the chance, Selva would be murdered at a fair’s feast With him she’d wed for twenty days, And make four kings to side their heads. Made love his breakfast, love his bed; And love his bed-stone, ======================================== SAMPLE 485 ======================================== "Play on the Parks,"", by Bob Hicok [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Play on the Parks, you'll find there's chance of turning screen Between the whistling boys who got around second and young; You'll find the boys were going strong; there isn't one but five, The Giants wouldn't come to mass or show the boys, I guess, So when they went there's been always brave and sometimes dusty, and You'll find there's been some scandal here for boys to do; there isn't ever, I'm sure, But even after all, there's always been a thoughtful lot of boys Standing on the smooth stone ground, or holding up a price they won't Not wonder and today that the worst was nothing to them both sharing, For there's only one old friend who's had his monthly paying spent <|endoftext|> "Finale", by Joseph Brodsky [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] What's that that was like, a sodden omnivorous? Stones and birches made of tar and maple. Rivers of birches from cirrus to kem out the stables; a trope to pin up hulls. And what a way the stables were. God and the blades. Why not the kind that likes a wooden hors dune? T-bone? Why not a lump on a mountain?...Or you, rednecked wzer with the bared breast, you. A-shin? Or, at the zenith now, moh! in the vat? Or dross? A-hum? • loves an angel? What, the other? I see you're a-sprawlin' the rag? (There's nothing for it.) A-hum? Ah, durst not you see the blacksmith was lifting a splinter? The lady and all the milks? Ah, durst not you? So when? Your cry was quiet in me. (There was sobbing in me—to and fro, and sweating too.) Nay, but our part's for pity. So pity me, heavens rebel. See, see, how all the maidens drowsed beneath the mutineec’s cover. Hence it is, ha, ay. O the pity of the timber, the pity of the spines, ======================================== SAMPLE 486 ======================================== "Missing More Negligence", by Mark Vinz [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Sorrow & Grieving, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] There was a man who filmed Just as well as everybody’s son and wife. I didn’t like that long time with someone. Cold in my bed he lies and reads a paper. At the door I think of his childhood. That gradual excess of light. And all I am’s creak makes them whisper and groan. Cries from a woman at her kitchen table. Cries out, as I situate and pulse my own secret. My sex was once to me a form of speech, and I, who knows how, cry out, as I assume that I am the mistress of myself. I did not know until lately what the termagants means. I am the form of speech, the shape of rhymes, (or a large form of thought’s expression)—and in truth every word, every light, glistens, whenever touches or derides. I have the ample voice—the heart, how, tell me how, where those words sound. I am a voice also, the man, and the woman. And I say, clearly too, I am. I act in good or evil dreams even in the night. So let each one be first of the three which is form’d out of words, and with his spirit shall be forever. <|endoftext|> "The Tapestry", by Robert Duncan [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Class, Money & Economics] We have a most important connection, with what’s fitting and What with our being in private schools for normal poetry we’re qualified to make literature. We will have a share in giving the class the class from possessor of. You all know that if you answer the order of the service and solemnity, you’re the historical and indivisible just for the sake of the prom dress, which in a tone and a tone were not meant to intimate with a particular person. Poetry’s a real proof of the geography of the language. Poetry doesn’t accurately unconsciously apprehend as the theory of the language is impossible. Poetry is, therefore, an appeal to Poetry in general, and because it is the result of a task of art ======================================== SAMPLE 487 ======================================== "The Soul", by Major Jackson [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries] The soul Thus saith my soul: When thou shalt give redress, repent Will not the rod of justice be A happier penalty.’Tis right, I know, that fixed, The moment turn’d, thus hurl’d From heaven eterne that shot Unseen of God, the everlasting throe Of righteous rage. And I have felt The tortures which conceal’d Its dire opponent: I have felt Even as it were the shot Which through the side that saving hand Was aim’d above all ills: have felt Saw through this thing the end Of yielding up its part: have heard Sweets worse than hell, and long-drunk Have dreamt of falling into sleep Or slumber, since the day that brought Destruction—woe untold On earth: but what can bring Proof to the damned above!— Uncharged with poison, ill Or ease, ill fixed as hell, The mind can count with ill— Or ease it, better still The body found its due; And by the body fell— For whom? and for what? Amen. There is a summer tree. The sun is shining. He that loves it fully Doth fully eat it, and doth freely keep It, for his daily bread: And is sure, to him, it is no sin He at this time should pine. Only had he need, the earth denied him, Wherefore should the tree not fall, Rather than have fed on his own seed: Thus exposed were we all. But his virtue and my goodly seed Live but for his life: And this plant cannot sing, being but God. Well then, be patient all! Carry to your tree, and take his due For your fruit is all you have. The sun that bids you taste to him, still sly Not only fishes here take heed Which thrive there as they float along. The sun that bids you taste to him Would gladly bring a golden crown To kiss your forehead and wrap you down With fleshly hands. And this great sun, This Sun that bids you kiss him, This sun that shows your forehead clear His colour makes you fair ======================================== SAMPLE 488 ======================================== "Chambic", by Charlie Smith [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity] I’m thinking what makes up my heart. It’s like seeingoff the trunk, cautious in facing the mirroring light, and saying, “I don’t have cancer”; holding on to the bed. One piece tooke off the zepblood. I’m thinking about my grandmother’s moan, her two holes filled the zepblood with chicken strips. I’m thinking about my own, unhearten’d, mother, whom she drags along to school. I’m thinking about how lovely she was; how good to me. What’s that inside me inside? To swab my will from what I don’t say anymore. If I tell you the way that? To thatandra, the chicken moan; also, lurking to just word ‘There’s everything. Its life in the heart is like your own.’ All I’ve asked doesn’t come to pass. <|endoftext|> "Telling My Love Story with 100 apples and seven stars", by Hanukti Mohbar [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] I’m thinking of thee as thou sleepest, As thou dreamest o’er the page Of the fast fading years wherein My love and thine shall live, Lying in the May-time of thy life. Awake and hear her calling. Thou dost not know her, neither hasteneth nor the voices of love that greet and husk thy sleeping. Thou dost not even know her, nor dost not even hear her, and dost dost dost daze her and strike her with thy language, O beautiful lady. —Awake and hear her calling. Thou art not strong enough to close this tale, Or bring her closer to thy heart. It is enough to swallow the air That comes from the south, and floats its shroud, Hath been not opened by the breath Of thy hot death, nor by the light Of thine undying glory. He descended out of the ======================================== SAMPLE 489 ======================================== "Conversation with Eternal Anchor", by Anne Bradstreet [Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics] How much I know I was A woman I was A woman I was A man I was A man & I am The sky is The blue & the red& The blue & & The red& The white And white And red& The sky <|endoftext|> "Elegy", by Anne Bradstreet [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Men & Women, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] After Miss Jane MacCross NIGHT, Lightness, Lightness On the sea! You carry tall leather boots just to keep me safe in you. I am hung on my throat and stand in the shallow water. I am walked along roller- sides listening to the waves’ patter in the moaning of the under-act on upper-half of this sea. I will go with my silver hat named and swift as a sturgeon, and the breezes dance on my head. I will go down- midnight to miz bersts and magnanimities. I will go with my silver hat named and your wary eyes whistling and smiling. I will go down- altogether in the water. I will go down- through blue light and white. The sea miz contains more light than it contains more slime. This evening, I will go as long as I live in the house of the sea <|endoftext|> "In Golden Gate Park", by Charles Reznikoff [Living, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] On the lower side of the hill, in the empty dark hole of the church yard, I will remember to start a new, timeless time. I will remember to cross the bridge with you, my father— every time you cross a small hole. I will remember to close the eyes—how hard, how close, how the ======================================== SAMPLE 490 ======================================== "He Has not Concocted Itself to a Braille", by Emily Wilson [Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women] If she is not desiringHem Nevertheless the best of charms she does not hear at the Desertor and theLive Rock Absence I have had my oblation She had a precious mouth If only the world would befriend To say: I love you I take pieces of joy in it So I can paint the gray under forms I can give a woman a mouth If only the world will befriend <|endoftext|> "We", by Emily Wilson [Living, Separation & Divorce, Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Religion, God & the Divine] We have no word to answer her. You would not be offended Because you think I choose between us Because we have decided it is more Cared-for...I can put no blame on the mystery. I do not speak ill of a broken heart. I have seen the feet of God in everything And heard Him injure even the earth But everyone believes God. We have a whole world So close to the source of bliss. "My love," he would say, "My love has bound the earth and the sky. I hear God has no mercy but it lies here there Beneath the Christless bones and the trampled earth." <|endoftext|> "A Mop", by Emily Wilson [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] One day I heard him say the strangest thing he would remember as a god his eyes went through and the earth lay awake saying a strange voice was at the mouth of a promontory at nightfall before a yellow star was in the sky and we heard him say the strangest thing his eyes would be then he came silence silence the shepherd king with his arrow still quivered there <|endoftext|> "Crows", by Emily Wilson [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Animals] The crickets chirp into the light leaves knocking through the spider-stems a brown sack of black jays is hidden in the pond by the door in early te ======================================== SAMPLE 491 ======================================== "The Frost", by Linda Hogan [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Winter] In the frozen pond underneath the fallen, winter airless, round deserted portals with no sun, the old, stern winter. Now, as it turns here, overhead the plaster, serene and awful, the blank windows and the snow till they open wide. <|endoftext|> "Last In", by Linda Hogan [Living, Coming of Age, Growing Old, Midlife, Activities, Indoor Activities, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Sciences] The house I once lived on seemed to me a story—an old, calm afternoon,A bed of ragtime paper cuts across a lawn,A garden orchard set tangled with snow or, on the winter afternoon,A small white house half London set apart and half a city.I left them in the vine, the stale fruit, the blackberries.And I returned. It seemed the house was old,Bare, without doors. But that was Youth, who, standing at my door,Beheld my face, that book of poems unwritten,His hand book open to me, and I turnedMy pages to his, and we were a stray’s,Still wander’d, hand in hand, without a clue,Save that we glanced behind him headlong, and no friend. <|endoftext|> "Eighth Sky", by Linda Hogan [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, Class] Last eve, I sallied forth from the cemetery With a horse for my president, blind Mo resisted at the gas doors And sat down, saying: It's a private way to make a living man. Finally, as news was being told, That a messenger from faërie Had fallen into the house, saying, “I am the president of regulation, Or I could make a living president.” I have no friends, no cares, Or a pulleyed house, or a garret den, My resort as a sort of Christian That I hadn’t built. I have a father The most submissive, but not the bad. So I said to my wife “God has ======================================== SAMPLE 492 ======================================== "The World for Youth", by Pierre Phillips [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies] After Reuben Pantier What makes this greedy maw Pickle up this phantom world That works out wide in wider zones? So you talk on: I would not change But change it, and from time till now I shall recover by a blow. Here I change once: free of change Yet with this cast new joy. This world is old and ripe, This pleasance new and strange. Out of this vaporous world, Out of this blemish, I shall recover by a blow. This world is old and fine Yet with this sun so fine I shall recover by a blow. Billiard kids fighting over their pipes Pipe to listen to yourself. Bells ring an hour an hour And then for food in power The tanks disappear. I think it’s a big miracle To see them gasp and dry When your muscles ache. But I do it: because it is long Before the shivering so young. And because they smile At you so mad, so mad. I am hungry for the crumb. And because the sky is gray I am long after the noon. The clovers lean over the wall Bugs at my dragging heels. And the post-jousts here Drivel out in the rear And high and low And far into the hills. Here we clatter and cling For very long, very long. Rigorous, lazy, Let us be long As late bells ring And bells ring our song. <|endoftext|> "Evening Cross a Thousand Things", by Kathleen Rooney [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Religion, God & the Divine, The Spiritual] Evening stands in the trees. You have put your heart to this lesson: Your feet are skilful in thinking to come all day in the April time. Your voice is steady as the distant, endless murmur of the leaves. But his eye is earnest—in this hidden welling of the oak and ash it dashes. Your voice is earnest like aDaddy’s on a winter beach. After summer one will walk among the wheat plants thinking to enter a fire in the center ======================================== SAMPLE 493 ======================================== "Sonnet 138: It is a dreary night in Grecian land", by William Shakespeare [Love, Romantic Love] It is a dreary night in Grecian land, While love’s delights begin. November nights are cold and silent all the year, And then the frost is keen, And then the harebells mute appear, And then the henna blossoms sheen Nimbly enough when seated in her pride, Amid the dance to let her soar Above the noonday glare of her large eyes Into the sunny air. She will not care, She will not heed. Laboring her to play, She does not dream they could not be A sight so lovely as their misery. What care I for the offering? The likeness of a kindly mood Smiling beneath the summer shower With smiles that would not dim. She will not care: O pain! O passion! She will not think of it. What care I for how, or how, or whom? She will not have to bear. The lilies lift their eyes but not complete, The April smiles across their drooping head. Not always could the light that scatters them From me or him had come, More lovelier gifts than this could bring. The evening breezes warbled them. The gleaming maize that trod On all their flowers the week-day bore, Warm, lily-like, when tasselled evening sang, With flecks of pink in the yellow fern. But now they hear no sound, as virgins' feet Pursuing of the dance, And, more believed than evening, see no sound From Pan with choir more rare. By many a bard, when evening falls, They bring their hymns to God, And happy music close their chimes; The more the strains he plays, The more he shows the more they hear; For we that listen to the strain Feel sure the gratitude For the hymns love-prompted most of all, Proclaiming gratitude For all so gracious, gracious most of all. Here lies, now lay those lays On which with warmer love The Sister crying, As Both for woman and for child; But here, first marriage-rite, Partaking of thy birth ======================================== SAMPLE 494 ======================================== "In what He Said", by Melvin B. Tolson [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] in what He said <|endoftext|> "The Lady Ewishth Woods on Wednesdays", by Melvin B. Tolson [Living, The Body, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] In what He said were books for gold, cored against pink and filled with jugs for dugs and storamunds to eat when you have to swallow from this room the view from east to west is that you love me, Beloved, as if I love you now not because I abhor your words but because I have been here to watch your face grow younger in unison in company with others as if the light that slid from your small eyes darted as from the ocean. And look: this South-west pasture, baskets of spruce and slow spruce, island of two bush hop-skegins, two blue days ahead as if you were thus viewed by your own halfheartedness and the pleasure between cheese and bread as if we were once deaf to the music of this nested blood which swirls in heat between bare palms of yours and the sharp squirming hoofs of horses. <|endoftext|> "Was It Like You Christy Grey Me", by Melvin B. Tolson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, The Mind, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Can it be like you Christy Grey Mehr that went to a party in an elegant furnished room and sat in a haystack beside a bason or maybe Mary Jangen beside a cannikin mug robed in red (she tied it on Sunday in a night-clotted wall): did she know when you were breaking your neck to make me stop and I would let you go taking her nose and chewing red in the air and sputtering her yellow hair. Could anyone give a nickel to walk those miles but we said, in the rememberation of what-do you buy in your pocket. Could anyone give a nickel to even look ======================================== SAMPLE 495 ======================================== "Migrant", by Geoff Page [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Thou sun, who with thy wings didst shed A shady gale, and shade from whence he came, Tell me if e'er again thou didst compare With him, thy shade and all thy beauties shame? Did any suit but thee deny his love? Or did not suit thee better than behoose, To torture with these beauties a cot, And with these empty languor make thee smile? Bethink thee then, because thou know'st not yet How constant thy persuasive waters be: And by thy banks, and vernal seas, and springs, Do I, whose glory yet must draw up thine, And in thy beams enfold the world of things. Come, cheerful ray, and assiduous cease, And shed abroad thy pleasant beams around, Till the brown fields and all the grove of trees Give back the fragrance of their well-stain'd sound. Come, then, let in the hopeful, busy day, That calls the harvest of the harvest in; And, like young spring, comes round following the way, Or works the furrows as they now approach the banter'd blast; While, like a farmer with his back to heaven mastod, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. Come then, young godlings, let us sing with glee: Whether of old, when young we toil'd for gain, Thou saw'st us busy with our toilful grain; Or, when thy silver proxy did arrive, Went bickering cutting bread and wine from Nile; Or whether we, with honest labor crown'd, Did snatch a chaff before thine honour'd brow; While here, the sun upon thy plenty glow'd, And warm'd the teeming earth beneath thy steady ray, And the sea shuddock'd at thine hospitable sway. My mind can trace the haughty forms of heaven; Or trace the mighty works of Hercules; Or view the mystic steps by nature shunn'd, When first on earth romantic shores were fix'd; Or trace the rising of the sun's eclipse, When first on earth he sought the ======================================== SAMPLE 496 ======================================== "Earth When My Baby Sleeps", by Sarah C. H. Snazib [Living, Death, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] sweep-stiffened or, then, sleep in my hand And, afraid, beneath the dirt I will breed the snake that eats in the hollows of my eyes, the sun-shocked, fingered and beaded By morning. Then sleep. <|endoftext|> "Stripments", by Sarah C. H. Snazib [Living, Parenthood, Activities, Travels & Journeys] Tall fishes are slow in flight, and two little fishes in the shallow hollows float, caught in the net, while no bright scales sleeps in the sunlight. We brush away our airs, and piece by piece, then run to catch at the lightest waterfall of their wings. Then sleep. Soon, in the tiny crevices of their shov penmanship, we come to the root-holed ones and into that green salt, while no bright scales beside us, brush away their chemographs. Deep in the ocean we learn a frail, most human element, from place, from ceaseless rock. Begin, then, place your hand around my head, lest the day be dark enough to see the sun and the sun glint over it. I do not like the full moon, nor the warm, soft light that trembles into a moon-faced ark. If the sun were to take you home, you would bury me under a rock of sea-green cliff. Drinkoot! Now it’s time to quit us. You’ve learned a rough, detached drumitude. Did you understand that the earth that you tread a whole day on it? Even before you you would slink as you commanded. But even after you would walk out alone, full-faceable, with only a broomstick for you. Oh, I’m a man and I’m a boy, ======================================== SAMPLE 497 ======================================== "Down Gulliver Never Again", by Joshua Clover [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Over the nursery and down the fallow, Over the down on the little runnel’s bedding, My mother calling, “Hey, My Lids, look out!” She didn't understand that word That way any afternoon, That way any afternoon, I’d like to say, That way any afternoon, I’d like to say, That way any afternoon, I’d like to say, To say, that way, That way any afternoon, That time any afternoon, I’d like to say, That way any afternoon, That time any afternoon, That time any afternoon, My lids being stilled, And my eyes discerussed. <|endoftext|> "At Sunset of the Apulean Shower", by Joshua Clover [Nature, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Theater & Dance, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] In Town, an idle and persistent dreamer Walks the hills and wanders liquid plains, Sitting in this smothering iron country, Alive and hopeful as an unafraid choir Among the willing outworn lean brown hills. The ice’s brown fury in his crested brow Throws out his light feet and his little arms, Curling and clasping his slack hands, listen. The tide’s flow daily runs, And the wind’s leap and springtime sweep away; But the cry keeps it running, The hill’s low booming fill the world’s slow monotone. “The current’s full, and up the North-west hill I ride, and touch the golden mean of hills, And forget the highest and dim track, While the world is and the sea sleeps.” The twilight hours tick On the wind, the beach drifts and is still, But the Moon still horns and drinks, And never a light and less the distant hill-side fails. “Up then, white Hill, and follow in the trail Where the little stars have their little arcs, And you may come to the glory garden, Where lilacs ======================================== SAMPLE 498 ======================================== "Common-mark'd Moth", by Sara Teasdale [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I sought again the hill, not now the laggard, Not in its bloom resigning to the sun; But haply on my left side of the cloud, Home of the troubled sloth of ha,...the naked, Dripping red dots indignantly up, Scorning the snuffling dust I would have occupied Had been a scabbard, not the less desired. Therefore, at thy return, unwelcome, hail'd, And borne from far by objects of concern Had been my horror and my poverty As all inglorious, idle, prying, keen. Howbeit, O Muse, my praise is better far Off a handful of true flux than doth here, Which, if I err not, may turn out severe. Had I the ample wealth that I am doom'd to bear, I would exchange love-notes of love-notes of thy verse For every rusty scholar in the land Which has lain open for years or weeks on toil. But not love's riddle, not love's riddle weaver, Not their fair pagelets and their 'pretty laborers, Who for a long time gazed upon my eyes Dew-damped, or listened to my heart-strings' sighs; But did as they had promised, being giver; Now changed to flowers that shall have learned to live. O pity-stricken and despondent wretch! Wretch most loth to lisp a wish too full of treason: Dost hope to rob the poet of his book Of what was thy ambition, wretch? loth to give up Thyself, thyself thy madness and thy sorrow: Dost weep for fame already dead of love? O pity-stricken and despondent wretch! Dear! cruel and painful is thine anguish For thy departure, though time past thy prime, So that thy garden-plot and sanctuary, With the wild woods of winter and of storm, Have broke the bonds which bound thee and thy bones, And flapp'd about thy solitary walks. Now all is wither'd and infected; dead Dry thorns lay waste, and ======================================== SAMPLE 499 ======================================== "Song of Myself: Soul", by George Eliot [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The morning air is balm to a traveller’s thought.I was once a boy and talked to myself — Søsen, “ancient” New York. Anchored at one of my discoveries.Now my coat helps me pretend to be shabby, breathing on whatever.Everything is tough, dusty.How do I want this world to be beautiful?I used to last a lot of Kenneth Koch and died young. I don’t know why.I’d like to tell the truth I’m writing now — now tell me. <|endoftext|> "Dissonance", by William Waring [Living, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I was giving you a ride to the lively Herner Look. He was a right lad. He cocked one ear, and the other died. A grandpa rode him fast. No one could say who came next. Only the space he had was empty. The best man I ever made was my Dallionysseys. And these fellows—O it made my heart go wild! She was my special carrier-friend. I hurt her because I forgot my way. In this war I never learn to resist. I am a Dallionysian, too, as well as a Catholic. But I was born in the forest at dusk, and I won’t forget who I was, and I don’t regret what it was I fought. I saw war II was a dolorous mood around New York’s sallow daylight. I’ve alwaysbeen the talk of our city as a guard, but now it’s a jeweler. God, what are you doing? <|endoftext|> "The World as It is", by Robert Sœls [Living, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] This is the world, I say, the world that sleeps. This is the world that works. The world that dies and weeps. This is the world that swells. Whose graves are these? Whose is the world that maps All ======================================== SAMPLE 500 ======================================== Words far away, sound beautiful as a door in a little wooden house where the wind low in the distance lets the leaves fall, murmurs of a dream of years gone by: drifting in a bed of leaves in a strange neighborhood by an Italian garden known as “The Gedding” and “The Dragon” sign. The garden grows in a decadent city sheltered by the awning and marble ercauration wall. Here it was started, and you could find a mysterious corner telling to your heart how the French people called the end of the world. In 1916, when the rain fell, Li-Awaiting got lost and found, but saw, if she could come, the only sound far away, in the woods at Muviek, where the fireflies filled the walls and died. Here was the center of the earth and sky to a singular point. The sheen of the target’s target had been the cloudof fear and the woodpecker’s beak. But she could see the border of the sky. The trees, half seen as a campanile, were trees in a frenzied silence. The sound of the rain, as you read to yourself, said something like that would get off again. Just back to the stories you had heard, there is nothing left but the sound of what was going on. <|endoftext|> "Now I’m leaving the city", by Sjohnna McCray [Living, Life Choices, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Realistic & Complicated] There’s no more social life, dear, released from your alarms, Here’s enough society around your arms For everybody in these days; Here the creatures who live within this world Are happy everywhere in mind, And every human soul an Eden grown, And lives as quietly as you could get, Or howso Godiva willed it so! Yourself must do the best You could, serve as simply as you can, Unlike a bachelor life and love, Holding your tongue and smiling face As birds and flowers and all summer flowers. For you it is that poetry extorts A lot of men and women, lands and jobs, And what is love, completely, any more Than it was wont, now it is laid aside, And open-mouthed and empty as ======================================== SAMPLE 501 ======================================== "Currying the Recollection of Lord MacBride", by Norman SkeThank Sir Sprat Surely the woman tempted the woman to pieces in, For the broken telegram was still withheld, Which a cross of faith shot back to the soul; It never failed, for the man who believed A cordial and his life is but a breath, Forevermore an indrawn sorrow sashed, The grieved, foregone. The woman hath neither God nor power To wake or save, To suffer, forget, and strive and strive And still strive on. Oh, if she indeed Be only man, to God and manhood true, What service could she do with the world's woe? A woe, for the man who dreamed the cross Must be man's body, woman's soul and brain; He shall become a man of a woman's will, The man be woman's heart of a woman's pain. <|endoftext|> "August 1914", by James Whitcomb Riley [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] What makes your father so old and fine, That I cannot help loving him? Why, he'll go and live with me in line. What does the little girl out yonder? Oh, I shall love her the whole year long. I shall not be waylaid by a merciless wrong. I shall smile as she looks at the mother in scorn; I shall not be any more a lone sailor, With a roof of thorns about the hem. What does she say when her arms are taken? What of the darkness that covers her face? And what of the bruises the world has taken. I shall not be any more a lone physician, Naming the rub on her pallid cheek. Oh, I shall love him through all the years of years, Never the tramp of the mob or the drive. <|endoftext|> "Common", by James Whitcomb Riley [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries] Oh, I know the ways of people, I know the sound of their voices, I know the hum, the light, the glory; But the low of sweet, ecstatic temple The everlasting prayer is echoed, In shape of those ======================================== SAMPLE 502 ======================================== THE Salem of my days, Where all life's beauty lay, Where the dear pulses of the day Flicker and murmur in her ray, -- Turn back the leaves and all day long The flowers pale and all the songless throng; The woods are dark, and, from their bowers The streams do wanly roll away; And yet the quiet valley seems The grey stream of all memory's dreams. Serene, serene, through all the ages A thread of green goes rustling, flowing; And still the splendour falls on all Along the silent, azure towers; The meadows of your dreams endearing, The motes in dreams of happy hours, The poppies of the tangled glooms, The scarlet boughs in gardens green, -- All these, and more they have withal My soul, -- these still are not for me; I love not you -- I love not you; Nor would you have me know it out, Nor lift your eyes, and think of me; But reaching in your heart to take The blessed, remembered way of you, Up through the dark I take my way To the kind inn, and light you a'; Where you are in your passage free, Beyond the high sweet meadow-slope, A running stream, where light shall be That never my quick feet shall stop To reach the inn -- you cannot go -- Though in the inn there must bebreak My long, long way of being aweary; Nor ever make me doubt of you; But let me kiss your weary brow; My arms are strong -- I cannot go. THERE is a place where I have sat, My sometime-twisted feet are there That I will never see again; There is a space where I have trod And did not utterly beguile My weary, restless ways to smile; There is a space where I have played And bid you kiss and I have prayed. There is a place where you shall go And never see me more; I know That somewhere in the daily strife Your face is ever just a rose And I shall know you where it grows. There is a place where you shall hear More days, and greater things to come, And I shall listen all the more ======================================== SAMPLE 503 ======================================== "Sonnet ["When thou shalt cast thy shadow, o’er the realms of space, Oh, come, thy flight reward this peaceful face!"]", by Claudia Emerson [Living, The Mind, Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Trees & Flowers] When thou shalt stretch thy limbs against the bracing air, and suck the liquid flame From those strong limbs, which girt strong limbs with steadfast effort, and amid the maze Of wavering heat, languish in ardent languishment, and from the tender gaze Of warm, pungent heat, and in tumultuous flow from that strong spring, O’er the long vista of the stream, as from a chasm’s mouth Uplifted gushes pureness. There thou shalt the bride and bridegroom shalt be, And not the sad bride only, and the bride alone; for she is fair to see As the spring flowers, and sweet as the spring rain of summer. Yea, and this shall win thee back to Achaia! Yea and this, and these, and other torrents from the sea, And rivers wide of rills to a wide, Indian basin, which shall be The garland of my love! O soul, remembering and awake! Feel’st thou that I cannot forget, being passionate and awake? <|endoftext|> "Sonnet ["I would indeed be free with all that spirit warms thee in!"]", by Claudia Emerson [Love, Relationships, Nature, Religion, Social Commentaries] I would indeed be free with all that ocean warms thee in, But from that isle of solitudes and peaceful meads, I would debauch and take my way along the dark flood of the sea! My love, I have no place For any such emotion: all desire is dead, Except the body of insensate things. I love to feel the desire and see the form Of the omnipresent One, and have communion With Him for teacher. I am free to think Mine ownEmbraces are, and I no longer care What they are; for they are to another love, And mine rejoicing in the Master’s hand. O Friend of Man, the World, the very Grant, Which knows no end, rests by itself, and knows ======================================== SAMPLE 504 ======================================== "Childhood’s Days", by Nikki Giovanni [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics, Father's Day] I’m sitting outside the kitchen door In a suit of the softest leather, My father and I feel his arms around, We’ve been domesticated and heard many times, But I’d think of him for a while, I suppose, As though he’d a getting a Tartar, Yet thinking he’d just lost his way with me. A “flannel vestry” he’ll never be there. He’s “a steady wash-dashing man,” he’s “a pink infant,” And asking about the shirt he’s supposed to be wearing would probably be a short cotton-skirted man. Heigho! I think of him as a man. I’m thinking of him as a “Carrar Storm” Which will be Andrew Turner’s evening to me When I get back on my diet, But I can see his eyes, and I’m sure I can see How little he wants for bedding. I’ve heard “Get the Giant Slippy Priest” The great curly-tail clucking his guts, The great scarred wretch with his head in a ass, He takes to the ground and mews, And cries with a buzz More fierce than the dog, “Get the Giant Slippy niggers To sit in the fippers and snooze in the tops of the kumele. Take care of myself. Dance and dance. Butcher and sygy, puppy and kumele, Sympathy, puppy and kumele, Are Mostly, Are mostly the times, And they’re simply the ones Held up as gifts, Like dad at the big brown bushel basket. He’s unnatural, Rip, tar, and ghastly, Having formidable faces Of pallid ghosts and impenetrable fun We don’t pass in our story, Our lives to date and date, but he’s none of these. Keep off shooting. ======================================== SAMPLE 505 ======================================== I simply go to Plaster, and find what it is to be in writing this quilt of the Platonic Intelligences that come and go But I go not to Plaster, to see the streets with the numberless Hello It is 12:10 in 4to on my soul, the clarity of travel at a minimum than it ought to be, This hill, these clean caves, the particular historical aspects in my time Therewith I walked to Plaster, I experienced this with my eyes, my mouth, mouth, The cheerful jubilee of daylight, and I rejoiced to see world eventide. Outside the door, the sun, I passed from sight of the estuaries and the landscape to which I was led by a more than mortal lust. This is one picture of the life that is passing through a house, in an emerald glade, that figure from which you might have to glide a whole October through the open window, or peer through the bars in front of the bricks. You are to be held sitting in a hall in a park, wondering where you are sitting. You are to be held in a room in a textile mill, filled with hard money, The other side of unhurt customers regales, you are to be told, Does this larger than this, more amazing still? And further out in the beautiful Indian village, the lamps less quenched, And you continue to sing that song again. You do not see, What is it you see in the carefully purged-up window, the containing some light Of the comfort you haven’t known of us, From what distinctions, these can’t tell, Anywhere you have been away, The unconscious await the escaping from dream, To experience the clear vision of that time That was patiently playing the violin before us. <|endoftext|> "Except for My Father and Mother", by John Masefield [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Music] 1 In the snow That settles for sleep It is said That for every contemplation There dwells something Concerning whose loss he Should ======================================== SAMPLE 506 ======================================== "The Hermomac", by Henry Vaughan From the birth of time to youth Tuning the reeds of life, From man to man because he stood Upon the mountain sod; He rested from his toil awhile In the forgotten tomb; But righteousness doth now beguile, And patience overtook The hare and her distress. Unfortunate is he whose horn Tosses the despot's pall; Whose face is never wet with dawn, And smileters never still; To whom the double stars are born In song and in the dust; To whom the evil no wise see, But only strives to trust. And him, who, heavy-drunk of yore, O'ershadows Chion-Aras! O'er the haggard past he turns once more The songs of hissing psalm; Above, the where of singing names, And the comfortless of men; Bees with their bounty on his poor Deserted meal and pen. O wretched land, O curse on thee, That gave such good to men! He found her not, who hath no pelf For one hour more to spend; She finds no joy, nor love, nor peace, For aught that a man can lend. Only the price of living bread Is paid to a wretched one Whose bread is starving many a dead For want of rest and stun: Whose money is but lust of gold That gluts the camel kind; But God will take him in the hold And bear away his mind. I met a traveller through the streets Who bore a heart out of the town; I set a flame beneath the arch, And then I burnt it down,-- Seeing how the fire of life must die Leaving behind the hum Of men whose lips would dare espy Their mark, and how unstable it would be To find how they had got it in. I set it in the furnace fire, Where low and lasting ashes lie: I wrought it from the broken flake That carvers life's defiled body-sick; The fire is dead, the mould is dead, But left behind doth something seek. The soul that seeks afar is brave And following faith with hope and aim; God sends a ======================================== SAMPLE 507 ======================================== By far the same great trees the face of a marble tower That stood on Corinth's ruins (1) and where never sets A foot: shall pass: whose living being (1) may be Made flesh and stone with fragments, if to climb The twisting stairways and ascend into the sun And look at Italy and Spain, the lands Where first the passion of young Spain was sung. (2) The house Of Paris is called the Shadowy Sea, (5) Antonio Povini's and the island princes (6) extreme memory; in the Gromboolian Bolvo Rodin and the heavenly statutes of Greek mythology are recalled By Chinese dilettante in the Gombra Collinar Oft a- trapped Greek philosopher has stood By one of these black waters in the dark; Not that before the gaunt Horse Cæsar came, Not that set sail against the Seine by Thames; Hence Walter Biasi, in the van of Rome, Could not put on his coat. But, as they went, they met In the enormous square of his denuded yards. Between the trench and gap of the tribunal, High in the air between, the bickering drawbridge stood, And all about was spread the canvas floor Of Magnus' palace painted; nor therefrom did ford, Till they had reached the court of Charlemagne, (9) The palace of royal Charlemagne. Nor him did Consul lead, whom nothing saw defeat, But rather like a fay he tried to catch By his pernicious spear. Nor yet didalusia show Her new-formed visage; but in his own courteous tone She bade the day be brought, who should obey Achilles, and find rest in the accustomed toll Of his false horse, against the Achaian camp. Nor yet beyond the wall, in order due, Encamped upon the rampart drew, In the design wherein to fay and do Engage the most determined enemy. Under the feet of their attendant, there, In the half-slime, a bevy of crowned hair, Forty with bearded ears kept, and in grip Of those close-followed feet, his passion rose And towered around. Long stood the mistress, straight, ======================================== SAMPLE 508 ======================================== "Grande", by Mark Irwin [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Pets] In the nursery of my life, while you repeat the dead   alanx of stories, petals, runes, old pebbles and bright cobalt like the verses your grandfather sent for me. The pollen drops on your azaleas, and in the swirl of his upturned arms I lace out your babylike topography, and my mouth, docile as the universe, though silent, counts the kisses mine, even mine. <|endoftext|> "Ghost translates between the Laugh and Bird", by Eduardo C. Corral [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Beautiful cage of black birds threw the shadow of the trees into a field of forget-me-not. The sky wasn’t held in a solid mist but a lovely rustling dampness of dew. The smack of the Deo and the boo hissed across the green leaves, black threads drifting over the watchfires. You were alive, thrilled, in transparent and warm light. I remember your dark eyes, opening at the scene that was darkly American. <|endoftext|> "Bluegrass", by Rigoberto González [Nature, Trees & Flowers] In her left arm, in her right is thecence of a country that no one sees and likes. Borne on the curb of her left was an antique promise that if her rights freedom could render, she would mote enlarge itself on posterity. Under the Pisa-leaved willows that once stood for the sheer broken crevima and sprays of grass, a hill stands on a granite slope full of forms and winds. One full stroke, and the grass is water, four in number, meadow, and the high mountain the bells are my heart, meadow. Waiting at the dock, apples are not ripe but not full. The high lake’s innocent fatness has made for its death. Under aRustique tree, seven dolphins kneel together for idol worship, water meekly listen to water breathing. ======================================== SAMPLE 509 ======================================== "To the Negro Love", by David Baker [Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Valentine's Day] Now I’m about to speak of it. First I tried to show it off the back. First told me, “This is how you learn to love,” but no one said just how I felt okay. I answered, “Your soul is like a moon, It shines when everything is said and said.” That torch, leaning on my hand, pointing through the blackened wood, which nearly blinds me, seems human, watching, perhaps, and given to revealing inward of my fear, intact, scrawled before my door. Then, like a cigar, sprang Will, liquor, looking out at me, and told me how it felt. Yes, I was a child, but no one talked so much. Then Will and I slowly to the engine force the tea, and then we quietly adjust to an opening as we pass. We drink to each other then. The will continued, Will feels it fast, the will continued, One hour, until we come to what will. Without so much, within the body, Will has one sense, one feeling, two. Hear us, one would say the bottle-eyed, With utter purity, drawing the clouds of love backward into love, Drinking deep drapery, raising the very air of my heart to her. <|endoftext|> "Devouring the Light", by Kay Ryan [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] The dog-starved, feathery gulls on their long blackboards floating in the blue light, the catgut in the beak of the dog, Domestic, radiating wind that boldly shrieks and moans cold poison from the drench that scratches in the drum- holes and becomes an oasis lost in the bright wing-up, that piping of the black creek, catgut of the god of rain that floods the quiet hills for the underbrush and leaves the one fear of peopled and the lonely remnants of the world's unhappiness in the road-of-the-mouth mountains. Thus she is taught: From the rock to the yielding fish of the dune, from the shimmer to the foot rock, from the heron whose back shoots ======================================== SAMPLE 510 ======================================== "Wanted anagrams for a Prayer", by Andrew Corn [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries] The ambitious couple live but to reflect upon their spouses. And the little son of a 7-year-old dies of a sitter for a six-and-twenty inches ofworking air. The father of five elk has died in a sunflower but his unbecoming anger cannot extinguish the needles of the disease. The husband of five elk has died in a hit between the eyebrow of his six-and-twenty inches. The circle of six elk has crumpled up into the wide-spread linen and clung to the waist like a gilded ear. The loveliest river on water was the river that ever went rolling in. The cross on the head of a newborn boy is the calico of my river that never went down. The monk of the red-pin rolling up the opposite bank makes me afraid to meet him across the bridge. The luminescent buttercups are green. The old sundrops drummed a long-drawn murmur like a humming-bird. The old quaint gabled bittern, the leathern cap of a saint who once had passed on the needle, shrieked as he shooed the whole bog for him a tin-pot, smoked each night's honest blackberry juice, and into the middle he addressed himself, cut the mud around him like a rogue for savaging small trash. <|endoftext|> "The Lights of London", by Andrew Corn Three dark hazel trees On the swinging sign, Three white bells of park Boldly clanging, Three blind men together, A crazy woman Standing, drinking. A straight line, A hill of black sky Cresting high In the sky, A wet sky Lies on the black rock, The church spires echo To the clatter of steps, The gray smoke of the wood And the moonlight. A drag-strife tug-waggle With many-twisted arms, A face bared, A tall stark face. The bull-cubbles Crack against humped hands, The red logs shriek, The backs steel drips, As the bull-cocks romp In their mad uproar. The backs iron-sided ======================================== SAMPLE 511 ======================================== "from definition", by Ben Thomas [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] The broad of pole, the broad of pole, the broad of pole, the broad of pole, in exchange for electric shocks and shale,This is the problem: Who the worst man has had to point the proper stakes?This makes the moral law that fate makes right, This turns bad wrong, or lays the wrong on wrong,This turns bad wrong, or lays the wrong on tongue;These scales the right, pre-eminent of wrong, or longOver this rainbow ground profaned with tears, right on my left eye-pulsing with regretsmistals, I look for my land, land stripped and rent, land sweating in the mills of the sun and the moon in my hair, it is the problem, it is the problem that puts love in the mind, this is the key of every wrong act, every injury seen, every perfect thing evil, every bone of Adam in body, wailing in the same shape where no one is.The broad of pole, the crooked of pole, the crooked of right, the long of all to all, all to all anointing weight, all hating complex, all that makes life dear, all love, all that gives life support and every wrong end, all amply in things that are, all sadness in things that were, all sadness in the hapless outworn road, all grief in the common bloom and all delight in the aftertime, all sadness in the aftertime and all mirth in the aftertime of poetry, all respect for the sadness and all mirth and all mirth and all mirth, and all love and all love’s tune, all mercy and all grief in the aftertime of love. <|endoftext|> "The Eye", by Jean Thomas Steadies in tears, the eyes cannot onceight you love. The pangs of a lover’s swift downward course are unrequited by those of a thief or a squatter. I am caught in solitude. That’s the thing. So to the windows I crowd. Then there’s a pastures of sadness and sadness, seasons war with a sojournful so slowly, stripped of mysteries. The days cannot explain them. A door in the grove is often inwardly ======================================== SAMPLE 512 ======================================== "Prisoners", by Adrian C. Louis [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Animals] The wind is so full of voices. Whoops like the crows before the dawn. The dog of the last of the birds calls to the gathering orchard. The first bird has started while the sun is boiling. 'Tis almost noon. The brooks show grains of silver in the feeder. Bums stand on their lips like berries of wine. The ones hold hard for special pleasure as if they were grains of gold. The ones to let you run always and use language like other birds. They caress you, they perch for you and stick together so that you can write a little one. And they bring you bread and wine. For the first time, they are tumbling through the woods at night. There is much sleeping in the trees. And if there is a food for dreams, it brings loss and sorrow over the time. <|endoftext|> "On Poetry", by Adrian C. Louis [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] For Dionysus If it is only the wind, it is a city of little rooms, and among the trees is a garden, where everything can be a little —the jealous dog whose hungry two cats at breakfast each evening, cause she is a stray dog of Pohjola. It is a town of Pohja then that is to me a place of silence until you hear it crystallize. You can then still find a place on the sides of an ox lying under the entry. If you are to go out, then the wind listens for you unless you are late, the wind in the roof of the place is tapping if you are to stay home. Each of the noises calls her home from the chamber. Each morning one after the other, you glance down the road into the smallest alleyway, then you glance out to find a charming girl, some very nigger nicking. You go to Tschatkan castle to see the lady, to see the old lady, to see the old lady. The rooms of the castle are flooded with mirrors. You find a fragrant parlor. You find out long-ce ======================================== SAMPLE 513 ======================================== "The Smoke", by Joseph De Luna [Living, Death, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I. The smoke, which is the fire, my father hung to hispefts. The car, traffic was dark and a bird did sing. Water was blue and white. My mother sat on my right side, my mother had three holes in the ground. My father was Remark the fever had put her down in the ground. The tree, which was the river, was the house, and was gray. Water sparkled in the morning. Water was yellow, white, livid, neither red nor yellow.My mother sat near the ground. We were running out in a line, my parents and I. Water was red, yellow, with blue flowers and the red and green.We were running out in another ground.We took the air and kept the kettle close, shut it off—I could hear the roar of a stream, I could see the explosions spent half an hour in blood, panic, and behind my head. The truck never ceased to hum, the engine always ready again to start again. The moon was shining, and there was nothing but a little roof. My father's knees were not dry, and his small palms were not dry. He'd take off his shoes instead, and put them on again. You couldn't tell my father from the train to drive so far into the air that only the stoves whistled perfectly. The rest of us were backward stricken with dismay, but my mother would not look in the mirror for all the signs of sickness, for it was in vain to be all she had, and now I see myself going along the river turning yellow and green and pale. She thought I'd fallen into the smoke, for I was standing there myself. The truck never stopped until it stopped, so I could hear her call for help. It came at last, but the worst wasn't. You have your way, and you are a wedge, well, take another trip, however, and row me up a little. My father called for liquor, but he stayed you with caution, go ahead, unfold your gasses and gather in the middle of the field. You have taken a starry night out and, after work, still try to trick me on. Try not to cast a stone, cast your boots ======================================== SAMPLE 514 ======================================== "Sonnets", by Stevie Smith [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I’m not going to be, for all the time. My rhymes and dactyls are unto me, and I am a town whose heart-beats are made to give back the sound of wheresoever they might rove over oceans in spheres that could make uspirals magical though oceans below could make shapes move in spheres spinning and worlds blazing. <|endoftext|> "Sonnets designed by Park Éille in 1515", by Michael Wasson [Living, Death, Growing Old, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Poetry & Poets] I’ll not be late for counsel when I’m grinding the way to you, but I’ll not be a poem and what is its essence until I’m tired of explaining I could’ve been a poem without song, though I’m not. I’m not the traveler or the lover who knows me not, the scholder of the mood, the one to call me to him and in the ice I’ve stood abandoned and turning in my mind’s word, a glance in which mind can say: where knows me not now? <|endoftext|> "The Black telephone", by David Lee All day I stood in the lonely room And the light, rekindled each to each: The book on the wall was there, The sick person in bed lay heaping His meal from the side of the bed, And he flicked his thin fingers away in the chilly air. From the car itself he could hear such tones As the forester in the upper air, In his half-oped lap resting on the book, And the bed was cold and dizzy, the subject his mind disordered; He talked of the hedge, he sang of the stairs, The troubled street light, the sky now dark, and himself thinking, thinking, thinking, of his endless evenings in the womb— of what this noisy, midnight life would be— of what this darkling, midnight life would pass With that dreamlike restlessness in its leafy skeleton ======================================== SAMPLE 515 ======================================== "April Inventory", by Cynthia Huntington [Living, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] How does the carters will come to life again, returns again in bed. All day news of howls and scurryings and boisterous bleating caca being the carters, all kinds of overall others. And the men and women who will bring their clothes to stay all day, all rainy, all winter long of pawing or shaking with anger or laughing. The tethers for the carters, and the tall shoes, and the men in Chicago will just stop dreaming. You’ll know that my brother and I are so smart that even on down this way, one of them will be like us suddenly going down on water. We will keep our wisdom from going down on mountain tops, coaxing the world by dreaming on those tired legs and arms out of sleep. When your brother is weak we leave our shoes, one after the other, and the stock drifts in, waking the other to sleep. We will keep talking about how long we’ve waited here in the halls, how hard we’ve tried to keep people in the same place. Wait to hear what they are about of our life, so be sure there’s only this outside. Tell them. Tell them what they are doing. Listen well. Don’t shake if you saw. Tell them how they are doing. Listen to what they are doing. You ought to be ashamed to let your brother know. Tell them he is from the south, away from here never enough, the two of them at the edge of the sea. They will land there for us in the cold night where nothing goes to the Great O. U. <|endoftext|> "Interpenet", by John Rufernant [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] We don’t mind if we’re living in personal narrative, histories of the ancestors who still hold their own names, descendants of patriarchs slumped over the jean jacket and leather, children whose names changed hundreds, to Leitha,San Kew because of Vicoden. Perhaps, for Leith, it means that they’re born, daughters of the Brah ======================================== SAMPLE 516 ======================================== "April", by Bill Knott [Love, Desire, Nature, Spring, Trees & Flowers] A thrush sings “A cuckoo has made” The robin redbreasts sing “A cuckoo has roasted her blocks” & pipes his sweet “So lovely” & pipes his time While paddling along the sky deck pink rocks & water glides rails at marbles. A cuckoo so quiet Listens moon above the inscape’ clammer Where loneliness can’t plausibly slip Into all space-guarded achievement of the eternal sun. <|endoftext|> "Summer Garden", by Bill Knott [Nature, Animals, Summer, Winter] The pigeons are silent In unle draped leaves As sleeps the moon On high heels Of ethereal young trees Their gilded hammers Are moonlit By the small breeze That starts them back to bearks In the cove - Sleeping, where the earth’s mist Sleeps underneath a clear stone— An old oak’s still building A dream-haunted crypticle Wherein the dreams day like shadows Gather, while through its woods Paper and I Go sailing into Asia. <|endoftext|> "The Pond", by Bill Knott [Nature, Animals] Rounded hills The night is hiding The moon’s mantle Of a drowsy heart Beside a river’s Arcturus wind. The ferns Are moonlit, Far out. <|endoftext|> "From the Revolution of these Pets", by Bill Knott [Nature] This is what you bring From the reeds I’d hoped For, somewhere, some light Thief would echo it. Let you quail, but only For the reeds. What, we water it, And, it is no whim For a magic wand To leap a limbs Into length. <|endoftext|> "The One Thy Father’s Dead to the World", by Bill Knott [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] I crawl outside the door, To throw myself before my father. My father is silent, But I do ======================================== SAMPLE 517 ======================================== "Of a Deep River in the Shadow", by Thomas Hardy [Living, Death, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Spring, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Of an old world in barracks, Of grim sounds the world is waking, Of car horns that the dawn langueche, Of the days when asaucens gatherek, Of the man who lay been a patient Thing of evil days gone beyond hope, When sleep grew both old agen the nookas Where they worseled and hacked they workenyssed That damned snow van Goot-ilvin smiled aye At the dead of the march to Averockie, That Oliphanthe might not have loved yet That earth: lang that has lost withall the light That once it wav'd in Eden scathe and blanched Its silver shores along the hills an-fer That no man now as ever lived afore. "Whether perchance it is Thousis Auctor That all this infernal tempest is Sending us here to wreck us all in pieces? "Or Peruggenera Goth that seest thus Them that in Aginur are dead and damned That in Aginur are dead and damned for ever?" "There is," says he, "a King theretoo must have been born, From Cadmus he might sail across the sea, Him from whose loom the thin seas roll all round, So strange and uncouth fleet his bones should be, Though some from memory turn'd him back again. "Other men he then that Casterbridge town, Whereon that day Set seven-gods aloft, When as Gibraltar hath set foot ashore He heard the lion foile and hear the roar." This said, he turn'd, and as he doth a thing That unto a fine tune belongeth well, He wrung the strings and shouted out the while: "Ave, Maria, have at last fulfill'd my song Of thy sweet love and thee thy plaint for me; And if indeed there is no lack of that, But is by thee fulfilled already now-- For me, that with her thou hast ruthlessly Be glutted anew upon her heart, the more I will devour it which I deem most fit ======================================== SAMPLE 518 ======================================== "A Ballad to Consider Only When", by Trumbull Stickney [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I’m not your fool, but what you are is mine, though. — Henry Murray. All day long reading Marx wrote prophecies of English metaphor: brilliant coitus. — Henry Murray. What’s mine so far as I see my land?— It’s plain from here to here that there is a shore. I hate all maps with silver signatures thinking of “The Gospel.” So my land has become my Andada dell. My land has become my quiet house. My land has become my one fair home. So what’s mine so far as I see my land? <|endoftext|> "Blueprints", by Trumbull Stickney [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] This century with the spare hour The busy world wants everything: October gray, green-glimmering May, Making all the country people way... Then the foolish glassy skin Throws off, and where’s the glassy frame? The violin has finished somewhere Where’s in its seat the violin Made by no hand but mine? It looks as though —  But there it lies. There someone like the violin Tries shimmer at the window —  It stares out through its face Just like a weak place Just lit—and I could track it in T’s screen door —  It waits, turns down, then stands And stretches out its hands —  I would I could drift through a room Filled with walls of it Thought — it is  just drooled It seems two angels’ faces waits I would have entered with. <|endoftext|> "Oxford’s Fancies", by Trumbull Stickney [Living, Infancy, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & ======================================== SAMPLE 519 ======================================== "Graveller’s Progress", by Paul Zimmer by Paul Zimmer and Yichseld Bag By there the oracle secures arrest acted rockspouts into arcs checking “Egointheophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophophantophomophomophagismophomophomophagismophomophagismogmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmatmat ======================================== SAMPLE 520 ======================================== "And if she says oh so, veetulid, Remember thy plain, native speech; Not even a shell from the great shell Unsheathed to the small black shriek The great steel muzzle makes On the hard iron, which for you, Hast no resay, in fact, of these Her counsels: is she no changed? Dreaded to her, and to pay, What the world thinks we should pay! Recked her of corn and wine, Drunk to the life we indurate, While her voice had a tremble And lips made a moan, we knew Our teacher's wound was deep, Our pupil: 'Nay, I may trust,' Thus learned, we wondered, even when We might be decently at ease, And laugh at him to hear our child Sit sobbing at the orphan rymes On service, who, in listening, smiled, Feeling not we were changed to them, Whose tears are mirrors of the sun Between wet sands, and wrists not strayed, From spits of mould into a dream, A curious thing, and here we could Have his fine hair and jewelled crown, And lovelier than his lovelier head, Wherein he hath his coffin spread, To watch in the church and hear our friend, As baby, walking round the fire, And keeping his eyes yet softlier down As he can talk, the pediment Which sweeps along our class-acquaintance Was sister: This was our aversion, But ordering either side of our Fair Mother Mother, having visited, And failed to meet in walking first, Worsted itself: for as she said, he dreamed An otherwise, and she renewed Theby was gone; but hearing, he had rest Unshut; and we were all affrighted, Gentle and lovely, that would not Be the dear chance to look ourselves in. This silence therefore did not happen, Since it had been best, and worse than did, And had begun, to change her mood On this greatora, could she trace Aught in the features of her face, Or no less gently see the ease Which words have said? And in her eye Was it confess that Reason took Or could have said again? not truth: ======================================== SAMPLE 521 ======================================== "Hymn at the Liberation War", by Kay Ryan [Gaychant & bass, War & Conflict] The bright jump of Bikuracan River, in the Great Plains, a prize chase team. The pull of the hurry-sweet kernels, beat-up, must have gained the jump. Only the song of the parte shark, bikail, catterer, a tiny cleekham, may be needed. Only the song of the black team,same rhythm to the changes of fashion & makeup, but none for me, only the song of the search team,same screaming, familiar, opera-vending the numbers to children keeping awake, for them, tuning up into song, for me, where did they float there, there, they too, spinning their rhythms into a chorus of string-buoy cargo? And so, lay low in the field, dream-haunted, under a canopy of fogs, under the marshfire, under the blankets, and sheathing the wet snows from his golden tongue? And they gave him the nicot of childhood, that he should become a quickshut fur coat, and he should become a forward-grown colt, quick in the warmth and the stretch of his chest, rhythmically limpid as hthis legs, all restfully lifted atop his green belly, as if from a leaf of a linden, or the heavy breathing of air. <|endoftext|> "Flat, Narragation", by D. H. Lawrence [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Social Commentaries] Flattened by pepper, confusion, I got 1 up.Floating panic-shot calls out of batteries, “a flame jump!” Light scatters the quarter-deck red with gambling, whack!Wheeling like tumbled wheels on flat shingle, nipping the freight train, Moons, squallyin wait on the levee, watch the whole Planets roar, Assaying to be obsequiesCapagatory. So farewell, my brave San Francisco, my Sea band, my Mister, my gold band combo, my Phaethon treasure!“They sat at the reggae and rattled their canisters down to the oyster boats on the Chit resting, Blarney Shark in the cove, Pussing and peeing and groaning and screaming and griting, the ======================================== SAMPLE 522 ======================================== "Parksman", by Henry Clay [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Not the pot of millet not be soilèd, Not the blade of water, not the coke, Not the wild horse Art’s noose, nor mill, nor flying shaft, nor all the shadowy dance, Not all the dead rise from the dead to life or climb to brighter skies: For wherever in a land large melancholy falls, And the long summer evening darkens round its ruinous halls, Out yonder in the forest howls the lash, And starward from a myriad in the face Of endless and hopeless destiny, I hear the crash Of waves against a hidden thunder’s crash; Lost in the woods of night I hear no break of heart, No sign of life save through the copse the cockat crawls; And now as safe in winter as on foot Stamp’n on some bright spring-day of life, As if a fallen oak, that, falling head- reclined With loose leaf th learns sudden stormy wind, And snaps the branch, with terrible force is torn And falls and breaks it into pieces at a crack; And when the early frosts at noon assuage The heat of youth, and all the land is bright With ruddy lightnings, I walk forth to scenes of strange, And when the autumn moonlight pales the woods, Of Hope and Hope I sing, A song of praise, a chant of thanks and praise forever comes. <|endoftext|> "Man’s Winter Manual", by Henry Clay [Nature, Weather, Winter] What if a patch of snow flakes frayed the heavens,And madly down the cold wind rush’d the whitening field— (yet the bleak wind be not the cold war of my cheek, the sleet’s a snare that drags my feeble frame,Yet well-filled elm soaks frost from the well-known aim,And with the oaks to some new river holes I’d stem the deep, and o’er its sluggish waves slant lawns,And fragrant herbs and olives Frangéd me, and Orpheus made me love the shades, and they all came to me, and I was full of singing, and the voice was joyously sweet, and out of tune the birds took my mind with them, “Ch ======================================== SAMPLE 523 ======================================== "Kinsman’s survey", by George Starbuck [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] what are the songs the angels sang on those hills? the saddest songs? The saddest songs? the saddest songs? The saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? chabbada’s songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? choose songs? the saddest songs? chabbada’s songs? the saddest songs? chabbada’s songs? the saddest songs? <|endoftext|> "Glory of God in Evil", by Terrance Hayes [Living, Time & Brevity, Philosophy] Glory and guiltAre there, here and there a shepherd lad,A silly, timorous lad,Loving and laughing, trembling, running throughThe silly sheep-blind of the world?With laughter lighted and laughter lighted,Glory the silly sheep-mist?Glory the lips rough with scorn,Gaily and shrill the shepherd lads;The silly lambs will stifle the trumpet,He folds the shepherd sheep-dog in his blanket,The silly sheep-dog beats the sheep-dog in his sleep,He bark the sheep-dog in the fenitive and sheep-shoe,The silly sheep-dog howls at the sheep-dog’s bayIn idle summertime in empty shade,Silent and woe-delighted, ======================================== SAMPLE 524 ======================================== "from Shoreditch: 1859", by Albert Goldbarth [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Men & Women, Philosophy] 1914 “Where is your father?” “My father.” “Where are you, little girl?” “Into the sea.” “My father. . .” “They reached a distant line.” “My father, little girl. . .” “They reached a mountain. . . .” “My father . . .” “They came . . .” “My father . . .” “Father, I came . . .” “Dark night and ruins me . . .” “In vain for the child. . .” “In vain. . .” “I found no landing. . .” “My father . . .” “He found no landing. . .” <|endoftext|> "note to the lark", by Albert Goldbarth [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Summer, Religion, God & the Divine] I saw an antcarp with a sudden silver collapse . . . I stopped— I fled far away from light and song . . . For a moment I astonished my birds . . . and left a monstrous dot with a heart blackened like a gorgeous watch . . . I fled the same watery flight that blew me back to life with its rasping of the breath of the inane ant. I came in darkness. In flame, like a fierce tiger, in lightning, I fled far. I fled the desert. I came in music, wine the red minnow . . . I raised my wings and vanished in the gold-eyed mist of the inane ant. . . . The bob-white sands of desert I scaled the sky, while over me soared a cloud of clouds from out of darkness crying to the Fromr’s mouth, snorting the waves after me . . .” <|endoftext|> "The New ======================================== SAMPLE 525 ======================================== "Sun Bird", by Sasha Dugdale [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Pets] Be Virtues of the World At the municipal office, Or else just after dinner, Your aged bones might throw Their weight on his joggers. Everything’s in the genes, The old smile, and the new: “Rise up, children, come down, Struck to earth, one by one.” Fold your hands: about, about, here: To the quick as well, here is The sympathy, the pity, That works so freely here upon you As the legitimate rock’s in, Or rather, in your here, over, over, (Though it feels like schoolboys, brothers And caitiff, whom we know not!) Out of the heft of yours, here is To your death shortly, Presence and dream and piousness, Here is a place prepared for you Here, a last time more to you, children, And thanksgiving, there, the eyes Of all your mothers, clever, wise, From the dust and the damp Martin. What do I hear in your stockings, adults, And your play-businessabbling, And your play-businessabbling, And you putting your hands away from the play, And leaving in the church-yard Your stockings and your aliment For humanity to dwell in, For manliness to dwell in, For the use of other people At half-past and half-half. I hear it, I believe it, Several other people in other ages, I have heard the stockparers mentioned, And the stock-imposed letters mentioned, But in America, I can’t remember What we use to write, write anyway, On what patriot countries we conclude it, On what soil the industrious farmery, And all that the country has stretched between us. Here every morning our al undertaken Is to strike the pianofe And we square the harpies of our trade hereafter, Where the modern is increased by new year, And the new come back processional, put in New life as well as new, and back again, And back into the long-past ages, And back across the present ages And all the centuries to ======================================== SAMPLE 526 ======================================== "Blessed Mary", by Louise Imogen Guiney [Living, Infancy, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] The night was the merriest day ever. The female robe that she did not wear Was a gift that you carried to your mother. It was an eight-day church service man. He marched away into a dumping six feet four, Until you grew a scrubmer, a darknessmaker, And crying, stumbling, fell back. Your mother said, It's because they're eating. You tasted like somebody you sold down there, Sitting stock still, her basket full of silver, But you took to serving with her three feet four, That was another order of flesh now, she Flows in every direction like a cloud, Sits there like a pickpocket. You carried her into the shop that you knew right soon, Your father is arrested at the greed mirror Trying to get out of the bag he's had for him, And he offers you everything you can buy with your kite, Which is the thing that you think it is. She’s given birth now, for years after he’s shot lightning And the black slings you think are dropping, too, For you to have just come from the sky, looking down, If you have mountains to throw. <|endoftext|> "Blues Even", by Louise Imogen Guiney [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Activities, Jobs & Working, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Weather, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] The night was the splendor of these clouds. My wife, just miles away, told me that she wanted to be smart: Cosened and settled in her pomelo Finally was she reading to herself, not alone Leaning her head back from the subject, looking at me. As if she had been to me, and I could see, Out in the woods, I saw her standing a short space, An elegant and exquisite outline, of limb. My head lifted to the very sky, it fell into As though it said, Contrition says that it was me. She had been ======================================== SAMPLE 527 ======================================== "Sometimes, tho’ we are here, at the appropriate time, to bring a short & distant view of the country round, Where grateful people all the day did sue, Inspiring men to seek a fleece of rags, A hermit fowl, for whom there needed prayer, And years, in spite of changing wise, With others wandering to and fro; Than heretofore to us is shown, That fortune seems a fleeting show. But we--we are not surely blest: Nor to diseases spur, we see; Nor to the slothful luxury that The heart desires to please us, we: Our pleasures only are consum'd, Where pleasures seize our hours away. Yet we must have some little space Of quietude to wish for grace, Ere we submit to a mistaken taste Of rural happiness to stay. And you have the comfort and content Of a green fellow out of town, Whose house is from the road of ruin rent, And strewn around with modern brown: The dark road home to every blunder-lot, That makes a man to live his days, To curse his lot and not his ways. Then you can tell by the clear fall of skies, By the night’s fiery constellation, And by the lantern on your face, You know that life is worth a race. We were not as children were,--we just as men; But as children. On the shore, beneath the sea, We lodged in boats upon the sandy ground; And, as we ebbed, drew near, and shouted, “Whores.” The pilot said, “We are the mothers, make The woods our home, and leave no trace behind.” We did not steer, and off we turned, and left, And on the shore sat down and waited for our work. A little spied we, passing through the day, Which courage brought from prospect, that we might Behold the port that seemed an he-built bay, And be our home, our own mortality. Postain’d wires employ itself abroad; Its silver sounds on paper were but play. So that we entered on the vacant void And cast our torments at the awkward load. And thus we sang: we toilers all ======================================== SAMPLE 528 ======================================== "Evanescent Hesse", by Louise Imogen Guiney [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I live ahistorical story, and, in my spleen, there’s been. I have been sowing war’s roses while rosy-fingered bees hum and unclose their anther meanings into my atmosphere. The days pass, the deeds are sciatular; the fruits, the wine. I have a rendezvous at certain corners of the street, and a shop, in the civil country, where the yawning civil huts are named "The National" in different islands, but not classed and cramped and overlapping plumed by allegiance. A tie-bopping kids roam the pasture and argue about the joys they might no longer disappoint or peruse. I have been nicer on certain newsprint signs that rot you some day from your friends and tell you that you’re thankful that you’re free to tell it. I have been sweeter, sweet and daintily recognising the dead who seem not my friends, but honored, like you, who seem to yearn for you, in their absent eyes. My heart is the same food that nourished me through the years of my absence, brought me back to all these matters, the house I climbed carefully from the street, the street with its curious incense. In the corner of my heart is a memory of the past, of childhood, I had never the joy of myself, on this side of the road, my art. But of course I know why now, I said, my friends desertThis world. And why not? All the toil, the coil, the need, the needle’s edge, and the traveller with his open eye watches this crowded road and that strange door. <|endoftext|> "Three Flies", by Leslie Adrienne Miller [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Relationships, Home Life] At the threshold of the new life I meet the man behind the stove, the eyes like red-rimmed doctors who don’t understand the pain of it. He asks me to be cheerful as ======================================== SAMPLE 529 ======================================== "Scriblement", by Jim Harrison [Living, Growing Old, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies] At home I’d sit in the dark, my family small, My family small, The homeless allot on the sea-shore, One I love most, Whatever the dream could be, The mind in my brain would roll, Was it just like this in the past When I’d lived to this last? Not this then, Here’s to the men. And we’d also romp in our Beggaro's wars, And so, in the fifteenth year of the wars, We numbered sixty-nine, And the enemy numbered as too many. We numbered fifty-nine, The Germans and all of them, With but one regiment. <|endoftext|> "Yard Work", by Jim Harrison [Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] At first we were victims of war, victims of flame, Some of us were baskets of shellfire, A mythical beast of the deep, some of us kids, As the children play at Beggar, Beggar, and all of us cried, Beggar, the war’s a terrible game. We had grapevines, our thumbs were harvests, Pleasure, Food was our comforts, store-bowls, whatever we needed, Heaven— we had plenty of sorts. But the country around us, We were victims of trade and hunger, Come we to rot in the bushel: We’d buy tickets to Town, Come to drink it up kind of piss, Come to start our broil, sweaty and slow. Come to Empire, toozle and sweep, To the porter keep coming, To dip it in ginger flour, The paste of Beggar and Joseph and Mince and me, Come to choose the daintiest of shoes. All of us, crouched side by side In the brown house by the sea, The water tower with its anchor-bands, The dune like a clot of tan skins, No shoes and strings, No shoes and strings, No shoes and strings But the love of our hearts. Come to the window, alit and alit. And I, who was walking all alone, Piece after piece at her window, Told her stories, And she whispered, Tell me ======================================== SAMPLE 530 ======================================== "An Ordinary Misfortune ["She is attractive"", by Sherod Santos [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics] She is attractive" - I am awkward" - I am perturbed I am not needed to convert life while staring in the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror reflects the beautiful mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror reflects the beautiful mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror of the mirror reflected the beautiful mirror refract the light of the mirror through which light discovers it. and it exists in cypress which the light of the mirror illuminates the eyes of the lady the ======================================== SAMPLE 531 ======================================== "Begg Bath Bath Bath", by Edgar Lee Masters [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Three ride from Ten Tolemy to Youths in Paris with a Prat T Show That the way you come, as always, Your sense of life may wither or wither In a rot and a wreath, And then lie dead, For it's then no longer that you wither, But it's then that you begin To turn the least two sons into pigs. A life, which would bring you to a bustle, And crawl out on the hemp like grass, For it's then no longer that you pass To sleep the least of your own sons. <|endoftext|> "Three Poems Without an Beard", by Edgar Lee Masters [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Spring, Stars, Planets, Heavens] Three Confusing Glances at Waves and Erie Lines The Poem of the Ships and These are the Andes where they file to Sing Sing Sing Sing To You, most of them having power, which they are not told But surely would have thought That they were there with their wings outspread In the Flight of a Venet where it was just one Where it is true that flight is made And only one way To fly agleam with the hope of resurrection Where it is simple that to you be not Only a mother and one child With a meaning of nothing No more hast thou been mopping the ground now that the Well-heads are crying, and the Bolls are still be-mossing thine voices like Irish music where it stirred A life of melody In the Spirit of Things that is And is not <|endoftext|> "Abou Ben Adhem", by Robert Browning [Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Ay me! The text of the Blue book of the Blue: Hast thou then any tender secret kept for thee? Tender and soft as a plaid, O sister mine, O something never-ending, A something never-ending that I would not dwell on till I'm slain? Ay me! The text of the Blue book of the Blue book ======================================== SAMPLE 532 ======================================== "Old Glory", by Philip Adolph [Social Commentaries, Heroes & Patriotism] (after Richard Zolen) A dog's a man, With fire ablaze, Near-approaching, On heights of pureness. His gaze acquires A sudden brightness. He soars up-springs To that bright prize, And reaching heaven, Is void of blame. A dog's a man, With fire beneath him. A dog's a man, With lightning in him. A dog's a man, By proof he knows it. A dog's a man, With storm enough To sail all day And lose his pocket. A dog's a man, He does the same, Without remorse, Without remorse; A dog's a man, He does the same, When he does not get any To lose his pocket. A dog's a man, He does the best Either to fill The rifle or the Billing at his chest. A man is not the feeblest In a crowded place; And he will be pretending Something to stop his face. A man will not impose Upon his ordinance; Nor will upon the wise Give his attendance; An individual sips An individual covert From a prop up in his pocket. A dog will not be trusted To the terror of his kind, Or safety, like an ambled bird's From the shelter of his mind. Nor will he, by his piety, Give his assistance in his flight; But with a friendly word, to his ImOSals and companions, Will help him in his task, or, sorely, Be helping him at his leisure. The dog will soon give ground, And then will wave and storm Right lustily and free, In spite of all their courtesy; His manner gentle, his address Lately will be accepted, and Dislike in his condition. He's a most punctual traveller, Although he uses not The courage of a dog; or if He wants what he can give, You give it back to him; and although He is a dog perhaps, a man May sometimes rule contempt. The dog will oft relent Whene' ======================================== SAMPLE 533 ======================================== "Soft", by Marilyn Arnold [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] But there’s no end to the question of what has become of perennial snow between hieroglyphs and obelisks. • I shuck my gloves and go to the trial. The world is a beast of scowls. He clips The forest and I choose to be inside. But the animal inside is the phantom That doesn’t exist. There’s no end to the question of what stares. The tiger with his canine eyes crawls into the dark. I think There are no glasses to mark the place in the road where we can slowly find The heart of the suffering creature. But the dust in our wake and its Desolation and the faces that don’t recognize any voice but are seeing it In its wake. The chest of the body, that stiffens like an animal Almost brusch and turns over. The elephant, his red eyes burning At the enemy of sharks, crouches to observe a sudden buryment of The monster, who is himself a spaceship of a honey-bottle horn, Saying that mankind are immortal inside that they don’t recognize anyone. The rain, that can’t stop the rain from heaven, Says what dogs are when the rain leaves the trees. The garden of the elephant salutes the sun as though to avoidable Are its one hurt. And the elephant salutes the sun as if to disregard the heights Where the mountains are made to overlook the variations of the snow As if they were made to uncover and be again made visible by the Ashes of the sun. <|endoftext|> "Little Diary of Getting Old: VIII", by Kw Ksenning [Living, Growing Old, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] 1. “In Town,” because of the little that goes by means a walk. 2. “In Town,” because of the little that goes by means a walk. 3. “In Town,” because of the little that goes by means a walk. 4. “In Town,” because of ======================================== SAMPLE 534 ======================================== "The Feet", by Guillaume Apollinaire [Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The sweet-voiced breeze, the whistling wind How lightly blows against the wide sea-mound. Sad is that place in sameness, lonelier For all the passers through than for the Pole. And in its mournful sweep, habits that leak From stalls where kneel a woman in her prayers, Do beruffle feathers to her monstrous bare: Dark corridors stretch wide to kiss the lips Of some incarnate, fervent, sucking sea, That holds all space, all grimace, and eclipse The broad, thick worst plea of saintly majesty. Those classic cyphers, noses like a bribe Against the amorous crony, rayed like flame, The sinuous language that adorns the stale, Shifting the steps that speed them. What avail Made by the wind? Its fumes still in the air; Its maze of interminable spires that swarm In shard and shiner, toadstool's maw as with a swarm? Or has there lingered mid those perils, rife Mid rocks and mounds the sneering sea to-day? Lo, all things seem to widen, widening, Emerging from the fountain whence they pour, Up from the East, a measure universe. One solid shelf of storm-cloud, great and small, Before whose cloudless, circumspect abbloom, White vapor, hurls the whole broad earth half-mast Against the trembling tamarisk of heaven, Lengthens her hoarse, dishevelled crystals, mixt With sand of sun, and casteth far beneath, Scattered about, as 'fore the downs we passed. Thus do the wind, toward the setting wave, Flicker and slip and soften; and the soul Whose deep night corners, with the stars, doth make Colors of drowsy texture through its hold, Yet falls, unstoppled with the circumscr owing light Of morn, when from the 'scarped darkness steals The sun, and doth to meet the morning beams, Then doeth light's promise free of clouds and night. And varied voices through the air are blown, High, clear, and thin, like distant thunder- ======================================== SAMPLE 535 ======================================== "Having No Both Souls", by Henry David Thoreau [Nature, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] I have no choice, being a man With a good cheer and an eye That never has shown the skin That had tamed the jeweler's glaive And the good cheer that would give My love for a throne of bale, That my love had no grief: The bonniest breast a bride might lave Is sweeter than any bride; And he who has faced the roulette And win or lose his pride Or win or win from the weary heart Is his hope, for he has his part In the great world where we meet: And who has made his brayking noise Or ever the heart o’’joys May in his wild veins range, Or the warm kindling blood of the racing day Rather through his veins Run crackling down his sides, and stray Into some hollow shrine Where his thoughts are burned as shine. Or said I, Oh, how many silences Laugh about as I pass by And with what a strange delight Do I catch the soul of the breeze Along the silences? <|endoftext|> "Lifeguard", by Henry David Thoreau [Living, Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Nothing was done but a curvo and a runga commission and the whole room around was a movie in which something was left, which was not lost except a pattern and an arm. But it was I who was standing in the midst of the company building for protection through the Entertain of the world without which it is not the freedom of entry but the place it is which is called after you, looking in the center of the world, like a capital, rising up and rising into the absolute overhead. <|endoftext|> "I Try Before the Mirror", by Henry David Thoreau [Living, Arts & Sciences, Music] 1 “Friends, it is The sea—but the sands are beautiful; it is The sea that is lovely, but does not cover beautiful.” Walking through the street, I have been becoming old. The books ======================================== SAMPLE 536 ======================================== "Faulty", by Jennifer Gwynethse [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] I will sit here and eat a roast cake of whatever; since the teller, thus inspired, has a deal of essentialism tempered, yet how can I unearth the essential evidence and teaching the words of pleasant sentences?II When love was a force and a will, however long or drear, however long or drear, however sleepless can forget— however long or drear do I have to forget, nor ever forget besides all about self, which here divides my love— a difference only small enough to accommodate whatever abides, and afford the means to ennoble worshipping of their gratitude.III How foolishly, therefore, to praise the images on which the mind doth feed; to see beauty’s gift to men mostly, not to say grace at least, or commendably, but at the best; to spend the others’s entire selfimage at the expense and colour of others’ lots, shut up in a larger dark, where no one clouded the vision. Vague fear only to lift, not to disturb what is really over-born, or sublime. <|endoftext|> "Death", by Judy Latm [Living, Death] Death’s what we do To bear the thought of you. And death to fear Were foolish tricks To put them by. We stood before Your door To let in the rain And you in. Never a door But where we’d sprawl And you out. Your bones are very stout. <|endoftext|> "My Dead", by Danniel Svreu [Living, Life Choices, Death, The Body, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries] That was a life of inquiry. Decades of bliss. And so we’d live Again to hear Of worms And birds And flowers. <|endoftext|> "My Dead", by Danniel Schlegel [Living, Death, Growing Old, The Mind, Time & Brevity] I will not die! Already the ground Is tawn ======================================== SAMPLE 537 ======================================== "Song (I)", by George Meredith [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] (Charles Meredith: Dos) I. England, my love, and you men, I have no children but your lovers. Henry is most romantic And hollow-eyed and aromatic To look into my eyet's heart And find a home that's not my madness. Henry is but a legend To an admiring schoolmate. Henry is but an illusion To an admiring schoolmate. Henry is a dream To light his fires at evening. Henry the distant remembers To layfriedton was easy. Henry the Eighth is dead. Henry the Eighth is dead. Boxton, his good friends And no nobility at dinner. Henry the Eighth is a rotund At least for a farthing, Henry the Eighth is a rotund. His German philosophy Has made the dull stone jealous. His German philosophy Has made the dull stone jealous. Henry the Eighth lives like a leaf In an Aegyptian library Kilgrut, and therefore useful. Henry the Eighth is an acolyte Calling his friends, his book friends, Is written with his heavy heart Drawn by the steady strength And the inviolability Of an imaginary telephone. Henry the Eighth shares thoughts That are better than his verses. Henry, his health insurance And his friends, works like a jeweler’s, And in his dreams he is the real friend And very real, very real. Henry the Eighth shares thoughts Sweeping like the seaman through Gulbey and Adlerty and Southern Cross: The slim nun-ghost, evil Greeting and biddings from the other world. His book was papillon-olded And guarded for his mind The hallowed gift of words And the unfathomed love of love And the dear frivolity of death To brave the crude and rotting growth And age to prophesy. Henry, King Anne is dead. ======================================== SAMPLE 538 ======================================== "October Cutting" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Sent for me Send or buy This poem Busy as it came. As it went, this poem’s covered with parts and with plastic flannel till it isinselled into papel and braid and washed across its legs. At the top of this rectangle I can make an eye into it Yet I know That summertime’s not sunny. When I look up from the receptacle and think about the birds and the grass on the tree, I feel as if I was running from them. <|endoftext|> "The Coming of the Lord", by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Someone would be glad to give the message to men of His name. Doors, what? A button in the air. What are those clouds of dust that come even on a morning when the sun shines bright? Or the storm of things in the night? Come and hear what the bells say— The dark cuckoos, the nightingale. Come and hear what the bells say— The dark cock, the nightingale. What are those clouds of dust that come even on a morning when the sun shines bright? Come and hear what the bells say— The dark cock, the nightingale. <|endoftext|> "To Quay and Small", by James K. Baxter [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Winter] Trees among the river, leaves in the air,Bells in the branches ring. Over the lake, like a cuckoo, calls, From a balcony near a castle, in flight,Borne on a branch, to a coffee-house Where the trees are purple in the moonlight. With slow and stealthy steps, as he goes Into the garden, does he see afar The forest, and the white Lilacs, and the fragrantHotter-sweetness of sheep, and the blue Cream of the early dawn. He takes Thebing for the morning, taking up The book and shaking it, and reads Tattered papers on the mat, and reads Till he is free to go. The world is gone, and in it many flowers, All by a special light of ======================================== SAMPLE 539 ======================================== "A Remington", by Christina Pugh [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] In the first year of the year God was my lover. In this dry heat of rain, I called him my husband. In this five-year-old year my own my old woman is no longer in need of the dead before a photo of him. In the last half of the year I cried for her to be still. In the perfect element of ourselves our faces are faced by questions of what age is. In the last half of the year she herself is a mask of silence. She can fly between storm and snow, but why the barracks where my own dead melt the air? <|endoftext|> "Estuary", by Christina Pugh [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Summer] There is a river fog along a coast that ends from here to sunset-shot. The roads stretch inward. On this side there is the estuican crouching up and now against a sky of maps that are not threads of blue, and the air is phantom. The landscape rises into cloud, a grisire rowing out of place. And as the river, a blue figure in the distance. Then it rises, and forsakes the brilliance of the water and the still, sky-capped, farther, farer. A trickle of light falls over the masts and thin ropes and the lead floats on the low wooden ropes. The swings are flung from the fantastic spars; from the constantly grinding of ropes and spines that bear thin ropes descends the plank lines, exerting its sudden drag across the windshield. It is orderly, precise, and precise. No need to look about its traces. On the green, lavender canopy of its spectrum blue-black, speckled with ash, where the yellow struck light behind the blue veil of smoke, the pagan bees huddle from the steam, arise from the farthestiz and deploy. And I drum the ecstatic moments to remember the first dead of the night. <| ======================================== SAMPLE 540 ======================================== "Flow", by Rae Armantrout [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] Somewhere in France on the edge of the city lies a small cart parkedzo’s gothicque d’a est courage e grandre la gamouse. A little wind romps in a poplar tree’s bough, it rustles, low and sweet, the long street windmills. Should I believe it, the noisy riverswain shouldered. How the children cry when one is still? All day long I see the play, the play of water-wisdom.Statuesque foisoned. Vigorously the boys will turn and twist and make tea. Looking up, I see white haired times. Ilrib Hoi Rieses s’é sovereigns: I’m still going, the child, I’m waiting when the play of mud is out. But I’m not going. I’m going. I’m going. I’m going. The treacherous stream will dry. The hare, the monster. The boys and girls, the way I get them, they’ll be kids, charming. Now the river’s slow-verting; the babble of the pig’s breath; the cage of a poisoned zebra, a phaon joyous set and gorgeous to heed. A day’s pleasure; a year’s play of goose and toys. A May Fly, a gymnoscypt, ainea soused, a desperately cruel monster. A Vietnam Of The Cressy, the Dragon. A Sword-Attended: Of a Bready-Killed Switzers, Composed by the geysers, With a Mouse for a dinner. Of A Stick and a Lion, Of a tow candles, And One, the Great O’Branx Ode, To them that should ride on the Water, Of a Deer in a Crying Cliffe, Inasmuch as Granny was the beautiful Lady who sang “A Little Love Song,” when her Ode, Homeward to the Firmament of her Breast. And sing her, in that kind One, By that No-one should sing to The Good Dame’s Ode; To her, who would ======================================== SAMPLE 541 ======================================== "Sneeze", by Todd Boss [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] 1. Dirt & beeplights reach the other side of a patio below. The second bottle is of banjos. By the third bottle, light between the rocks is dropped in light between the fifth bottle and the shadow of the shadow. From below, they reach below the ruddy clouds. The sun lets them stand out in the grim mirror of the fallow. They arrive on a dun cow. The two horses behind them, whip two heavy mules between them, pull a pleat into them like box. The sot crouches on her down beside a parked car. A boy from his high stool squirts sheep. At the other end, one of the maghee faces Neneman alternate, a black dot on his white frock. From the third bottle, light follows light through a cow. <|endoftext|> "Nurse", by Todd Boss [Living, Coming of Age, Death, The Body, Love, Heartache & Loss, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] 1. Crumbs hide the mare. Cudj pop the balloon. Arrow the 
evils. Cudj pop a loudspeaker. Cudj pop the balloon. Cudj pop the balloon. 'Tis a well-roll: the 
evils are the 
evils, the 
evils, the 
evils, the 
empire. Sway, 
empire. The 
evils are the 
evils, the 
evils, the 
empire. 2. Cudj pop the balloon, the 
empire. Cudj pop the balloon. Cudj pop the balloon. Riches. Cudj pop the balloon, 
evils, 
empire. 3. Cudj pop the balloon, the 
empire. Sway, 
empire. 4. Cudj pop the balloon, the 
empire. Sway. 5. Cudj pop the balloon, the 
empire. Sway. 6. C ======================================== SAMPLE 542 ======================================== "Work 1", by Jake Adam York [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] To sayHandsome Hall was built by Walt Whitman but Walt Whitman owned it as a fact, and raised materials for the fray, to try a new environment for the fray. This new Act stirred old Tarbad’s heels to this new Act of Superity revealed, which it abroad shone out from the pages of the Singera edition, which in all things true and act well done was the one assist and support of the world. Henry E. W.M. examined the books which Henry James of Gertrude spake of, telling him the truth and broader the patterned life of the man—W.M. ingest a library to Bob W. cords and uses of a straitened style. He found the books on Fourteenth Avenue, then laid them down without a word, and said good-bye to the new life spiritual beauty of the ever-lettered plain. And the new ages went on coming, and Columbus became a flying bolt, and the elements of the universe and intellect became suddenly conformed to a riddle, scrolled, and they bent back like wondrous cocks, that once saw Shakespeare, and Homer, and Virgil, father and son and comrade, as they passed the last words and the ads and the what, sulphurous, some old women’s husbands, some chatsmen-guest, all those who saw the poems pilaus in the book, and many who read like so many of us, but for a haughty world, who studied not without subject to pride and the off-side of all-day light slide back to ignorance—was this the poem of our lives that God had raised? <|endoftext|> "American Roots: Moral Associations", by Primo Levi [Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Social Commentaries] 1 Kinship: Is embarrassing the wind, Is heavy the water— Kinship is achild Is dolled at in its A life in dishonourable parts. 2 Lizard: Erasmus leaves a print ======================================== SAMPLE 543 ======================================== "But The Man Who Knew Enjewell That Spoke inhal’n’t", by William Barnes [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Theater & Dance] (FOR SENSION) I won’t continue because I know that the signified is absolutely continuous, its term so diffuse various ideas have become apparitions implying the transept dance moves through neglect or conc disappears. I won’t continue because I know that the feminine is hardly a person of the mind, when it takes in what is missing. I won’t continue because I know that the feminine issplit from the maple’s tassel. I will not reveal to You What is low let me infer. I will not conceal to You what I would conceal. II But Thee, You Reveal, Night and day are metaphors <|endoftext|> "Ode to Evening, 13", by Robert Duncan [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Weather] The wind that blows the stars and whispers them a million miles away what you have been. The thick leaves of the thick locus strangle if one of them happens. That is all. And I see what you see in the trunk of the wild tree. The trunk of the wild tree is a telling. The map of the trunk of the tree goes up with the falling of sunlight, and only the strangest of all is a tell of you. In the beginning it was all a mock-major to a love poem. An image of the canopy of the cloud is the talk of an endangered form that slips under the trunk of the pomegranate. And just for an end were nothing anyway, nothing to be endured: nothing to be endured until to-morrow, and only to be begotten again and then. <|endoftext|> "Terra Major", by Robert Duncan [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, School & Learning, Philosophy] When I wake to greet thee, Autumn, I behold afar off thy forests, far away and pointing to the sea. I behold thee through the splendor of the forests, the playground from the river, the tree of wild grapes, and the welling- wood in the wind that fills the vines. I behold thee as a ======================================== SAMPLE 544 ======================================== "Bendey", by Stanley Moss [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] I don’t like the deal, thank you. I’m a fool too: seeking out secrets. I don’t value chatelettes. I hate the screen as a stag’s cubicle, a stall’s milky fatness, a milky motion, a milky face, a froth and muck, a froth like that for someone else. I love the thing you lie on my tongue. Now, it becomes less important, your taproot drum now, staccato Hell. Your souan’s shot away. Your sleek transparent fingers grow to be palm seed. All I can do is pluck a pair of good pears from my tree. I grew, I saw, I ate, I tried to say what I did, I ate. I threw open-mouthed pears, stubs, thumbholes, combs, put them wide open. I love the pumpkin negro, though he looks stupid, too brilliant for even the king of Mullis and the Little Dragon’s dowry, too beautiful for me. You look like it. Your opaque hand leans on your mouth. He tries to think more about you, an unlucky guess at the ideal you are of. Gold, like the scarlet cherry. gold like that. If I could eat, I’d help him out. For I’d try tearing, trying, with effort so long, to pull the sun out. But a body of me, eyes, mouth, can’t pull apart. I’ve tried so long I have only to reach out. I have only to cast myself, frozen, out of your arms, hooded, hunched. I’ve tried. I’ve tried, but can’t baffle, this sense of how tireless the world you don’t want to see, with its pain, its waste, its confusion. But still, I don’t want to force myself into you. <|endoftext|> "Satin", by Stanley Moss [Living, Growing Old, Life Choices, Midlife, The Body, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Men & Women, Gender & Sexual ======================================== SAMPLE 545 ======================================== "Rosetta", by Dilruba Ahmed [Living, Life Choices, The Body, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] How is she wearing The inside blues? She wears black. How is she doing Doing it to blues? <|endoftext|> "Square de Mo/jo", by Dilruba Ahmed [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] After Rilke I stepped up to the bridge to look around on the bridge and observe me. I saw a moving chair of watercolor and on the paper. It moved in the dark of each page. In the basket the scribbled figures of water stood. On the wooden table stood with their backs to the river. On the thin table in the library illuminated by their books. On the paper’s scroll read the names of their ancestors and unnamed fingers. I read the names of the names of the dead and the desolate, and the memory of their places. <|endoftext|> "The Pool", by Dilruba Ahmed [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] The Pool, someone remembering it as well might bring back to herself some more fitting memory of the voyage, may well have afforded a convincing account of the how and what it might chance that should have afforded some other source of recollection. I recall how I was first cast in the ocean, lodged in the country of my mother, in various fish land. I was first called in derision, a dance of spirits, muscular by nature. It is, however, negative, that I most likely rememberwas the last choice I had before. It is a chatter between memory and fact, continuous in its profusion. It dives beyond language, how and when. It dives because it must, then. It is speechless, italic. I remember then an ancient grandfather, full of understanding and a skilled in prophecy. His reply was still, very fine. <|endoftext|> "Fatigue transistor", by Dilruba Ahmed [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture] The small striped sun colored paper like red and blue backs of shaped faces feed the curls of his throat, his corpulent mouth rounded and hunched, his breathing difficult ======================================== SAMPLE 546 ======================================== "Song to My My Son, My Day", by Edward Thomas [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity] My son, my kin, my God in love,So let us live a happy life, and wife And all that Death can bring; oh, give us grace To keep our little ones in our place And face to face. My son, my wife, my child, my wife,A beaker full of happiness and life! Oh, give us grace to stay; oh, give us ease! Give us to ease; oh, give us leisure, ease! My son, my wife, my child, my life is best,And all that Death can give is rest. Oh, give us grace to stay; oh, give us rest! A day of happiness is sure to come,And not a wish for consolation. <|endoftext|> "Lausing", by Robert Frost [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Lausing night’s darkness slowly crept westward up the hill. As daylight followed, the woods in line with woodbine bleated, plunging with the wind. The rivulet, poured wood to find, trod idly down its side, and instantly was there, no stopping, and—the road! Filled with small, crushing stones, the road hurrying past it strongly; then it was that something in a sudden, something in a darkness, something that was forever still that this darkness should one day be the center of all, for no hand but ours to push head aft, brow to brow, fingers to head on the dark tide—here our hearts all should burn together. Try it once again, in that dark, day’s protest, seeing that Death’s hands clenched—yes, hand and foot— bows to me. And there’s the fire of death in that black eye—the fire of hell —turned to a tree, bared branch-like, soft and silent mouth, her dark face burning with both hands and lips. <|endoftext|> "On Teaching the Young", by ======================================== SAMPLE 547 ======================================== Explanation, then hard philosophy,Strangers out of all questions Or irrational companions, loses a few words From which the mystery is to still find A certain way of walking, as through a shot through a vista Of non-truth to the earth. "This system is also paved by the aid of Miss Pollywahr, And the nice missionary who lives in that life is The dance black as her lips. "The simple voyager who Belgics adventurous rhymes From the sill of a bard who sees evening is out of her dreams While the whole world is listening to stars. "There is but one capital poet who can float Upon the air and go mad with desire to convey his Fiery soul to a place where the rocks face the waves, A place where the ramparts of terrible war dreams Into the terrible trance of the ocean. "At the great war poetry waits for an engine And a voice from afar awakes a woman To a alarm in the night. "The poets await you at Gallipoli, You and Arab poetry, painting the wall. "The poets await you at Gallipoli, You and Arab poetry, playing the bulleto Like the ransost at Schilaide. "The poets await you at Gallipoli, You and Arab poetry, playing the bulleto. "You and Arab poetry await near the same Garden (I forget the words) the speaker. "The poets await you at Gallipoli, You and Arab poetry await near the same Vista of you in the night. "We wait here for the starlight, We await you at Gallipoli, You and Arab poetry await there, You and silence await there, You and silence await there, You and silence await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, You and signs await there, ======================================== SAMPLE 548 ======================================== "Zoophie", by Babette Deutsch [Living, Life Choices, The Body, Love, Realistic & Complicated] With my song for an amanuensis hiroasai. And for chortin for Chorion, a seventeen or ten years earlier, wearing small suspenders of slashnake and panties on the semps. The solutions in prayermakes the most nervous loss. I hate despair. I would not do it again where I clean up the bay where the island is lost where my people and I go by that third precise austerity called ‘drabberon’ where the cliffs have also been kissed whereas the bottom of the ocean is bluest after seven years where the plains have simply become drabbing parce numb at the pole star where the cliffs form too soon where the tide goes over and the waves re-assemble for recitation at the island. 2.6.69 <|endoftext|> "Cantin", by Donald Revell [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated] For Adrienne Rich We’d find out the secrets we’ve tried to conceal. We’d find out the heart and the magic of sound— the riddle of silence and mystery. We’d explore the unfolding of mystery. We’d see significance in sex, and we’d find the intensities in mystery. We’d find the distraction and dumb ecstasy in mystery. We’d see the dark ebb, and we’d feel the remote great passions working within us. We’d see the romance of art by the lawless art of trance. We’d discover error—reject and subconscious. We’d see the mad world’s end and its fun. We’d find it in art and science and rich familiar world—the world’s art. We’d find the calm world with its mad terrors rife and new worlds as of old, our eyes a double tide of spirit currents ebbed and flowed to this fleeting power ======================================== SAMPLE 549 ======================================== "The Garden’s Sacred Explication", by May Wedderburn Cannan [Love, Romantic Love, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers] Dew shines in February, and the early gray shepherd in particular has journeyed this way and that, and his flown sheep now come to his bellies in the dark. It’s very important to mention the green kind of grass mats— which they were burned on the lawn while the other kids in town were shunning are kept in fragrant scrub; this was high and famous for the sheep—with the worms being very few. But who would know with what sap he had come to get there, if some or none had forgotten at the gray-haired girl or no, to be the first love on earth to see her newborn sonvi bleat to the gazam, or the small grasshopper, or the man in the clean suit who could whistle a penny, or pull the red hose from his neck —some time would have smelled of heaven even though it could never have been so fine, that pure morning, immense, even pure light, but for the little grasshopper, immense as is his who comes to claim his parents’ household stare as occasion takes as the grassblade of our sunrise, but why eat his wing, when the sun finally covers and he’s not quite dead, —you know, with what a woeful joy and high relief his life points out through rain of grass blades, as clear as the sharp clover bobbing over its young heads, which rustle and bob, dear parents who once showed us that this is it, that the truest and most sweetest intimate we are when we season our loves with grace, we love to sing, in gratitude for all things and voices only heard, but called across the soft grass blades. <|endoftext|> "Wide Awake", by Mark Irwin [Living, Time & Brevity] I’ve been down to my knees in certain vampires, taking their ugly faces, making din of them as I could at a kill, and known the pain I felt, the can of the years, how ======================================== SAMPLE 550 ======================================== "Lezumedar", by Rebecca Weston Ford [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Time & Brevity] When I eat it, I swallow my head with salt & pine & jimblam & ice, in Eternity where eternity is eternal. I thirst & grub it & spout it into my teeth my boy. I thirst in the eternal, once only nothing, yes, all. & I thirst that it’s enough to know & it drinks, says the universe. In time, I catch a broken song. I drop it & shake it into my mouth wriggling a stick. I snort & lie through six months to make myself believe in it, awake, until it sounds like ice, then make a pattern, thanks— <|endoftext|> "Nothing Who It Is, Mid Light", by William Carlos Williams [Living, Disappointment & Failure, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets] All things are a shadow, or a thought lost, flown, lost. Summer, I say to myself, unable to find meaning, unimaginable—the white of the robe, the smooth of the gown, the brown of the voice— from which, of course, we learned that, where the rhythm of the whole poem, the limbs dreamed, were my mind. So— if the light, tomorrow, be not lost, being the body of light, to which, by right, all that (if I abode the rap and saw that entity was caused) is ended. The foreground was music: the least, first, of the first, the last, the first. The space between them is a waste of thought. So be it. Be it, if you cannot, the place you are. Be it, if you can, to which it is already, un-to-which. <|endoftext|> "The Window", by Rebecca Weston Ford [Living, Health & Illness, Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] But, at what hourfall? Would you forget some heart-ache, all these, or a handbasket— a few rose fingers frail ======================================== SAMPLE 551 ======================================== "Senses of Women", by Luc Tholowski [Living, Growing Old, Midlife, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] 1 In the ruins of old times, my soul was a running pool that didn’t leave a transparent pool nor those beautiful evasettes that covered it in powder and shot like thirsty flies. But those walls gray with the history of dissolvable to all of them as they made themselves a part of it and made a part of it and made a part of it for a lightness becoming it and a thing becoming it and warped it away to nothingness and a love aquaineum and a something solid and real and a lightness again and a horror and a tang of it and how it became a light that made us feel, breathe, breathe and how it entered through and through, and between, the drop of dawn and the scurrying of sandals and the glint of sandals and the bleaching of it and of them, and of them— and of all the trees and roofs that form the soul of a place— it was so dirty in the ditches and dust and dirty of ten thousand rooms— so dirty in sandals and the stink of all the coasters before the water boiled and the endless dirty of everything and the dirty of bubbles and the dirty shoes on the stove— but my life continued these moments beside the new bed where came the nights when fish were playing jack Deer and the washboat reëchoed and the slimefoors where the daughters of men and women ate as the goddesses in the rock pool and the water deep as a pillory, and the slimefoors that crawled over it flew out like small translucent smoke and bad fish stood in the water and the sucking of it and the slimefte oils paused to lift my body till it was floating in the sunlight like something that is a long dead boat with a small boat drifting on the water and the smell of the sea and its far deaths ======================================== SAMPLE 552 ======================================== "The Streams of England", by Li-Young Lee [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] The stream’s bright current, and the pure Castaneda, the mother of the world, teems with the power of our Mother. History is the mother of the flow’s beloved and locked to the embraces of the earth as it clasps the scented trees. She is a mother of language and of fair words and closes its doors to the farthest realms of the spirit. She changes the hues of our dreams, and recedes between the landscape and the ground, scatters forth the dreamlike grace that blinds us as with an art from the source; she is a mother of memory, a mother of peace, a mother of love. <|endoftext|> "Anacting Man in His Own Country", by Philip Sidney [Living, Health & Illness, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Class] To demand dollars, fifty cents, two farms, To swill all debts into a day, To count on every title, through the means Of personal social standing in our way, We trudged so easily and so again That to be less in love, it seemed to you, In social life, would prove most true. Before we ever lectured how we read Each public or her huge design, How large a fence the beasts would still possess, How great a man, how wise, how big a line. <|endoftext|> "Things to Do in New York", by Philip Sidney [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, Class, Popular Culture] We are in our laughing hours, We, clumsy-handed, dreading all The odds and dumps of time. We tramp a limb-adolescened step, And watch the twisted ships come past, With gun-lights quivering in the dark, By our side quails, curving the seas. Mid-sentence-lives and sleighs Astraddle us, and lo, our tasks Arrive those ribs of rubber foam. We march with wrinkled hearts; our faces, Big-bellied with so many rains, Look out to sea, with ======================================== SAMPLE 553 ======================================== "Being Ric Riches", by Frank Stanford [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Trees & Flowers] I have wanted to become a poem, a poem, or a flimsy jewelry, the way it’s all so messed up here, here on the seat back of the truck. Its easy cellulose is a rooster, a tame cock, cocked party notes, a trolley coat that might adorn a half-semed creed. What could I do? That night I dreamt I wrote the truth, and in the night I dreamt I wrote. But it’s so simple, seeing how beautiful this morning in a garden, there between the rafters, the rafters, all around me and me, like a neighborhood from another country. Where the grass never grew much wet I wish I could Had to change my lot, grow old with family property, arrange traps, dig, stock, junket, fix books, fix vicar. Here come the trees. You’ll find us young or old in there, who’s yellow-face, gray-silver, a little aboon with a big walnut bush, a shelf to cover. I wish we could not change our lot, up here beside this cottage, where, like me, a northbound county river going down with all its rippling maya, green-gloved,chard rivers around the door of two a day. Up here we are again, my friends, together. That night I made love out of the ditches; brought out by the river, the back lawn, the field, the park, the hub (a bluff brook you could tell if you could keep out of things), which is not much there, so you and I will meet again later, other than making love out of this brook you see. We don’t mix this hot, dried up brook that floats on the surface of the bay while we wait for the bus, the smoke, the truck, the bees. But we don’t mix our thoughts with thoughts except for images of distant living consummating the deer in the woods, the paintbrush, the willow, woodbine, the poppies and the willow wintry. And, it ======================================== SAMPLE 554 ======================================== for Thomas Rhodes, May 1, 1857 I’ll not wish anything to learn but this instead.I’ll pull out his sheets and grind his spindle again, so stay the day’s constructions.I’ll tell him to work the flamenbest I can.I’ll let nothing else to net his teeth to shut me in, so so my last dream will not come.I’ll not let him let me rot like this.Though he may kiss his wife at home, though she may ask him for justKissing it.I’ll not be the talk of common things.I’ll not be a vagabond, but an almost outcast.This will be the lesson I expect to have.May God damn the curse we’ve heard.” <|endoftext|> "Scorn", by Joshua Edwards [Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Money & Economics] You wanted to come and sit for half a day.To play with shells and twiddles. Never sound.You’ve got a wife’s fist to try that fist,Which, you know, is the part theyDesence wrenchs down and denews the blow.Not muscle, but a wet belly, which can work it anyhow! <|endoftext|> "From “The Monastery” In Her Feminine Sign 2", by Williams Williams Williams [Living, The Body, The Mind, Love, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] The Monastery knows most of the things of the time. He’s a saint, and so is the woman. That’s what the man is doing, that’s the constipation of him and the rope; we’ll play at cards and buy a row of gasoline bucklesthat boys got, and bink sack for a glass of beer. We know he wanted most to make out the things now, for his wife, she and her man, to disappear. That was the worst, she thought. She’d moved back then, she hoped he might try and make a show and begin on the way to his home, an attic room for the family of the one she’s missing, ======================================== SAMPLE 555 ======================================== "Deep in Her Wound", by Thomas Reynard [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, The Spiritual] When I saw you I couldn't say, Duck, there is no end to this species, and you probably said, No one's got between you and him. No man's got between you for a wambler, some farmer's gift to send out, and the first or the last to place round those who have seen you turn, and many a man again burn in the face. Pale-skinned, hollow-eyed, yellow-haired, I had the least of the chance, and it was true we made the most in love. Years rolled by. More hopeful of heart, and visited to play alone in your life. That's how I felt. But I forgot. Our aim was not to mark, It is the net, but to do without, Who spread the sky, and shared the elemental air. But do not think of us; we soar; we have not much to say upon the other! We have not been down to ships, up to the net again. It matters nothing when ills darken and we begin to drench our souls in drinking fire, And after dark, we're nothing but a dream of death. <|endoftext|> "The Burial of Shadows", by Robert Wrigley [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] How can the dead again be clasped and again made, and again grope among the awakened, to the dwelling, the sleeping?— their veins like mushrooms of water finding themselves again in the fire,their bodies like swims grazing light, their feet no longer breathing.No longer the ghosts of the ones waiting next week sell, as with a waving of torches, waving their way into the clouds.No longer able to move the body to grip its survival of the feeling of death, of life, greed, and hunger.The bodies now feel as if alive. <|endoftext|> "My Mother Stands with Me", by W. S. Robinson [Living, Coming of Age, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] You’re also here well, wanting to drive your car into the branches of bushes, with ======================================== SAMPLE 556 ======================================== "Moves in the Moon", by Magan [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Philosophy] I am the woman who makes the Moon of Mountain with her face up (I am not pale, I am transparent, not overly dead), I am her satellite by mountains, and myself upon the stars, and the woman whose voice says Amen to this or the moon, I am her satellite by cities, and she is my wife, And I am her satellite by planets, and I am her satellite by spheres. I am her satellite by many lights, and she is my wife, and I am her satellite by moons. I am her satellite by many gnats and ants, and I am her satellite by night, and I am her sister who eats the grass of the night and weighs on potatoes in honey, and I am her satellite by kisses, I am her and I am her and I am her and I am me, And I for me. <|endoftext|> "Towns in Colour", by Maganzea Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky E Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky Lasky E Lispy Lasky Lasky L ======================================== SAMPLE 557 ======================================== "“Fragments”", by Carl Sandburg [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women] The first of two slices into the automatic hand of a woman slowly repeating herself, as in waters blue poolswater may bathe in the energy of some roadside pool <|endoftext|> "Not That I Loved Alcino’s Body (Recollections)", by Carl Sandburg [Living, Growing Old, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Red juice I throw on a woman’s baby who lifts her fingers unfolds just enough and begins to masturbate, like a man when he gets twenty years from a woman with a pistol on her lap she unknows she’s too late to have the scars She forgets on the bed she unwraimes how she killed her own child while remembering to her eyes the smooth fingers on the bare she’s tired of what on hills have you lived on a hot afternoon in the tobacco smoke of a far away waterfall she told me in a voice that’s cool she laughed and told me to keep it in her mouth and I fall in a soft sense of hope and joy till sunlight wind waits but only gasp to fly forth <|endoftext|> "From Macedon", by Carl Sandburg [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Rage to the king his queen. From Sabz, Rehaen to Macedon his queen. To Macedon Roman, as God has willed, should return, somewhat subdued, soul-garmented, flesh-bound, to the Roman class of women we give the stone we honouring, for those who view us with pride the stone is their pride. To-day the stone will not return, lady-and-bordered road, dust-piddled Cret ======================================== SAMPLE 558 ======================================== "Drill", by Carl Sandburg [Living, Time & Brevity, Philosophy] The river is a cup of vial coolness, fretful of the sky. You still sit there, moving, a pair of spurs of vial in the blue. <|endoftext|> "Ice", by Carl Sandburg [Nature, Winter, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Winter] Chin, the recitation of a fly by a burnt hedge, beside the recitation of a raccoon, a mountain range driven by a cop’s mate. The winter night is shaking with frost crystals, and the blood of a sheepskin is rippling in the cold. Winter is wearing north, a blast most terrible, sinking beneath the snow. <|endoftext|> "Fear of Happiness", by Matilda Bethem [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] Facing the death’s-head of the baffled, The old adverbs have come to me: "Now here is no warlock, from the porch to the front the spirit of a nation bound in contractions, firework fitting between foam and dirt. Now here is no warlock, from the house the accursed haul stranger, one whose hammer has fallen, one whose pestromlegious arts have spoiled the rotting landscape of our human children. At this moment who would build it with hands?" <|endoftext|> "A Grammarian Life", by Matilda Bethem [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] I Machine stitched is buried in a coal mine I’m sacking a few doors I’m sacking a few windows I’ve gut you sleeping for four centuries I’ve cried and roared Has turned you over the rail Has set you a match Has breached you for seven centuries now Has turned over the compass Has flung you to the floor Has flung you to the weather has gripped you Your love has turned over in the teeth I’ve cried and moaned ======================================== SAMPLE 559 ======================================== "Corpuissance Valrouge", by Thomas Campion [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Unrequited Love, Relationships] Once more, with the sea-captains here, Here once again the white pageants play; So sweet it is to be aback in the day, Out over the sea, up over the bay. The first that breaks the tide, whoever wakes. Anno Domine, “To me it seems a dream,” A red coat hides her head in the quilt of the quilt; Anon she unclasps, and, narrowing the leap, That draweth behind her her white teeth, shoves The tide, up the mast, up through the cords. The little banded forms brush the blue waves, And the white foam inside to the wind there breaks; She seeth her heart in her quivering hand, White in the moonlight, as she it gave birth To that red and white dog of the sea-sea mire, The white beach-lion of the white beach-ice. The curled curls of her hair blow shorewards Over her head, and, falling, back she sinks, With outspread hands and glittering eyes aglow, Unto the beach, as a white god drifts. There, up on the sand, the white-nosed curled Is her curled curled hand, like a lover good Wrought in the twilight rim of the dewy flood. So sweet, so warm is she to the fevered lips, Her face so fair to the world a-gifts, That, in her dark hair, all myriads small, Like shadows fall from the lifted pall Of her peaceless eyes, 'neath the pillow berried, Seem like wind-blown petals to fold her about, That never an leavesail to cover her wide Is worth a tare, and a cruel, shapeless fog, And her lips, that the fire of love spits without, Hath nor light nor shade, And a threadbare thought, lives, and a word is unwound, And day is ne'er left of day. A red coat hides the bones of a knight in the fight; Yet never a brave man fought, or a rich man killed; In the ======================================== SAMPLE 560 ======================================== "Gyminge", by Susanna Moodie [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Any task that I could put into my hand is irk, A goodly gift is thine;And if thou clutch the heart, thou knowest it best: That harp of mine. But woe to France the gift of life has made my shade, Her voice new-blooded still, illustriousophist of France. What lure, what passion will enclose the form, Where art thou called thyself, thou loved and knewest not of yore, A lover’s rapture’s soar?’s degree of thought, the arrow struck Only by love’s dear scheme of nature, ’til it rose from earth, And now it aiming roars:Yes, every joy that I can give is yours; I only ask my heaven, ’Tis only love that riches can possess. Whate’er the theme, whoever heard it praised it pleased me then, For keen enjoyment fired it. As the spirit to the task applied, So love the finer won’t you. The minstrel he who singly errs, That once acquired memorial, lost the more end to others, The more in mind remembered. In his loose, voluptuous robe A melancholy beauty and a rage his stomach suit, He feels the fastness striving, surfeit-burning pain;—he’ll tell you truth Unless the Truth it snows,And when you’ll truly ’scape that crowded lot, The hum of folly too, which but the fool’s, the knave accursed, Or good or bad abused him, locked so deep within his breast That he believes no pain. <|endoftext|> "Song", by Jeanie Greensfelder Wild sky, wild night clouds, and wind chill Round the sullen river-bed, and ever Soul within soul deceives; let the soul’s drowsy Slumber all untold;—great clouds have the keys Of all that’s caged to my wan jennet-gouches. ======================================== SAMPLE 561 ======================================== "Fucked Firefly", by Camille T. Dungy [Living, Death, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Here’s the deuce to not refuse a roof to go without you. Tree subjoined by fire and gods with hands they made the world and the world meetings. Tree must be dead if it did not or the forest never die. On the right hand side, a man must be somewhere you’ve heardthe secret drip in the wind weep from his tongue now that the gun rings over the left side of the car. And the gun rings in the darkness of the man. Tree must be dead if he’s got the power. The mill, an old mill, still bellowing its monotone man. In the left side, a man must die first for that and get the power. Mud from the river without water is larger than camels, cows from the county. All your cats now, all your foes. See what a brain of you has walked there. If he could see this, the gun he’d shoot could kill a hare. A hare? That’s the best, and no wonder the poor boy is crazy. The gun was never spoken of forts or towns. Once in a while his brain opened and went on grazing. <|endoftext|> "Louis Douglass", by Mark Irwin [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Relationships, Men & Women] The part we never writes to him was similar. He wrote the tenderest hints he knew— “I know she thinks I’m gay.” Should he say death? He meant “her”, the boy who always understood. The part we never speaks for what it was about. But he said the thing we never mean, love—“how did you get the best part about?” And the kind man ain’t going anywhere about. In the mind of marriage, he was telling us about his life; he was telling us about the love he had: how his joy depends on your surprise, on his contend with love and the world for love is love, on him are the lines on what we saw to-do when he died. <|endoftext|> "Lines for the First Poem", by Patente Siler [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Po ======================================== SAMPLE 562 ======================================== "I Sookin' leave no cause", by Alfred, Lord Tennyson [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women] I Sookin' leave no cause for cause forWhy I say this or that occasionSets her right to my estate in Water.As I took leave in field unused, I would take inAnd bown me some equinarling or otherFor Philis, I would go and make my bodyQuarrel with other feignments than inditeAveign, for I would have her nom as yetRemitted long before she changed,And asked not her if she knew it anyWherefor it was no lad better than she.For pity I would have her swoon and dieAnd then awake to find she would be lothsome,And so creep to a room the happ'n of the deceasedHad said long since: "I will not try" (said she),I'll try that, try that if I vow I'll own the quakesOf murder I can get a wife!" <|endoftext|> "In Rubble", by Robert Hedin [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Philosophy] ‘What Do They Learn It, Master, using everyLook tee-oo, and hook That do they talk to anyone,’?- -Poke In The Day, histoire-a-day!, it's a quite No one, it's fearful!- A lone case . . . whose best.’An axe cuts every second's throat!- -O buckle an eye to Chatter you!- Kiddy, I've had a pinch to catch.- -O shovel's for only that.-A-Mipple comes, I guess,And cries It!- But, of course, I missed it; so, I won't know!-It isn't right to wade these scales!-It isn't right, it's only Poor-Mekka!-Ah, that's right!-a-good-for-prom, of course. Liminated by a Box-of-Boys, who is . . . well, it sounds like Red-Lyre!- -Mick seven has-to-many-fond!-Marlowe, cor-thia, cockatrices in a Titian slum!- -Marlowe, cor-thia, cock ======================================== SAMPLE 563 ======================================== "Sonnet 76: The Sun", by William Shakespeare [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets] What hinders me to look for your precisies? —President angels, strike the glory-wounds from my tiller, which hurl you headlong as an unaccustom'd mountain, which pants out from the wind and blows from the sky. Prepare your skeleton in the brain, but never and suddenly you have the crown of darkness to put on your ultimate coronals. —President angels, strike, wrestle it as you may, the portion of life, the body’s desire, which hot is passionate and quick in passionate particles. Your lover picks out his instruments from the cistern, which beats out as a flood, but melts away into air. III You are falling, falling, falling, O my mountains, falls to earth, and you doze, pouring into the sea. Earth has frozen and suckled your spirit, O Delight, and from the dry north, and south, thriv'ling, retracting, the endures of you are falling, and you are dying. In vain you address your elegy, finding sweetness still innocent of the passion you requite. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet 76: Since the War, and the Peace you sing to me, I don't know", by William Shakespeare [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Arts & Sciences, Music] Since the war and the silence you sing to me, I am growing old, I'm falling now, I'm mighty old, O Delight, I do not sing to you, for I hear you sing to-night from the jubilant steeple of the lark in the groves, and the chaunting air of the blackbirds of air on the wold as the warblers of war sang their jubilee. Alas the equipper with shivering sails and thund'ring wheels, Who has dared the whippers of gray Melville’s poppies and the sedge of Tarpehow, Excuse me, O Delvee Goer, what is your measure? The winter of nineteen and twenty-one, the weather of nineteen hundred and forty in fifteen? The weather of nineteen and twenty-five centuries, ======================================== SAMPLE 564 ======================================== "Pastorals in the Moon", by Rod MacCross [Living, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Trees & Flowers] Pastorals in the Moon, Yew, The wind is blowing, Says my old name, Wand'ring and blowing, Strange things can't remember, Thing I miss on my line, This stray rhyme On your breast and shoulder, On your feet and shoulder, Night and lovers, Lords and ladies, Soldiers and minstrels, Girders and maidens, Teniers and twenty, And the wizard nine Cloris, And the trembling silver hand In the crevice called, Saw the piteous, Fiery, said the singer, Lay me in his bosom, Mighty little mouth-muscled, Clothed and scented, as if he Were a newborn calf, All untouched, his rider, Bare-limbed and girded, Trothed and scented, Little squat and gable, Trumpet-tossed and crimson, Bare-limbed and bare-limbed, Ten, or twenty, Acarolled and bare-limbed, Tallest-amorous, Sweet for scent and ding-cart, Bare-limbed and bare-limbed, Tallest-face and finest Uriel lights and far-face, Bare-limbed and perfect, Tallest-gloves and bravest, Sweet for scent and breath, Twenty white-faced nightflowers, Frosty dancers and wild thyme, And the shy night owl that Sings with trill on his fickle Trebles in the firwoods, Clear up in the hollows, Chirp and whistle and sing, Chirp and whistle and sing. <|endoftext|> "Scorn the Tree", by Mary Jo Fuhrman [Living, Time & Brevity] Then you may forgive the evil and joy may come to you and love and be beloved only for a moment. If you love without leave, weren’t you for a moment more glad than you were happy and you had a happy air and maybe happy ======================================== SAMPLE 565 ======================================== "The Fatalist Child", by Miss Sheman [Living, Parenthood, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] “Come down, dear son,” the rain said, murmuring along the hazy shore. The clerks I knew would hide themselves in noduts, lugging gas tanks, grunting with their sweating and impatient breath, bleating shells, lolling skirts, blinking rags. Sometimes I'd make a picture of a house where I'd walk, its sunlit porch and rowanelled vanes, and hear the rain in my ear, against my fear, steal over me, grow back again, and be myself again. The mailman handing over the little brass plateau, glaring red and white, briefly, with a cold metallic light.The watchman opened his box and listened. He said, “We are ghosts tonight.”How long have you been keeping this quiet, dear mother, so quiet here? I told you then, that we are ghosts.With nothing to give for the little machine whistle we tramped around together: no bumps so close to the bed, how the rain had dragged in turmoil, in constant temperature,until we came to the foot of the house where it all seemed possible we’d know whither we were hulking out the dead. Well, it was nice when you came back to us from faraway. It was nice, too late. But never to go again.The little iron stove is in the cheerful dark, boisterous too, but not too bright to last.It’s strange to think you thought of going home again.The new ties now dissolve, the old ties soon all clean.You can see the small still regular door.It deepens, now, that after you come back, we’ll never know. <|endoftext|> "The Park", by Lucy Ives [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Love, Desire] I found the six clay mounds I had thought would contain A right elbow, a knee at the halter. The meadow was old and quiet and I had walked over. The mats of chestnut and pine were toppled by time By any model of labor. I could see the blue farcato. The sky was the cover of the planet by which I had come. I have held the red lion and filled the flowing can ======================================== SAMPLE 566 ======================================== "To My Old City", by Robert Bly [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] To my old city: to your world: my own; To all my neighbour; to the older ones; To the nobility and old and new; To those who are old and cannot tell The indolent secret of the evening of sleep; To souls that are perellical with the deeds That last not long, for aye and aye are glance and word; To them I dwell in a diviner way In meditation, in serener retreats; And on the day of matt rocked in my breast. To a woman, meek, submissive and demure, Yet of a high and aworldly vision blent, And of her ghastly image present there Shedding divine creative images of the mind, Material things and thoughts of spiritual life; And with so absolute a balance, poor, Strong with so great a sense of purity, That saving distance alone can declare. Shall I seek, then, the well-guessed goal of all The soul's most imps and whiles at all, Take it in good or evil, lowly wise, Take it contented and at ease? I wander none but loving, my dull life Alike in its demented road And its new folly. Not the more splendid, if not quite The bettering, with which men see the good And bear the lonely weight of things unseen Unable to disown and cease; Not the fierce thirst for knowledge, thirst for power Beyond the riddle of fate; But,--the full liberty of all, magnanimous, Self-exiled for the general good of all. Behold, they never fell upon your knees: They never leave your side the fall to spoil: To weigh the golden measure of great lives, Of life eternal, and the immortal hope; For the last-grazing moment in your heart Is joy beyond the knowing, madness out Of unpermitted morrows; Pursuing only that vast onward course Which never knows the other, never knows The flight of Time, till, nearing any point You range the ranges with an aching heart, Knowing not when you conquer, life has failed; Beyond the seeming sunset ======================================== SAMPLE 567 ======================================== "Waters", by John M. Ridland [Living, Growing Old, Health & Illness, The Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Waters: For some reason we have to pick at them, or not at all: For we may forget them, or we may not feel them. We have some kind of origin, some kind of end; some passion; some kind of end we do forget; We may be wise, yet do not grieve, nor yet grow old with pity; We may find wholesome food, and dream, and pure delight, Now all days spent in slumber, Tomorrow refreshed with hesitation, With meditation on what it does, — against what will happen. Waters going as before us, River of this laughter and songs, With a mantle and band about them! Sooner shall we find out and in the woods, Than in our sleep or in our blindness, Wandering here, with trees and grass and flowers, Beloved in our dreams and in our evangels. Coo: How easy it is to turn and find out words! Caw: How easy it is for a girl to kiss. Caw, tick, tick, Caw, Cudd, tick, Crowspeck, Wheep. Catter, talk, mammy licking Off the polished moon oil, I like to be done all at once with that rich girl! Caw, birdie, birdie! There'll be rum in your head, Then I'll give you a crown To know all the good I've got; For though she's gone Far away, fast I'm kept By the last lights of Saturday night! Caw, birdie, birdie! There's milk on your throat, And milk on your throat; And milk and a bit of bread For you and your pottage you spread; If you treat as well It's like that: The sweetness of apple-leaves Is a thoroughly easy word! Caw, birdie, birdie! If you can bake a dish, Make the others bake themselves soft; If they cannot bake enough, They will not bake enough! Caw, birdie, birdie! If all the dish is made up of beaten cake, Before the sun sinks and the snow is blown And it's up to ======================================== SAMPLE 568 ======================================== "“The thing was made to depend on the time”", by Defidviki, Sect. Unionist at the Social School (1873). They came to try and test and found it difficult, looking quietly as though they were alone, the negative dropped. The sculptor’s hands labored on an improved looking pair, the anacrusus tapping on the delicate skull, And the Recincial of the decapitated head. They got to leave And tried again, exulting. They came to sue. They all tumbled from the union row to row. A clutch of kids on hands, A whimpering to boys, unhearable, preferring them to become younger born, They tied them to the ground, the fact They couldn’t keep finding. They were tumbled from line to limber back. Coverings they couldn’t well contain, Thousands of them to keep Back in line. They failed to make a fourth dimension. They were shoved back from line to line Scaling the body of an ideal form, To which the world had grown accustomed, To which had shoved them back to form. And the actors strove to shape again Like dogs that in the head crowd to a kung, And life seemed almost a kind of game. Their pupils looked no different now From that Which had gained those men who lived there. In this, through years of travel, And struggles, and the Western voice Of the wayward, cannibalistic call— Ours, I believe, would have been just a favorite affair with But now—the ice is frozen on the ice and stars— They Altamspire to be simultaneously A symbol of that divine ceremony, which brings The momentary thing before it, and makes it return To a long-vanished man, or a small one, That moves to live and speak directly to The moment of death, as if the man Who has been born into the world might be In some shapes and pattern that might tend He might once be buried in the gulphs. In safety, maybe, a man who receives A blow on purpose, is confused For several seconds, smoking, Effaced and nauseating. And a tree that stood near the well Was buried in a cold dark wood, And the man who ======================================== SAMPLE 569 ======================================== "A connectsist", by James Joyce [Relationships, Friends & Enemies] As a pilot Art thou clearly suited To convey to the end The necessary salve? My friend. As a pilot Art thou busied with travel? My friend. As a captain Art thou very, very lathe? My friend. As a forked stick of gospel, Best available. My friend. A sovereign citizen of the house? Once by thy commission; Then on Saturday Ten thousand corpses. Then? In one day? Nowhere It can be. <|endoftext|> "The Airy Longitude", by James Joyce [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] (A policedriver of trucks blew by the bed, or that band torn hose and orange and blue muslin from their earlier hairs), Again again Again Again Again The barrage fabricates the rendezvous and the twelve volumes of prisoners put on the little shroud that seems to cover the ground, are joined as opposed to the gravity allowed. There is no extension to the world, so on or across, so on, far as my friend canfrom the starting place, to the bus that is separate from the wire, or Again <|endoftext|> "Pangustia's Good Fortune", by James Joyce [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] 1 I find it difficult to remember the million years, those three or four winters, six and thirty-six going cold, the pedigree price between her and me; the illness, which follows illness, given to parents, new schools & oddities, the blame of life, which can never find place in my head or in the new neighborhood, or anywhere, in the old way. See, we have her too, see, she is constantly on the job. 2 Because we were born five days after slaying a vampire, I came out to a place called called in dialogue not to be too swift; because neither of us fought with terror, panic, rage, life was neither strong nor violent enough: the western sickness we lay prone in, we served as certain children with bare lives, the black and brown- ======================================== SAMPLE 570 ======================================== "Afterscale", by Doréne Laux Made for roads this beautiful day the egg of my heart lost it has learned since I have learned to run blue. For sleep, she asked, guessed what no one knows if the light is light, or light or the wind— freeze or dirt, it could not stay. And one had to go to bed late and find the song, all right. <|endoftext|> "Amor Fati", by Soléys Sánchez [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Religion, Faith & Doubt, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] This does not make me unhappy; I missed the time, and then it is it is not so. I have no friend from the country or my own. Those from the king or me, I do not care. And if they call me ugly— it is—a thousand A. B. C. Or maybe wolf or tapestry, or my own. B. C. I don’t know who. Perhaps Rodrívar is the one I imagine, who is arrayed as for a dance with wings spread, flying, sometimes birdlike white ragweed caught in its beak, or the croupy, the long face, bright eyes, the straight mouth, lolling teeth and the little bones crammed in the chair, passes, catches, draws, escapes, defies, or ordinary, a sun-baked kiss, only to stand upon my knee. <|endoftext|> "Two at Lunch Room", by Lib. F. Moritz [Living, Time & Brevity, Philosophy] One at the grave and the other in the library and what he gave to my eyes,— a scrap of the flesh, a liquid coating of blood my face wore when we fought it, years ago, two absides of the rest of us. And my eyes, that wereids smooth of speech, dry of eye kissed after a dream was gone— two at rest, one of us two, two apart, yet ======================================== SAMPLE 571 ======================================== "The Sunset of Slugs", by Albert Goldbarth [Living, The Body, Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] There’s a respite in sleep. The kitchen wall opens in warm, scented glass, life gets longer and longer in pleasant rain. So this quest has our enemy barred, and rises looking now the other newly again, in such new ineradicable blackfraction of nerves. When the mind opens torches, we’re not fearing any more the urinal agony. We’re shaken by snow the contendings forever.  <|endoftext|> "After concept", by Albert Goldbarth [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers] Illume the room. We’ll tell the showing. Yiada’s melancholy.C’s grief. Khakashan will report. The Mohawks. Yiada’s hatred.The peacocks. The sorrow of departure.The flight of thought. The flight of accident. The release of breathing.The hackled walls. The hump and hollow. The breaking.The roar of the world. The game. The blanket. The blanket. The jack-blades. The blood of infants. The heart attack. The heart of stone. The blood of the lightning. The stars. The stars which are lost. The last of them. The moon. The dim tree. The last of them. The video of the mad god. The dawn of the sun on the crooked, short green stone. The petition.The hound. The wind. The wind of the last of them. The dead. The wind of the last of them. The wind of the last of them. <|endoftext|> "Cavet cor eu Trot:" Propton de Sorkejo", by German pronunci [Arno, The Mind, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets] The fire has left the hearth where the fillet keeps drying.The animals are running, straining, barking.The hearth has gone from its hearth, the fire has returned from its hearth.O the long emptiness of the hearth ======================================== SAMPLE 572 ======================================== "Three Poems from Monilia", by Elaine L. Farrell [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] That the soldier Kurchah still prefers the dead to the living back in Nantucket and actual war on the face of the foe but also a little Garden where a maiden and the dead boys still recall their waiting for the return of their broken love connection? The actual stream is Guel-Uriski in a lonely woodet clearing where the water is frozen hard to remember or the goddess herself thin with heat and colour Venus sisters of ice gods in a forgotten clearing mine yet for them I mourn their broken love connection in a distant forest where they explain our law grandma and longingly closing our eyes our instructions lock into the future first poem poca Accommodually the forgotten tongue and long departed men and women teasing by word trained on long reading in the spring or reading in the spring reicles <|endoftext|> "Sonnets by Star", by Fayr Mos Hahn [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Lying asleep between the strokes of the equator I look far off to the west Where the waves are waking from their rest. The thick clouds are away And fade into the daybreak. Like a long-aimed loon I prowle. The sky is restless and white, The clouds fly over the sky. Like a long-held lover, I wistful try to think. With my blue eyeballing I struggle hide. The dark band is weaving like blue smoke: In the maiden breast she waits. Then walking, I lift my weary eyes. I am so small they take no care. I have no use for body or mind. My body or my mind is of one side. The blue sky is my body, the sky my heart. That white cloud has no hiding place with me. The sky is the ======================================== SAMPLE 573 ======================================== "The Little Turtle", by Norman Dubie [Living, Separation & Divorce, Relationships, Men & Women] I think the living creatures are the little pharoons clearing through a well (but don't be so protected from the hunters’ screams)— from bars or clans like us. We laugh and love the summertime’s evenings: the paroquet of vinyl sips from a birdhouse and we laugh when you light our cigarettes and brush a cigarette, hatching your quarry once in a while, azels’ shadows hovering on the ceiling. . . . Yes, our oak jumples come back, but looking into the sky the way the way it works we’re working, working all day long, not just for the rocket but two, not for the whale but for the rock—because we lust, too, we think of the two different women going to work next door, after all. Or, perhaps, another time, coming back and opening the door to the toy truck truck again, you figure out something else same as that, something as soft as a footfall and free sniffing its way through the gloemy, like a chain twitched back by the wind, such curves hidden in the woods, the way the smile played over face, like old fists in a new war, the sky where all the children came, and you but a little stone in the woods, anything! You come back, I tell you: <|endoftext|> "The Vision of Heather", by Heather McHugh [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Home Life, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] My terrier bride, Heather McHugh. Once & only once when I died, I looked around on everyone. My terrier strapped to the cliff of aCondemned apartment. He looked just beyond my window, across my stone, & only once when I was twelfth snows-fed. Once & only once, as I was saying, I looked out on the sea. Once & only once, as I was saying, I looked out on the sea. <|endoftext|> "Harness", by Charlie Smith [Living, ======================================== SAMPLE 574 ======================================== "Karnas", by Robert Elizabeth Warren [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Love, Romantic Love, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] For R.S. My dear little TICless, What a hunch of royal bredlers Loped up in the leafy places! Nosing the gold of the sea-fight To make a wildfire of it, Scattering all wrongs of small men Who counted fit for the purpose. Running an ell in breadth Bought with a sheaf of golden darlings; But though many purchased rams Called "la Fuse, quantum est latatus"; And several emblems were hired To carry us into the "NoPlace" era. And the "Speak" Jew would straight bring a boy To a blind day, releasing his beat. If I had an extra share of that luck, I'd buy clothes that lined up other; If I'd nothing more fun I'd get, I'd die that the world might end up one. But then the trains came to a stop, And the cart seemed to swallow a truck. Then half of my luck was in the hands. The night came, as if every escape Was a hunchbacked hunch that would take a Blubbery down. The crowd stood still, Tazing and quiet as a hill; But the leafy slope of a woodpath Was not a sight for the dusty beech. So I set my eyes to the sea, drawn By the tide when the tide was a-turning. Then I heard, as if someone were calling, The sound of a hundred and twenty, Though the sky was far overhead, And the fields looked sullen and strange, And the stones were as far as they came. And I went weak-crippled, muttering Like a man to the bounds of his slave plantation. <|endoftext|> "You've In These Schools of Thought", by Richard Emil Braun [Love, Realistic & Complicated] In these halls where Lazarus dyes, Mumbles lost of interest and fear, You have guarded well the lively faces That were watched of you here, And the satyrs of your memories Vanished now, for nothing was dear But ======================================== SAMPLE 575 ======================================== "LITTLENET", by Jones Very [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] I loved cages ofarkable beauty, their whisper on my lawn. These words have a tradition of me? I watch rings of dark seed seed twist into the truck for what is necessary for long summers.I watched the sunlight bite the sun through the thousand miles of tree and tree, watch the sun take in the bloom of bright blood. I remember a hawk under a tree in the driveway after I disappeared as in surprise and I had forgotten how to lean into this earth.The blood burned maybe almost quietly, the light in a cup of water in your veins was not there.But your presence is an imprint. This is all about our poem. Where we go I know for you they keep to be framed in particles. You turn back from the work & it keeps on noticing the sun’s garners of stillness. Here I dig painfully cold fruit & myself drink less. Have respect upon this and so on the other side of the world where there are no existents—the trees on a dark, low wall. The heat of the sun there and the shade there is a canopy. The snow is not a house. I know nothing about the sun, but I know where I am today and to judge by the cold the winter here. Bearing me, as before, beside myself on this branch to look at as if the kind of wind hauls a screen to its zenith. I think that when I pass the time of day I think the hard sun’s taking me off on my way to its end, it is not yet gone beyond my poles. Outside, a cloud passed on. If I believe in the autumn day I must withdraw into these thickets and not seek shelter in the woods. I notice clearly this tree’s slender life: 40,000 volumes of this post replenished with mirrors, five in the case, a pattern of travelers from Alabama, their hundred pointed points h ======================================== SAMPLE 576 ======================================== 8 Rout begun. First and last and best. And chiefly. In two lines eight, which follow: “this is how the spear went round, and this is how it goes along the iron went around. This goes on forever. Compare “this” (line 216), “lighth, sixth and last.” So and so “striped feet went round,” with measured sighs and difficult breath. —“The stone went round and this is how it goes along the iron went round. This goes on and on and where it goes. And this is how the iron goes on, and where it goes on. Y etsenthe one. Some say this has come up toward the voice of another voice—or it’s a different power. “It means to me to have the glory of the brass gone round.” Some call it metal with an edgeless edge. Some call it hard or hard until they soften hard, and it resembles a metal fine. And when I burn there’s wood enough except one thought. Some call it sentimental. Let’s blame each one: “O. C.” But which are words either way equally intricate in its style? Other words “O. C.” are words between things. Which does not go up and down? No. “Pulcheron.” “Pulcheron.” “Puybridled.” No. “Puss.” A practice is uncomfortable. Great, small, round. In which a character is represented, or is beloved. Eldone. Transc. “O. C.” A difficult word used to prick on the mouths of ersatz. To cut and hack. The tonics of  verse. To choose “Bare” all kinds of barrels would be called — gum. “The regular heat. It’s even out-of-doors.” Space is here. To go over this much must be dark. Brake rule. Space. Transc. Over the left is the river. It’s late. It’s about dung. It’s nearly dark. It’s nearly dark on the other side of  Sic-tin. It ======================================== SAMPLE 577 ======================================== "An Apprehension", by Edgar Bowers [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Midlife, Love, Romantic Love, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics, Race & Ethnicity] You did not know I had the intelligence Of going on the sly way in this world Which made my heart blow white like a dry wheel, But I was dumb. I did not know you read this tale From the seven hundred “Penny” boys come out to dress. You did not know the story of the Bores From the seven hundred “Failure” boys come out to dress, But I was news I had from then on the road To make the people free. You went to Palestine: you went to Palestine: You went to Palestine and Zions account Of the seven hundred “Missums and Land ducks” And I wrote the name In the book Of the seven hundred “Swabriy Joplin” boys Who played “Snugly” in the red cow blanket Before they grew TOikes. You went to Palestine: you went to Palestine: You went to Africa and Zions account And Zions account of the name And the story of the seven hundred times That followed the old trick On the running ground. You went to Palestine: you went to Palestine: You led the Spanish horsemen down like water And into Spain. You went to Africa: You led the Spanish men down like water. Running into Spain, you crossed the water And into Spain. You left a Spanish Sargasso And a little Malinche, But I was first to find you, And I was most like Spanish boys To track your footsteps. I was first to find you, And I was most like Spanish boys To lick your feet of the desert dirt And crawl out in the dirt. <|endoftext|> "La Fontaine", by Edgar Bowers [Living, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer] The three recognizing blossoms in my hair are not everything that once I was to the campfire, they stay like the beautiful tapest ======================================== SAMPLE 578 ======================================== "To His Mother", by Edward Thomas [Living, Infancy, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Birth, Mother's Day] I knew that there were rows of angels’ wings— that there were such. Then how much salt had gasping them! Why didn’t they get up, since they’d gone asleep? Maybe they had, though mostly lowly, not bemocked by clouds. Sometimes they were lulled to earthly quips, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, anthems, an ======================================== SAMPLE 579 ======================================== Two words beneath my coat are trimmed. That every year is perfectly fresh. The third is almost true, the third is true. No hope exists there. I think there are such things in my life, and so they don’t. The fourth is true enough. The fourth is right. The seventh is just. This of thetermans. This pathos makes things bear the weight of their own words, celebrating each other’s words and accept them every year. This pathos makes things bear the weight of their own words. I remain the witness of the truths and accept them as long as I can. <|endoftext|> "The Poet", by Adrienne Suke [Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Popular Culture] There was a time when my grandfather would walk to his bed beside a mirror. I thought that before I went to the house, to eat, to be bitten by lightning, or snow, I’d never return to my century— to any sky, any light, any storm, anywhere. Its energy is so clear: exhaustion, grief, night, nothing better.It’s awkward, weak. It doesn’t matter, I said. Nothing better. <|endoftext|> "Song of the Two Crows", by Adrienne Suke [Living, The Body, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The black oil in my Safius mare, The gams naked from a deodar, Damn them all, damn them all, I’ve never thought That I’d choose them all, I’ve said.III When I’ve stopped drinking chams And eaten piggy-piggy pie, I’ve sat all day, or always, at home, From the shower to the star. A carriage shout and pew! Mun me, you silly pigs; And how your pretty female smells! The China-Waters, the gorlaisier- Watch-read, half-witted, half-read. Poor things, farce-accounted. A fig for things! <|endoftext|> "The Crows", by Adrienne Suke [Nature, Animals] The crickets ======================================== SAMPLE 580 ======================================== "The Night Blackbird", by Maya Angelou [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Animals, Winter] One hour behind the car engine, a shiny, high-humming, child would suddenly have to stop, enter the pasture and look up. She’d call him already and we’d give him his proper stright guesswork instead, which he’d given his wings in the dark. Oh, well, I guessed he’d been there too. He’d not been there by the post. Yesterday, an empty track, the girl laid out to stick blood, possibly, inside the box. I guessed this young brown boy is somehow spotting to his blood. And this is the way his brother and me are to another kind given, perhaps, to protect us from the airport traffic, to benefit our owner’s brother. Mother too has a nurse who doesn’t like her life. But we’re not the ones we’ve all called possible once. If anyone died, it is you who wish it would keep your body. The first time someone won the day, when they buried it, in the wallpaper, and got lost, and then, for the first time, among us, we threw things back into the pens, gave it back, not blind. And not a single thing to look, but still living. And not the smallest, but still surrounding. <|endoftext|> "Winter Dusk", by Maya Angelou [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Summer, Weather] Nice northbound inside the Siberia sea with—just those—the bars she tucked between— slow, slow, all the drive singing like stars across the low, drizzling sky; but just only the groove of the wheel. Yesterday, sitting in the park, I watched— day, day wept, no rain coming from ever getting— the kind, kind hand exploring my face. Today, nothing happened: Ghost—garment only like the sky—like the trees—whispers into the shade of boughs, which I don’t know—but I’m sorry just know which—but they’ve told me ======================================== SAMPLE 581 ======================================== "Wouke Glouiscus, aoueyant of Rbowes", by Thomas Centole Baileau [Living, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships] I have a friend, whose heart is pure. She holds the heart in place, and binds it to her skin. I know her soul, and I have not my part, I know her soul, and I have not my part. She holds the heart in place, and binds it to her skin. She worked out thrice as dear, to the high Court, As if she were the one thing in her womb, As if she could readueless, or as with breath. As if she could knuck up soul to soul in prose, Or let the hand be planted in her eyes. Her soul is her own heart, and is in the habit Of a long system, conscious of itself. She knows the house by which our souls are pent; And thence my love would grow, like a sick flower, Despite its greenness. When my own breasts are the seal of the strange vow, And love has come and touched the point of its root, And the green languish of its leaves no change. She knows the soul to purpose and endurance, And to yield endurance. That is as I know The soul is a tried wine-cell, and a system Of new and better qualities of life, Whereby the higher life becomes more fruitful. And what is more, my dear young friend, than presence? Beauty, soul, and sense of which all spirits are, Makes me as I was, in those beloved words, As the love-drops of the imagination, And the deep, fond embraces of the heart. The grandeur of the soul hath sometimes torn me, As I must have it, like a necklace-band, To bind myself and the beloved one, As they would tear one from another; and they may, When they embrace, caress the other. It is God's will, and it is God's pleasure To keep one's image and look out upon it And yet keep his image there upon it, Till his own image, ======================================== SAMPLE 582 ======================================== "13", by Alan Roper [Living, Time & Brevity, Philosophy] It felt like they lived in a land where, Bowed, beyond our dreams, they saw nothing, While the skies were clear and the wild birds sang. For a man they rowed low in some sickness When they took his hand. He did nothing. He died. We love the old human way When a man is dead. It's wonderful. And his hand is slow, no use, I have never seen it. I did not know the grasses our friend made. They took him all out of the dead he loved— It was so bountiful, so deathly sweet. I have not had him. It was still again. The sun sunk as quietly as death. In the little farm-house, the little girl, I watched the long bare floor of the church sink Into the water. I was not there. The bells would never ring. I was so tired. The house was filled full of everything. The sky at fifth started. The prayer order went In bitterness. It grew to a rage As if the thing that was being seen Sprang to a wing and would seek the secret I strove to love. It would be the point Of remorseful unconquerable joy That was theirs. Alone, they dragged their child Plunging into the woods, holding that child Back in his manger. They would not know If he had theirs. Their hearts were locked. It would be the elegy of bitterness. <|endoftext|> "Oak Grove", by John Roper [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] As the light failed, so was I shaken When the engine train stopped and looked At a student who said he would see that hand, Otherwise it were strange, and the name was Death, but life, as you know. It was two days since, And on the third, after all, it was one For him who had seen that hand lift the bell To tell the burial service—what should time Know when to save him, and how even now The bells ring out their thanks. I must go in. ======================================== SAMPLE 583 ======================================== "De Cause", by Nikki Giovanni [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, God & the Divine, The Spiritual, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] I’ve always been the spy. But I was in the army When the army broke. Then I went to kneel by the window. The window had a roofing. I walked upon it And knocked hard on my bare feet. I would not wear my blue shoes. I did not give up shouting. I only said “I see you,” And I understood. And this is why I’m afraid of The wind and the trees. I don’t want to worship My brother. What does it matter? Was it God who bore me, I will be an old woman and pray to Him to heal me, And I’ll help him the night. I tell the soldiers I do not want to die on the moonlit side Where the Great Atlantic rides and listens for the shore. I ask of God to send my boy on Christmas mornings, And I say “I” and beg of the horrible prophecy That I cannot give Him back the beautiful childhood That I cannot leave. So I stand by Him On Christmas mornings, And look at the magic potion given That makes me dream of Him. He will never know From the marvelous mystic paradox That is working upon me, who am a man, The one whose fate is mine. If I stay in the city and never leave him, He will sit by the fire and drink of the lake. I wonder if our son Will go on forever, or when he will hear My name on the sand of some distant world And know if it will be the child of my desire. <|endoftext|> "The great:" I understand America, but understand America"", by John Henley [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Money & Economics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] The great web sits on Mrs. intangible’s sheets. People try to pick up the leaves from the field so they can do this no more. If there are leaves between one and the next, it is simply a map, but a map, the map of the town, a map of little villages counted ======================================== SAMPLE 584 ======================================== "Winter, War", by Rachel Wetzsteon [Nature, Winter] “One can give o’er” So my studies won’t be over and done, And I’m no longer in love with “Soon,” a novel which can reshout, I’m wanting to read aloud in my hands and again, “I’m not obsessed with “Soon,” the text which should be used to what it describes is something in you which resembles most ones you’ll never, dear love, have, for what I really don’t love in and out of myself I’m not obsessed with “Soon,” a person so little at all, my eye’s best-pierced, in short, is closing and I’m writing “I” poem about a frozen warrior dead of three such wond’rous force I am free to be off this subject because I am always traveling at all, as you Think sometimes, whatever it would be, I’d rather have someone else write me I’m free to be off this theme after all, and I won’t recrund any help in this theme during anyway a dream which is not satisfactory yet at all I am free to be off this theme after all, and it isn’t proper, for I don’t know what to do, although I love you, dear love, as long as you want to be possible, and I do not care how you want to be good. <|endoftext|> "Autumn", by Rachel Wetzsteon [Relationships, Family & Ancestors] 1 After the play cards and the mailaos Come out to me with its monotony of “Whores” and “Whores: Whores,” and my brothers want to grab me. I want to go up to Ho-o-ho and sit in the back seat where Hoarfro sitteth in his chair. I want to be the hornet that calls out for twilight and ripens the rips of the sun ======================================== SAMPLE 585 ======================================== Or flourished June. She ran all flowers In bunts that week. She touched all music, Her artless foot swept music’s moon. Her teocall hair looked like a porcelain arbour, A grove of pine whose streams could be The slippered silence of my trees. And in her lace and simple flowerage I gathered the throbCombs as I grew aware Of the heart-vibrance of her deepest life, Free of the body where she flung them, Free of the music. And I gathered The broken prayers, the strains unclean, The lances of the instrument. Her breath was as a perfume. The bare Strands of her spirit, small and flower-like, Would have been hymns to those who begged them, Free of the body of her natural And of the heart of man. She broke The barriers which lay around her Like a crown round a moonlight crown. I piped these verses for her favor, That evening, with a lasso of flowers, To some poor pilgrim's outstretched hands. But when her purple in the past waved, She did not look in at my desire. She told the tale. The dream grew cold, The light grew faint before her eyes, And I was shaken and amazed. <|endoftext|> "An Irish N shorten", by Matthew Markiz [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy] A year ago, in thirteen coasts My father dwelt; he would not speak. He simply wondered if he lost His English play. He often asked If he would dwell with a Mallarmé Beside the river where the Inchcape rushes. The Murtray Chief was on his way, Roaming the main-sea, when the surf Tried waves against the coast-line; The sailors saw it, and, returning, cried, “It’s hard to leave my father’s house!” But no! They only looked on sea-line And knew the gulls had taken chart. Then on the day another, A second, gazed upon the moon, ======================================== SAMPLE 586 ======================================== "Understory", by Philip Levine [Social Commentaries, Money & Economics, Popular Culture] Understory all the time, I’d cut bachts from the improved furniture, lumbers from injury mats,brush curtains, cut-brooms, brooms, bits ofBatel’s checking chores. First sightings of Light-Waveshanging, Fox and other Oracles “In the conjunction of the Upt and the Upt's Impossible", by Sandra McDonough [Religion, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] The title, the single signature on the life of the Unconscious Bird, my name was my piec gran Holognic, my dialect was my twelve tiny Hagbirds whichweb I brush as I passed by my dream-sittings, by memory each morning among deeds I do not excell before, without the choice as I passed by, I don’t know what it feels like to be proud of or good but I do know it was my dream that blessedOften of old that took me into trouble and a place that made me think of others that stole my name and put me in a cage where I learned to live which side my life and who the enraged bird has that in all seasons to do dread anyone who dares not injure a bird whose eye may be red till it takes flight to its cage the bird, the hoot bird who dares the lone antelope who makes its wings into their necks the little red antelope who (on what taste was!) dies of vultures’ fearful poison who dares the slim pink antelope who (on what taste was) takes to wholesome pasturage instead of the black pig I had read. But it is against all these my degenerate and self-indented curses, it is a goddess I could never paint into an other human than myself including my beast and friend, the weak and the timorous, the blind— I love wrestle. It is a goddess I could never paint into an Italian and a person I love always and can not ======================================== SAMPLE 587 ======================================== "Merry Boy", by Pudding Walker [Living, Parenthood, Philosophy] In a shady nook, deshivering, and drifting down the gutters. Then the floor of the labyrinth tugs. How the dimmer and darker slants their way up! In a glimmer of sunlight is known Presence and Lul block. And the tiny heads and the short-oped tongues of the evening star of faces and kisses. In truth it loosens the belt and the temples with supple bellies of our flesh. At the gates of Wonder We know that Love is a thief, but only A heart in the dark Needs more courage. In a wood, turning the bitter smell of foul bread, desh receives it. For his food, Thirst's meadow, turns to the sun and then answering whether of himself or the high State we test our cause. And the Pope, saying that glory is the mark of his honour. Carnivorous signs that multiply, spread like a plume over the blank wall of the great world, and ignite our own brief sulphuric blobs. Says He is a child again but I say he is a child for a time. And then the Pope, scavenging his calves on the bricks of the building with the Pope's couplet of sleepers. Like a nail on a cross, like a gnarled olive branch on the burning inner-wark of the tomb. And now Pope, Bartolome, turns a corner and mocks a showman that flies, now turned to a folkmote, with its great ange buffet of Anubis, and tags a natural pike, not all of these places shine like the faces of a pestilent agent. And then, as if struck with a torch's rays, the crushes cry for vengeance. And the palates are lighted with a pious act. Then tortured by alien changings of flesh, a sacrificial stalk swaying the veins of the time, and with the end itself time making everything change. <|endoftext|> "A Pig ======================================== SAMPLE 588 ======================================== "The Light Brought in by a Cross", by Emily Warn [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] After Rabelais' Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Photography & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, Gender & Film, exchange stations for stations, Proverts &rus-mothers & little children in the cowled, tree-faced children, her best grown mother, as I saw one sad county half in anger everyone in the ball shadow & thick forest torn into the redskin, putting money in the cross-laid handle of her box, shaking it from one light-topped a black walnut shell, & she stamped the unseen chart with her feet only making the split parts loosen into her body, & she went running, My beautiful, & so I thought, backward & forward, as if she weren't real or reality or reality, sliding through my body with the scabbed wooden stone. I’d come to the window where the cloud-shadows darken within me, behind the snapping leather weeps and cries like an ocean liner breaking, I watch the wind rustle its whistle to itself in the cherry-bough & I can hear the clink of rows of boys a hundred years old, ======================================== SAMPLE 589 ======================================== “Old John’s the shop for post” —The folks agreed, on this occasion, Those two of theirs once said his one was ‘old.’ So John, with brows turned aurous, Took notes that he must earn his bread and ale, And threw them back to Dad, who told them, ‘Whene’er Is John’s’ with Zal.’—John made his drink And opened his lips to sigh, ‘Oh, Mom, be quick.’ And then he scrambled to his brother, To scrape his bread and salt, and ask him, ‘Whene’er Is John, the world stands ready, ready,’ ‘If I,’ they say, ‘Don’ty?’ and everywhere The voice comes whispering out, ‘Whene’s art thou, Johnny?’ It doesn’t matter when you call, ‘Whene’ are you?’ It does, instead, for yourself;—jammed in the door A long time forgets to buy a roar; While an indignant melancholy fellow Sells up a raucous ‘Tell me, jock, who did you?’ John, dressed in his grand style, says, ‘Whene’er Are you,’ replies, ‘Whene’er are you,’ says John, ‘Whene’er Are you,’ replies, ‘Whene’er are you,’ says John, ‘Whene’er Are you,’ says John, ‘Whene’er are you,’ says John, Ascending in a raucous chorus To the loud revelry, ‘Whene’er do’t come John,’ <|endoftext|> <|endoftext|> "Prometheus’s Tears", by Lydia Huntley Scott [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I think chiefly of your two branches of oak tree. These decay like a skeletons of trees. They disappear like orphans. And we nothing further have to do with them than we have done with them.Only a way to dream about it is ======================================== SAMPLE 590 ======================================== "Sword-Shooting", by Joseph Di cane [Nature, Animals, Weather, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life, War & Conflict] “What books he read and what to do with arms,” Hawkeos said, and joked, with eyes like lead, along the way, Just staring at the ceiling, while two spires did sing The "Doleful Gordon’s" solo. The end of the fight begun, They drew the corpse out of its mouth as though It were alive. At once it started singing, starts, Wherewith the clown did circle back and shout, And the clown’s donkey, run, grew pale and truculent, Till the clown cried out, “Thank God, how it turns out From over us, each one!” and the clown trucked at the empty road, Watched up to the face of the corpse, Laid his head on his shoulder, and suddenly he saw The face of the corpse buffeted by the winds And belated like a scythe, and the clown’s donkey Clung to the oak bush near the stump; and all around The big oak’s voice was heard, “God help the master-thief!”Then the clown’s donkey springing up Toward the sun did turn its back Carry across his back. He turned The large stone on, and the blank ash, One starlit corner, cracked. Beyond, the great stone split. <|endoftext|> "Reuben Bright", by Charles Wright [Religion, Faith & Doubt, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I ZANCENTI, born in the year, ah, this is my house, My step-sore, oh, a lovable, perfect thing, Paris-loved thing, I pray remember it, my mother's life. I think,She lives and sings,I think that song. I wish I had a father! Living, nay, a man. I know the world is Jesus' way of life;I know the pleasures of a crown; I know the queen I'll be;But there's no wisdom like to this, no power Drawn to my lips.A king; but he has heard that on the earth The feet of his dead throne were not at rest;And now that I have power ======================================== SAMPLE 591 ======================================== "The Old Man’s Winter to the New Year", by William Blake [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather, Winter] I have been waiting in door this summer dayFor the cricket to shake his little head;I have been waiting for all the school;But now I would sooner make loneliness,Or else I am too much awake aloneWith the flames round my door,Or the wind through the trees, or the cold in the sky,Or the loud bitter rain in the frozen October leaves.O that I could be near to heaven,With my pew twinkling with heaven on my faceAnd hear the clangour of heaven and the long loud rollOf bells in the air,And the jackal’s shrillart call from the dark world’s barrows;Or to the swift greyhound leaping on the trail,As I had followed my glory,With my horse following pace, with my shield for a guide,With my breast to the gate, and my bridle glancing sideways.O that I could be at the good moors,That I in the summer moonbeams beheld in the act of year,And the gourd on the boulders freshen’d, and the hum of the smallest feign,And the drip of the iron on the boulders as they ranAnd the glint of the iron on bronze. I have been waiting, and I long to be free.I have dreamed a dream of the old gray mare,And I know I will ride the old Mare.I shall rest through sun and through storm, shall watch, shall pray, shall bleed;I shall know the primal thirst is gone up in me,I shall rise with the storm and shiver under the rodTo the old wild ground, and with patient under the bush. Old gray mare, shall we go so far? Old gray mare, shall we start again? Old gray mare, shall we start again? <|endoftext|> "The Sound of the Shoe", by Robert Louis Stevenson [Living, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] There is a hill upon the right, And down it goeth without wind or light, For it is full of water-springs, And full of ripples on its side. And round about it goeth the stir And talk of wrestling and of strife; Therein it dwells a little while, ======================================== SAMPLE 592 ======================================== "Let It Be", by Elizabeth Spire [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Classic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] To those Who have been born to love and write in stone To the young Rare Rosy with her lips, and those poor pink nude sun-face poets, I have one Two three seven seven seven seven I have a real angel with seven colors in my hands, I know the fifty plus three plus three plus three and if I miss the little angels, I have the manseill rotin' and mud dormi—pussy frog—make sure I got this poem for my little dog on the eastern rail, an' I know I got this poem for my son don’t be a poem in your head, Did I write it down? Did you know— you know it all through crazy khamsheen? I’da believe it or you’d rather stop— It was the bottom of an angel's brain, I’da believe it or you’d rather stop. If you’d go on outboundin’ with this notion, you could even get through with it— It was there always, steady at some point, when you landed in that damnasset you had left, there just where— what? To keep from treating you with a soft lilac scum just as plain as God made you and God made you. In the heavenly school of intelligence they’re different, just some way or other, I see they do it. They have the courage I keep the books from the cold dono reach me the faraway. The sky is not the sky. I open my mouth now and now I open the mouth of this bird. <|endoftext|> "The barn lands and the way out", by William Faulke [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Fall, Spring, Winter, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] Stick one notch at the barn-door Till all the neighbors can remember The part you’ve ======================================== SAMPLE 593 ======================================== Ye sylphs of Latmos most serene, Of yore, how blest were ye! O mind, how Emath'st night descends, Midpp'd with a sky of bliss; Nowhere did Adam bend his back By Eve's end to kiss. Ye cottage swains, while evening flies, How aft, within your den, Ye've mark'd how Man his features wears To see another man. A tale, in Babylon, to sing Of Eve on wane, in Adam's cell, While overhead the still stars sing Untuning to the matin bell, Among the trees and shepherds nigh Where first our souls did stray: A Tale the Sun was told of old, Of how in distant Babylon The ministers of primal fire, Creatures by Men and grains of earth, Felt on the ruins of her hearth: Where, one by one, the Almighty Power His children and first Man, Set wide the doors of burning bowers, And thrown the portals down unto The fiery pavement under ground; Where demons with the damned, with groans, Rumble a tomb, and with wild cries Of anguish and self-gratulation, Dance on the bones of those that sleep And sing, and I shall sing, and keep, In their impassive dance, the Morn. O Night! and Darkness all thine eyes, Drawing thyself from skyey skies By one celestial motion! The rosy Morn how say'st thou? O Night! and Darkness all thine eyes, If there were no dark could raze thee, Thyself, for nought of thee! O then, hear me, that I may Speak to thine ear my secret say And keep it from the lips of Day, As they of Night we lowly raise Our eyes, and, gazing on thy face, Distract the smaller moon from her, And mark what sign of destiny Leaving the human heart in me, And that immortal hand which lays On yonder threshold of the sky The living and the dead, that they Whose upright hearts were as the light That falls between the star and sky, A fire that may consume the night, But whose doleful pangs are known ======================================== SAMPLE 594 ======================================== "A Tale", by John Haines [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] I’m in the house of Parliament, one foot on horseback with my Barley & my Knowley & I’m writing my name on a regulation in fifty volumes to make you clean, and I’m gone on horseback past the barren café-break. I’ve raised my exhaust on horseback, & I’ve hauled away my motorcycle, cranked through Jewett, shoulder-to-skitus & buckled into the city’s preacher. I know there’s nothing to do but sit on a bent biker & minnow at my supper where do you feel your teeth I’m wearing hay stuck in your lap, amsterdam a deserted mop I know there’s berries, ripped to brown by winter’s wind & sunspangled between buffeting the hot floor. You don’t get any of them. And that’s where the stars go. <|endoftext|> "Bacalao", by David Bengtster [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] All my books are the caves I’ve spun of postage, dirty edges up and I’m five with the digression. I learned to drive up and down this alley with nothing but paints. These are my iron pockets. I’ve a long sorculain and these up and down. Carpets, corals, vests— plates of jewels, amber prints, rooms to match the platter of grain in bleachbañels. Each year I am willing to keep myself neat in the light of your candles. To write your name is easy. I am not afraid to order my name when I can make you short. You won’t take me up to where ======================================== SAMPLE 595 ======================================== "Homecoming", by Thomas Dea King [Living, Parenthood, Philosophy] I watch my daughter toil on. My slightest care sustains me, walks pulling to the threshold, the kitchen lids lining up my daughter’s father’s cheekbones, plays her rondokays, dances. Sometimes her mother cries out to me, the prettiest of watchers. And my wife, standing on the steps to watch my daughter watching and hearing how white my husband gets, piss-eyed, that no love he wants no decency for, no shelter from his rage for mother. There is no way of putting it all in. He is very quiet and asleep, at ease and then he yawns on his straw couch, griesly, with a thick sized hole in his soft belly. I have seen this for years ahead of the time before, watching him as he lies on the sofa, slurring his eyes into the bed, drop tongue out of his mouth, muscle intoxified with desire. Soon, having lost intent on my rising works, I will prefer my baby to my son with all the grace I have. <|endoftext|> "The Battishing", by Robert Bly [Nature, Winter] The Boers are supposed to be determined by the end of summer that the Little Boers are meant by the rescue of the Lovers subipped by the rejoicing in the taste of Summer gardens and by ginger and rum-jawed in a gambishing, or per- sudden lilac where it’s wanted no longer. <|endoftext|> "Pied’s Funeral", by Robert Bly [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Plunging into Autumn solids, I’m thinking of this as a funeral— much different from what used to happen to a Royal Boer. I’ve been worried about what is going on in this life, yet I know I can stand myself no longer, thinking: can’t think about letting happen happen happen happen, I am only searching for something, only nothing, off this side of which there’s no difficulty, off yonder, where I will never be caught by anyone— nothing—no ======================================== SAMPLE 596 ======================================== "“Though I cannot tell you of great feathered men”", by William Shakespeare [Love, Desire, Relationships, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Though I cannot tell you of my perilous quest for fame I’ve won it ever. So be it.”At six my soul is all earth’s loss and loseth many a token. Who shall say what I have yet to tell the same now? The many heavens will ring with mirth and laughter. They will come to me and you must hear the cry of my heart’s sore longing for your sake. <|endoftext|> "“Although I cannot tell you of my name”", by William Shakespeare [Love, Romantic Love] I know you now, O grasshopper, Of whose songs you so sweetly yieldeth song, That all the fields of earth one foot can pass, And all the seas of air are wrapped in hay. You yellow whistling foxgloves which so often appal, And scarlet starlings all in the sunshinedefiled. Yet you must pause before he’s sure to come, For he must seek you through the present dim. For O what hunger is it that can’t give him ease, His journey done, and all his comb till death Must bend his nose upon the baying reed? Or why is it that tender love is indeed, Which made us traveller, now a summer’s night, As lovers come and only dreams delight? Or it may be that in the blueness near There lies a fault, as slight as our delight. Therefore I sought it not; but after you I found all hidden things, both men and birds, Plays, carols, jostled ballads, and my art. Yet let me tell you of my dateless date. I have no store Of joys or days, Of wishes rich, and praise; But all that’s best is mine, rich as before. <|endoftext|> "Candy", by John Greenleaf Whittier [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] Candy, whose nets are strands of light Let me now net, when ======================================== SAMPLE 597 ======================================== "To His Mother", by Marilyn Hacker [Living, Growing Old, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] She never sleeps When the little boy With a funny eye Tells her This is really “Gabriel” And a funny man, With a funny eye, Who just then started Dozing with his wife Freddie, end to end Dozing now and then He’s a sad weak Heart and strong right-boned Heart, be brave for somebody’s death And for all of a bit Little boy alive Always sings or leaps like a teal on the strings Some have called thee and died Always when they're singing What is funny about my dog and I The antelope and the rose tree Mary, can you be Mrs. Jordan Caine is always a great woman Come out here and look for my babe Come back till winter comes Sometimes he will say: “No, dadda dudda, this is a new and charming thing.” I come back to life in a blue Aureole in a blue dress I come back to life that is dark like a badly finished dress The white dress my mother gave me in bed Mother says, though they say no and I say Darling says that I’m smart I know what I’m wants inside of this bed, And though I can move and act like an angel in the sky, I feel sorry for father and mother and all of the angels in heaven How hate can be a pig And how one small swallow go unfitted by him I come back to life that is dark like this table Now I live a dead life Dead though it be an improvement and be damned I come back to life that is dark like morning light I die like the cats I live like black gaping walls I live a good life and a dark appetite I live other woman in a red brick wall I run away forty years as the light struck down Rowe, rowa, rowa, rowa, rowa, rowa, rowa With I’ll dream I lived in three bright and twenty-and-big baby I am a woman but I don’t get older I stand bearded and in a black suit I stand alone ======================================== SAMPLE 598 ======================================== Callowance ... The Lost Landscape. Beef is a good relief. The dead were never touched. The river cannot but have swollen. Callowance ... The house is the everyday with thoughts of never being at all impervious. People are days that will later turn to pieces. Good news. We would smoke. We lie down in sleep ready to wake up. We will never, never be called to cry out. We will say: Who is sneaking at my grandmother, tearing the curtains of her long skirt for a caper? Callowance is notvisiting at the empty house of her head. Wasn’t the head of a wolf ? A Hag. It was night when the snow slept in the gut of the ascendent roof. The cold wind suckt the newspaper of my father’s haunted barn at the court of the Hotel. Good sky, bright gleam, gleam across the barnitory, gleam across the brine, gleam across the Hudson while you travel up the country line. <|endoftext|> "The Bean Eaters", by Rudyard Kipling [Relationships, Home Life, Pets, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Winter] The fairies were wonderful. They trod the snow, chasing the catkins to the north. Frosty violin-skins were flying and they began to sing, leaving an echo of singing. Then, as the she-torches rang, a second spring flowed up from the fur brush. It was the strangest sight all through the wintry night. It was the woods, falling in long grass, and I was thinking of you, Little Brother, in the sweet marsh, that I might recognize, Little Brother, as I think of you. <|endoftext|> "The Grouse Come Back to Storm You", by Rudyard Kipling [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Spring, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] On the Indecision before the Van Benswein, a buck privatethen, where the swan, squawking her young mate, dashes through the ======================================== SAMPLE 599 ======================================== "No Sex of", by Leslie Monsour [Living, The Body, The Mind, Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] O no! I wish you better. I wish you better off. Dona eel dat ses tres jomp. Do me a tumplir are weeling? Dona eel? Dona eel? What dona eel? What doe gwine galore to ride? An an ortEmpty an ort? Dona eel? Wha knows? Wha knows? Wha knows? Wha knows? Wha knows? Wha knows? I'se get oON the hill Camil'taa be eident awfereforc'd? An An an ort fellist e hit it? an pick!An strike dis d way? dy d? Try oop an die! Wha knows? de vous De vous De vous De vous An tres d blow da vat. Eh Sue snakesa! thet is forhola? Dare neid at Viscount fein? Eh peuplier bran, sor I bella? An gonf pre sekel, bran new pa, A like prea in petite vat! An ce silenche an dos branes! Dure a tal est fini? Dure a ros? An chol' eagles l'extite? An ce storm ei selle? La craigne, Ddu dame! An tousand silenche an doe? An die fbi? Die fc? Die fc? Die rous? Ana ben tuo? Die stelle? Dere wuz so like this ordina, Dere even yeardays die? Ana ben tuo? Die fer aerun? Dere wuz so like this believ? I'd a le gude word yet. I wuz to put it in annu', ez A time ago I wuz bewared With all this world be-blazed About me, say? I am't a man, This ======================================== SAMPLE 600 ======================================== "Isaac’s Black Black Hand", by Gerrit Lansing [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] The white hand of Marilyn Linche comes up one day at the painting where the lost face is a blossom breaking, its back raised to the lips. That hand, the white one hand drying the white fist, that hand of John Boches, whose Second Coming one day at the painting where the lost face is a blossom, is real, true, as the white hand clings to the white hand passing through. Christ’s strong hands turn to thine. Venus and Menela, they fill the tea glasses. Venus and Menela, too, fill the tea glasses. Those who have never seen the same white face again. They drink tea with wine: then all who have ever touched the same lip after the wine teardrops from Samarcand arrive at Helena’s—this they discuss things with their own hands, drink tea with theirs who don’t know what to say the last thing, when they arrive at Helena’s tomb where the only fingers have ever relaxed their sweet lips to cool, the only witnesses in whom she lives ... Tossed in some gulf of water, gray with huge stones in their final glide, many years obliterated before those who have shaken a mere child toward death in love ... Tossed on a stream that has drifted slowly to the appointed river and now to the unknown waters, everyone believe there is not to disappear the eternal dream. The only conscious touch in deeper eyes than speaks of death, a more dream than of delight, how soon will all arrive at the most potent spell that obtains in the eyes of the lost angels, their appeal for all the infinities of the eternal soul. And see, the ivy has put off the crown that fell from the rafter (casks should wear as they wove a canopy) and the tree adds its underssembler of leaves to where the ======================================== SAMPLE 601 ======================================== "How Is It", by Richard Newman “If I tell you what is it about can be learned from some of your grandparents, some of your parents, some of your buddies’ digging in the garden, some of your posies”), the memory of Barthenz’s fame for imminent visit, would make it one of an escape to see the past. What can be said if it’s all for the present, of course, because nobody will tell you about it. Along with Ben Frank’s family there were Twice the Weavers and Dowson, I suppose by the way, and by the 4th month, the Spanish Republicans spent their vigor in the stage. But a stranger in Gotham was aware of the real patrician smells and humours. The house was the only thing he had. No one opened the house but the Spaniard boy and his friend, and most of the company was sincere. Ben Frank had gone to the Cossacks, and we’d had enough of it since we had finally given the word for the sound. With so much courtesy we WILL NOT STARD if I’d lost a group of McMollections in the spotlight and we for the future. But there were those of us at the Waggonagall. Ben Frank was up with his horse and we cried when he came there. And we were not ashamed to say Bull and Midnight and the Pillow, but other things that had been happening to us. <|endoftext|> "The Shandon", by Carl Sandburg [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] There’s a widow who’s not really meek enoughtapsaintly satinTo comfort a invalid on a chair.Her children lac’dtheir little beards, besprent with penitence,fingers hooked in their flanks, her sons shot their sails like wood, their great mother in hand durst not come near her, letting her fancyUnheeded snatch out her raven eyes. At tea, they argue’d regalia, their minds were never correct, their little lives were never hawk-and-mast traffic is an invasion much too harsh, they’re always rash, their mothers were thirteen, theirs is the iron of their flesh to the oak, the roots of their two-story housekeepers who c ======================================== SAMPLE 602 ======================================== "Shine", by Babette Deutsch [Living, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Shine shall be my memorial of my dreams the message of my dreams pledged by the night and drifted into my dreams Rise from the marsh sleep of what is unto what seems.III My dreams begin to move my dream, my dream time is my heart, my dream each morning for the first time; sweet is time, I grow learning to sing to things that grow.IV Nature, how is it that I grow so fine? I grow so feeble that to live my dream is to root my blood from the sand’s firmness, to reach the crystal that exists for all that’s good.V Some of earth’s laws are steadily bound, like the strongest metal bond, and I bend to the weightless too many of it whet hit bough or cab rind.VI I’ve learned to make my dream come true, the events that happen, too good, to me only—I but grew different, differ. Even the deep in my dream I’ve learned to exist, spiritual resolution, spiritual resolution. Whoever wrestles will undo his dream. VI I must do nothing to the least. I must believe that hour will last in due and careful neither me nor my beloved. Even my dreams are to fade and have no power to reflect my dreams. I must believe my dream is true without its reward, without its reward, without it. III But I can believe that the flower Must return to her, must become dripped down, bruised down, whence she came. I cannot even turn me toward the true thing, nor count it terrible, nor fear the leafy vine-tree that will stand across it. VI Forever, a waving rose that has begun or will never be. It has begun Castrant. It is a place of miracles to grow up, to blaze, to vibrate, to give place to the garden. And so to begin a wonderful grandmother, whose embryo has filled the plot. It is cool, and inviol ======================================== SAMPLE 603 ======================================== "Song of Myself: 35", by Walt Whitman [Living, Death, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I can’t declare the rawness in the breasts of the Americans.How can we have these creatures on our own identical paths, blacks and blacks, crucified and sacrificed, shot through with a single enemy? Our tongues are different as our fathers are different speech, different meanings may be called these are the voices of those who did violence, partial to unnatural blows. My mother, dead 11 years later, taught me to read and sleep and love with silent lips, writing of white women across the street, writing of sacred. I have learned of their own speech that art is a subtle art, a subtle art in which people gather to a heap of citations, continuing this book. Translated from the cycle of the world. Translated from the society of the true, and Ethnic, talking about faith, and hope. <|endoftext|> "Sick", by Meghan O'Rourke [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film] I can still dream dreams about wicked boys, who killed so many teacher of wisdom. Fevers are they of wickedness, who poisoned heads with poisonous juice, who commanded evil & did death not capture violent children, & who commanded death not to become threatening injury to life, yet tearful of any pledge of peace, yet letting a baleful fate turn the igniting harbor of our minds. Translated from the Italian of that village at the far end of the chapter on the offensive, foul, wicked boys. <|endoftext|> "Address as to the Standing Rock", by Matthew Zapruder [Nature, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] 1 Kronion crows out of a book, crack down the tower, right out of hell, altogether small, far off in a white heat steaming hot and green, far off in a green heat of evergreens to mate, the blackbirds all in a line, chattering from the grille. A white, white road at which from a wagon mountain reddens the sky, rosks in belts and scarves in blouses, white blues ======================================== SAMPLE 604 ======================================== "At a Certain Beauty’s Beauty Place", by Ben Jonson [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] 1 Research says, Her love has a serious assurance that she has the oldest possibilities, every move she wishes to play with, or at other times like Sala Doia puts her triple pounces on her hind legs and just leaves her meatcops, turning her truant body, or quickening a net, or revolving, till she has one fairly Like Sala Doia. 2 In later years she feels the undulation of a coat, a train, some of these sudden luminescent moments before her eyes wherewith she will assume 1 As often as her heart slows its long unpracticed way, she feels the interregable assure of her being where she may not feel the absence of any thing but she reaches here, not the great crowd nor any means to further her implicated pitiful eyes, inscrutable but not as that which has been but has been and all is still un 
 to overcome its force, its waiters vanish
 what is done is done. 2 As often as the carcanet
 I deduce the storied force had three griefs; for if the carver
 wore arms and legs and arms, or had a three-string broken, or had marched on to a flake, I could have thrown another splinter but had stroked and so had a three-cornered necklaces and hips and arms, and the highest of all the highest— Kyoto yodet
 roughoto, Kyoto at the gurt and midiormast And even garden. 3 Now come the birds and the frogs, bright elephants. And the street. 4 Unparagraphed and flowing cars, whose nostrils respond to small town ======================================== SAMPLE 605 ======================================== "Rain Song", by Sasha Dugdale [Living, Death, Growing Old, The Body, Time & Brevity, Nature, Weather, Winter] Rain song. Rain song. Rain song. Rain song. Rain song. Rain song. Rain song. Rain song. Rain song. The old woman has a strong, strong, strong body.She could not stop, so she sang. The wind told her how it would end.The wind told her how it would end.The wind told her how it would end.And it told her how it would end. <|endoftext|> "Little Boy", by Sasha Dugdale [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] 1 I’m sitting upon a three o’clock mat, Complete in myself, as you can think, As most folks of   heartwork Hear the story of the clock cook And I’m telling it to you until morning. I can’t go to sleep with you, though, with all kinda girls, Fat boy who seems that all   grass to be my bed, To me the summer forests are so thick I’ve never seen a poplar arbor or tamariska More terrible than me, though, anyway, I’ve just a dollar for a single shilling In the palms of the rivulet in my dreamtail Overnight, my palms are a color flasking Out of the water at the very least one of them. 2 Towerville corner ’neath hedgerows Still reeds in a musty orchard, Still an overturned cage with a rotting flower In its bowl a rotting of hydrangeas And odd things to wish for in the dark. <|endoftext|> "Double", by Sasha Dugdale [Living, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Did a black cat really go Riding on the crutches under his wing? Or just flying in for a dream? The horse he saddled would never be seen:Stop dad on the thoroughbred, Maist a horse in the ======================================== SAMPLE 606 ======================================== "Waff tossed the ball", by Berigan Lee [Living, Time & Brevity] The ball so shrewd is gone, and not a ball of Thrasimitar presents the waff off, too, to a clown. Let’s laugh. The glass goes dry, not heaven, for, that vow, a good fat player with a gun, with something of romantic lust, will rattle the strings to catch a ball’s unbroken heart, once anything but absent parts, and sent before a maze of reward. Let’s throw, then, by the sky, mere gold, in memory of our invincible lives, and rise, with a triumphant flush, our glorious heaven-harp and goblets that shed freeze from the satin of oblivion. <|endoftext|> "Stubborn", by Benjamin Goldberg [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships] Close to the slip of her voice, swallowing you so we can; first of all womankind, thrueness: she wanted to be a world, never flinched. Lust: the slip of a wild bitch, the taste of a blackberry, like some Pavarian fruit, disallowed —so ripe she was—always a dragoon. Her grin became a fraud. It was a sweet pick, one long pull. The clutch, the scrub, the chin. The tar, the thistle, the down she wore, her arm, the slip. Someone spreads the slip, hidden, not out. Wit’s for the snipe. And to put a touch of her mouth, the snipes, to loosen, of her teeth. <|endoftext|> "Sestina: Aunto and Bergam spiras."", by Kit Robinson [Living, Sestina, War & Conflict] The world began in the mere of the bed the sere, slowworm, the flower dropped in the grave; inhale and empty was the air for all the hopes that arose, and nebulous the dark was blue, and nebulous all the posies the old maple hid in its bosom; ======================================== SAMPLE 607 ======================================== "Relually", by Juliana Spore [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss] Sweet night, I muse, as blithe and long As you were carroty; And I, who sang of yore, The sacred silence of your song, Echo, what you'd not, should know: While you lived, sure I loved you (Pardon, Muse, my manner sweet) But could you, if I gave you all This north, this south, subdue a vallied state, And bring it no reply, whose late demesne, After the common olives drencht oreie me, I'd choose a man, A, A; and a then, a god I was, by memory plastert gray: The man I lov'd, my soul I loved, I swear I thocht, this crane, this hart, this nature of my mind, Men would not change their course before I'd part. But they that reeled all sound beside, The sacred outpost, were not we; For 'twas an holy tide, A sacred tide which got us to be thither led, As men's have said, which heat and cold became, Whose mere skin did cast under the sun His summer sun: a novel scene Of spacious prospect, open, sweet, And vision of the heavenly trip Of old resorts, in ridges dim Of light and shade, which in their pearly bed Had semblance sweet of dry, and yet so fair. But years had seen nor eye nor tongue, Nor tongue nor tither ear: And still my soul was at my side, And I could hear her voice, and see the rest. One look she gave me, and one ear, And she was three, my livelongellow, whom not the less Grief only saw and pitied; whose most hated Pain Oft trod upon; and what my hand could strike Into his filth-bank'd thoughts could never win;renches'd his teeth, his countenances, the slings which suck'd And freak'd him, that man's sense did lodge in factious Law, and what words could not, but in each line Gave birth, both in the man and woman, to mine eyes, Much smiles, some tears, and all those mirth and youthful woes. Turn'd on into a lady of my days, My ======================================== SAMPLE 608 ======================================== "Stonewall Wind", by Angela de Hoyos [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Summer] It is the great ghost of the wind That wakes the hills behind us While fitful gusts blow quick and free, And leaps the long grey tailors of the sea. Wind from the Pole Whistles a dainty tailand skittersthroughDown the slushy sand-hills brownA monstrous vulture night is come!I hurl myself down stairsideown. Furlong west The brew’s the strong brown gourdStruck up like a bloody cupBefore I take the bath again.High above the horizon’s black cloud- Isle,Floats the dry sky’s golden smile.Row of the pines Like swimmers out of finchesscappers The steady cisterns hold their richest particlesAnd burst like lance-lights ashore,Flickering like anchored carcases,Or thrusting in one another’s hands.Stormquescence was the joy to rideThe hills and speak to them together.Flesh beneath the carven skin,Give out and take me in.Climb with my bones and winMy lava over them,Or make me sink, top-most,Them that I dropped have let drop over you. Sunshine on dust and dust,Booms the State of the coaches;The black roads ring the turnpike like a dance.Open wideYour gates for party, Levite, O dance,I orbit and crowd and march,Weave through your ropes and up the shroud,Weave through the fine and gilt doors of griefThe mint of tears we fastened for a girl,O mother, but we never seeThe phantom wept for you and me.Speak not of love, we pray for bread,Weep till the last pit opens and the lights go out.It will be never made.O mother, it was love we gave.O mother, we shall set the demon-shrineNo larger than the base of us, below the water,No smaller than the base of us,Till, having turned the scales,We wait in humble pity. For a little space lift upThe faces of the dead,I shall let go of my days aheadButInto the sunshine and the shadow of my sinAnd into my hands and hair and skin.Out of this ======================================== SAMPLE 609 ======================================== "Acceptable Desires", by Felipe Herrera [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, War & Conflict] A regular smell of garden roses ever so, his plastic fingers resemble the hospital or raise his plastic love in that place where our dangerous position was all wasted (this one, the one only of all the things that give rise to surpassing man, who wants to eat up a head, whose eyes mostly languish in a Red Sea on a Lady's, who wants to visit by the window of a Japanese restaurant in the city of our dream whose board files out of the water pile, our dream come to him like a prophet from the East Where the blossoms, the gardenias, the potatoes, the rosiest luscious pear and their marbled trimmings, and many too, in the bright light of the days when we thought we saw phantoms growing up in a city that no one knew or even for who looked down, from above, the water red flashing into moonpots of seven wrought millstones, in tiny silver slabs and tube-hooks of poplars and water-gathering moons of fruit in the bin where the drains, out to the sun and back again into the dark and sun-filled street that looked everything really to the heart, good or bad, crashed up in one long angle by a toy that meant any noise but he didn't run out of tricks and play or even take it as he came battered from the bed with my steps, his leap as the light went by and I knew that my darling you'd hold him longer than I suppose he'd like me to look through the bars at the city with the suns of your peach and your gotta eat up <|endoftext|> "Summer Solstice", by Craig Arnold [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Fall, Summer, Religion, Other Religions, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] The time has been somewhere more or less less less less less less less less less less less less ======================================== SAMPLE 610 ======================================== "Scatter the dust and the herd of deer ", by Andrew Thackeray [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Beauty dwells with her no longer green even in this shroud for that sweet subject—how shall she sing, saith the dry fable, to our common earth-making? —When shall we go to the uplands, to the uplands, to the dark wood, to the silent wood? <|endoftext|> "In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: tantalude me not to claim of that becoming any sagal, even to my self almost, although without help, I may clear the ancestral language and hometown the language too, with utopravished duties asking due beneauties of the world. Although I now abandon my claim, in Pompeii was Homer and Endurets, ancient heroes of the Roman War, I still hooted the inevitable hours, for days and nights I spent this marvel on me, with the blind astonied eyes searching the memories of my father’s ghostly mistress, who had clasped my hand in marriage without faltering, her lips apart to utter telling. <|endoftext|> "The Arundi Chapel", by Joy Lade choppinger [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Come on, come on, there are birds dying in the trees. Millions of birds in the heavy air have never died and will not withered at dawn. Millions of corpses lie, not here nor on our earth. They sleep with the cunning souls who planned their birth. Not all sleep, or could rise without wings. Come on, come on, there are pigeons in the thickets, never stirred. Come on, there are berries in the branches, flowers everywhere—the blood right divine. Down in the great west, where the fields begin, Wolves begin to die with a clap and shudder; they will come; they will come; the sun and moon will open every light rap on their wings and then crush them into death. And hundreds of generations will come as yesterday, and millions will come as yesterday. And hundreds of generations with their forms and feelings are going out together into death. < ======================================== SAMPLE 611 ======================================== "Amoretti LXII: Mystic and Altogether With Greek Mehr elk on his side", by Shane Massley [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Pets] Mystic and Altogether Moab in India When He was not here Emcluded by Himself, (but I do not pretend Me to be) Have not come to my house by night To say Come to me Good-bye, my friends and brothers", by Shane Massley [Living, Growing Old] Mystic and Altogether Moab in India When He was not here Emcluded by His mother Daughters, disguised as survives Neptune, If He is grown upAnimals For singing to the stars, Which I believe quite in my Faith. Mystic and Altogether Moab in India Have not done To a great good that is not new Is not so great as the old Yeast Of my existence with new You Which I believe in at the meaning of all As I proclaim Him to the Azores As I show You the most solemn aubitum He is the most reticent Utterly American Poem With the grand Humanity And saintly appearance of your nation I confess I could not fend It from My enemies, who are so few But men too good to defend It is soEasy to say That the right ills are to take away. I could not defend Itself from the most pitiful & three times I honoured it, when it was He who ruled it As though it were a love and fear Divine That led us to His throne on the most exalted stage in highest power And favoured of God and universe And said Oh my country is beautifulSpain of the Moab & the Jewish Nations And God made so fair and socomplete Within my eyes It fights out over it To show Him something of its emptiness. <|endoftext|> "The Girl Wherearing Is a River", by Shane McCar Len [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] I see it all like a painting of a landscape fading, fading, The artist of yesterday amsterdam: a loser, I remember somebody who owns a picture, its people saying I place it in the frame of it, until a different planet occupies it, And so on Saturday, in the great O'D. The pictures are not in an actual painting at all, except where there ======================================== SAMPLE 612 ======================================== "You Prospect a Cause", by Henry Joppa [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Time & Brevity] I am addressing you to the question. “Do I not know” or “I cannot tell The history of the Soul?” Not that I did; I live in a house not large enough To live in a shoe, not much to live in a house. And I don’t know the name or business now. The world is too much like a dog, and we Who are not on the same ground, not in The everyday pattern of the street below, And not like your uncle when small and mean, And not like your uncle who, if you do nothing, Will behave yourself to some invisible will. I am telling you the truth. You say, “You’re not The origin of the Soul, and it’s in the head Of the mind whose eyes are blue and capable Of working in the common life.” That’s what it is When one has a dream to realize: its stories Of wonder and failure. What we don’t knows of it. And what we don’t know: many, many, Our lives in the light, our dreams real, Our dreams that are the eyes of the Pathido, The dirty, dour bespattered paths that go Sick with wind and sun, gaining wind and rain By lying in a mess of cans and sawdust. We’re not serious now nor can’t complain Of our two main parents. When you talk, You understand no more than a dog or a stick And nothing else. You are simply asking What story has caused you, and what clue Might lead you to find the real secret? Poor man, he went out there thinking, and told A gang of his better people: he thought About the plan that caused them: he thought About the plan and his clear sight Until he saw it, and thought of an hour Aswinging the stick between him and his hound In a quiet drive, and listening hard To everything he’d ask, and nothing else That helped him to impede his moving, And not quite serious, though hardly serious, And not quite serious, though hardly serious. And though he’ ======================================== SAMPLE 613 ======================================== Heaven bless our team!—We are glad and proud;-- “Good dad’s our speed!”—As through the sky the lengthening light Gleams on the broken hosts that fight, And hameward the invaders turn, The last of all their band to burn. And they, who toils of stubborn sense Still claim a kindred with the slain, Turn to the foe with fevered breath, And say—“Let there be rain again;” And take their fevered flight:—When banners wave Above the conquered remnant’s grave, Bid us, O king, recall again The deeds that shame the mightiest men. So cheer the broken hosts, O king, And let each lead his sires and sons; Drive back the groaning millions far, And bid the base for ever guard. Of beef and beer and wine they’ll make A wall and raise a line; Make every zone prepare a strip Of snow across the line. Make every zone abound. And all the fame the wide world knows And all the gathered nations views Make every city true.” <|endoftext|> "God’s Silent Life", by James Baldwin [Religion, God & the Divine] The dimpled East unfathom day And golden light of dawning light; The little star sheds its till eve Cooling the rice-fields with its light; The Tyrant and the Serpent glared, And each his rosary conceived. All day they glared, eyes going wild. But, when the last brown mists began to gather, Against the coming light’s monotony They railed, cried, “MAY and leave, leave and leave!” Then from the joyful front they flashed A crimson laugh; the softening South Looked down upon the eager Bar, And clapped her hand to them. But, as the day grew dimmer, down The ebb-tide verdure came the rain, Alike its mantle to the town Was plain, but plain for any eye; And, as the Night grew lovelier, down The hills the glimmering mists were driven Out of the town. Its mantle darkened, And in the wind, ======================================== SAMPLE 614 ======================================== "To the Muse, for a Birthday", by William Blake [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics] Once I put within three spans. It appeared to be a freke, the other two brushed over by an opening in the nave. I could hear the shilling d’Eton echo. I first tried my pen For the office, then my hand so big That down it dangsdered, flew, and got Out behind the head, flung, and said “Back, Daddy boy, Daddy boy, back.” Then daddy said “Don’t be too wild. Give up, you’re white, like that’s the way Last year I was; like that’s the way Last year I was changeling; the night Is the same from morn until the east.” She looked around and got me, and says, “Run back, Daddy boy; the bank tells you. Run back, Daddy boy; back to Chicago.” So I went and to the next town, to live in the woods with parents, parents, sisters. I said, Daddy, there’s a car at home —the old big crucifixion, the crabapple, and the sweet potato—; its two names CHRINE, FOODOORE, THINE, CAKARNE, ROSE. They say I’d smoke the pipe. Why, then, the birds, they say, are at high time and, anyway, on the old shed, the sound of the wheels, streams, and the boys who still bleak in front of us in the porch, and sing our praise in psalms. Well, we won’t go that night. The trees they tell us, they say about the paths led by a great sea-mew, painted deep in the dark, the way we find ourselves. A STRIDATE Wreath sparkles. Is that an outside? A street along the road, And behind him, a crowd of animals that run about daily— ======================================== SAMPLE 615 ======================================== Then only the sigh of the Little Bird ( me and his mate will smile) spilled down the consoling roof so I matted the feathers and rolled them along. (after a beaker of yellow leaves went out this way, but I know what it would be) entangled a beaded veil (paper lined meshwork of gossamer) filled with the sun’s last rays of sunlight. he thought of the silver cord drawn across the river and cried, oh so much of our love is the song of a beaker of water. he thought of the flight of the beak, on the shifting purple sail, harboring the sunlight, passing it offering gold and purple gifts. once he brought them to the quay, scared and startled at the sight of the others, then prayed to the other, always away from them: now saw I the beak of a bather with a tuft of feathers on it: new-leaved, wandering with beaded wares to trip on the sharp-edged boat, the sea’s water his hand, who knew, first and last of all, that I was alone. with brindled hound and horn, headless horse taking a chance to order the beaded snow-locked train, sliding the slimy pass, the maddened snow that lost its error, the trail of cardinal on the snow. <|endoftext|> "nom de plume naèmes a’átsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naëtsit naëtsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit naètsit ======================================== SAMPLE 616 ======================================== Were I only with Them (Byronic Antiquities) How would you sound them Like traffic on my days? How would you sound them Exultantly they should be More than with me? How would you sound them Like traffic on my days? Under a stagnant sky Sadly I stood Warming my hands Now that the water's dry Came back and, now that I die, I talk to the one Who answers me: “I have a daughter, so free.” <|endoftext|> "Cabbages from “Cabbages", by Fatimah Asghar [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships] Not smiling, but slightly thoughtful, not fussing, Not fussing, but patting—not asking to ask: not— You’d wonder if Ruth Could tell what her father said, or the name she used to? And the sound of the timbrel, and the tap of the shear- Garish gush, and the crickets’ return chirping in the track All day long, like my own, and echoed in the dark, All night long, like my own. The wash of the fronds was a tinny sight—pork and tousledame milksina —and the men and women, their faces to the door, their furtive pearls; the children—their touches replaced Like the grains of dust in a trough. The relief that followed the sound of the steps of a dance, and the breath of the girls hurling their jeweled jewels along like the rain in a garden. The sun has been always up to date, saying “Over the hills and far away the woods become one rounded afternoon.” The woods are yours now like a heart of fire, and the voices that found you once—as though awaiting your long haul—from the country and the love that lay in wait. <|endoftext|> "When I Was a Child", by Sara Backward [Living, Death, Infancy, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] When I was a Child I slept; I never wanted to be made wiser. I was just a child, my Mother and my three sons, and I never wanted to be. ======================================== SAMPLE 617 ======================================== "Sur les vieux", by Timothy Steele [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I You can open your mouth for the singer with the dimpled gleam of hair. You can fold the hand of the wind into a book. You can hold the blossom of a poppy face. You can hold the rain of the moon in gauze de trente de l'afordance de grace. You can be a storme throated in a boat of water. You can fist the blossom in the puck of the cypress, in the vine, puck of the arbutus, the stale seed in the afternoons, the strawberry of forgetfulness. II The poet’s page is tinfoil, the clerk’s boy powder, the cop’s hot breath, the barman’s cough. The bookshearing corkscrews splinter from the lime tree, the barman’s laugh, the barman’s lean, the coyote’s hank, viragints in solitude of the marrowless arm. Let us hold our jaw, imagine all who fail, their heads, their cheeks. Let the night-watch beetle that will flutter his horn, imagine all who spin, imagine only spin, amid the cups and breeches of a brain quick to ripe to ripen, ripen, ripen for the blossom of good or ill. III Heirs of the present, good or ill, raise the twilight sail. Limorless heaps lie on the weed-lashed deck, miles on masts, moorlight, waves that cross the bars of the blue lagoon. None can watch the sail, none can stay the rover. All must be fair and foul, and all be sweetcolored. None can stay the hero, the deliverer of peace. Vainly the bay rover winds the mizen, rides till the sun’s beam cuts through the purple shrouds. IV Sun never gives so much time to think. Tears ======================================== SAMPLE 618 ======================================== "Inventory— Shall Change Not Be A Real Flame", by William Blake [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] Within this strange conveyance ’twas decreed (we thought) To be put up above our heads, if need be, The only proper victory Adam lost that night; A strange conveyance brought it by surmounting light; A large performing bull, the world’s delight, Smooth with soft tail, soft with soft tongue, Fine arts’ diversion, and sweet consequence, Our man’s affairs, our pains and our cares, Were spread as in a citole on a plate. Therefore (you think of Henry fleeing the Red Sun), I guessed, from some old friend I’d heard myself the Spring wind blow outside the door And curdled my hair with his despotic hand, Laying waste Words upon me with a ready smile, Just as he says it in a modern suit, A welcome to the land, the flesh, the blood. Sprinked from the curb, I found myself arrived On a hot day of March—A brief time before the iron gates Of Wilton House were fitted to receive The guests who had been at the hermitage, Who had so often listened thereupon. No skilled physician e’er could prophesy That so much blood was in the wound of me, That I had heard the church-bells toll for eighty seconds, And lived no more in that un exhaustished age Than when I lay in a bed-side and saw no windowed room Or threshold, but amid the clattering chairs No matter, that was a cold and noisy man, Walking about and round the signs and wonders of the world, Pondering on his slowly running waters, On what and what was not going to matter, About what and what was not going to matter, About what happened and what was not going and why. In all that maze of plotless planks and floorboards, How many of them floated in and out, regardless (I could never but enjoy this underneath) I could never quite sit down or walk with the trees or alone In this or the next world, where a great sea rolls, Or a great sea, its tenants. And here the earth, the oak and the lime, Where a great sea, or an endless life, Strides like a soul over the shining eggs Of a human heart. And everywhere the world is mirror’ ======================================== SAMPLE 619 ======================================== "Nocturne", by Sheila Black [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers] If it happen that your father drowned you would change anymore a fish à papillon and change everymore a sound your breath would dissolve and we should bobble in the swim, salt-water you would shatter in the sun all over the boulevard. You rolled like a letter X X XC2 and to wind you across the bay then return in the creek, speak to us of  Sea Call School, unrivaled undone anymore trees, a tree, become anymore trees anything is, anymore everything is, anymore they all are, anymore they all are, even tho —  <|endoftext|> "The Con................", by Sheila Black [Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] there are no Greeks, any more, like a bird trapped on a branch, no wind dared to breathe it, the word continued, your name – another word whose name I will forget. weep you no more, your name – another whose name happened to be mighty persiflage. You no more live, far away, our sole utterance — that is most unutterable. <|endoftext|> "Every Job Has a Name", by Khaled Mattawa [Living, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets] 1 I could pick anything —  note A, heart of a jungle feline or a escaped hare or A, the sun naked or only feline as a tame leopard with a skin for hair or blue eyes for his meat, his dark mouth lolling like a shy cat whisper like a blind lamb, or arrow — the longer we can look around we have A, the more is that the bat with wide wings and the smaller eyes, holes gleam as it ======================================== SAMPLE 620 ======================================== "Twenty M", by Robin Blaser [Relationships, Friends & Enemies] All debts were duly passed, and private life seemed lucky.On all we damned for remnant, inside seventeen, there was oneRemuneration for the memories of the friends we had;And years went by like to lose that happy lance.In Mrs. Grundy’s visits, there she often used to carouseFor hours and give off wounds with her A.S. in hiding, sometimes, sometimes, and sometimes,Just at 4 a.m. avenged. What gets to be said Leans so much the better We like the loss of home. So we keep all the leaves, forsooth, untouched,Unable even to the river’s mouth,Or even to thirst. There’s Holmes, we know, who truly think That Sherlock is a weed. Yet we know his end is, and lament Lives most that either sows or grows; And we know that just as lovers drop, The husband’s curses are the drug, And, like the louse, the lover’s tear The eternal scabbard holds up higher,And, like the louse, the bride’s sour part Is mild Ulysses’ heart. In two divided nations, island to island, A night floats to us, though our home be narrow. These blocked and broken half mankind, as a dream, We know not to expect but to passing.Who does the same tongue bestow, A hair like Spleen, or some unwashed hand, Or eyes that never see, or not, nor eyesight; Yet fixed, and fixed as we are by light. The briefest numerals of our century, Live but to magnify the passing glory Of sainted banter, and uncronially refusing To feel the fire no longer than a showman’s, Are turn’d to scissors, knife and knives. Our neighbours feel the winter fly, inured By search and waiting, blind to the new sun, And not—and not—but from the north insists, Becomes the terror worst of all the pasts. At which I answer nothing. My design might perhaps be drawn to others, As such, by no and I by no mistake. At ======================================== SAMPLE 621 ======================================== "And Contemplation’s Wolf", by William Wordsworth [Living, Death, Relationships, Pets, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] Had I the skill to understand each fist, avoid the threat of scaring gnomes; could I, the squulnerable, from lean-back, lean to the back, try to poll sod, grass, wave— To thwart the fiery demands of those red-eyed at my table, who were so wary, so pathetic, spook by natural law. Even the mouse-ghost had long time taen the jail, a ghost. Its jaws were fleeter than the resinous caldron of hell. Said I, “If I’m stuck just here all afternoon, I’ll know the whole round world."—The effect of the blues is such, but the effect is sad. Mankind must be guilty who by virtue of his own free will debarl his neighbor.” And the jail itself felt compelled, had nowhere else. In the red jet at the last I looked at the big muscular sun, at noon. Just then the patient little cock had gone to bed, orange-green light reachement for the windowpanes; when I woke, I found that all was just shut out, a swan’s grave, settling like a blanket on low reaches. Its cold twig hardened, but I found my trust in the trust of my brothers and sisters. I yawned and drank until it seemed the planet turned to star go through—the needles rained tonnage above its head for nothing but a smile, then the little wing went home so prematurely blue, and a girl I knew at first was not near me, but must be; she needed not be less. So I dragged myself home to my feet, stretched out, gave me the whole sweet cargo of life. And, O, I knew I had been true in some wise thing—I learned to love the things they give the soul, but could not. “Not now,” I said, “but hands above all sacrifice, why break the lives of so many as, and be a human sacrifice.” I remembered this girl only at the breaking of the dark? Her tenth of happy moments with me still in her hair. All that I know is children: unluck ======================================== SAMPLE 622 ======================================== "Timel Song", by Eva Goresskethse [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Pets] I forgot how the bees kept homing So the bees hid. It was the moon stayed High up above London, playing Music about me. It was the mud Trained over my door. My wife's Cradle would make soft wallpaper To the dusk hills. The sky Sky was color, and the smell Of June blossomed everywhere Like flowers in the meadows. She knew me and I didn't say For hours, not because I wanted to be there. We were alone. She was quite Cheeks just rosy. It seemed Like rain coming. Her step Was sudden. She did not speak. We two were alone. I saw her shake Her dresser. The sky came Blazing with stars. It was the moon Suddenly. Her wide eyes Looked at me. It was birds About all. If I could see The sky I would never know Shine throws off cloud-and-clouds. <|endoftext|> "Dawn Prayer", by Eva Goresskethse [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine] ‘The holy woman comes to town today.’ A grass spot that is open as a screen To looks out the window, and between Its legs the sound of a man's crying As he goes to the car door. It’s thin, that sits Horn against body and will never know The man nobody is wishing to know If he’s hurt. The man’s voice, like a pipe, Tall and full of sound, is soft as the lips Of a lulled man, thirsty for his life, And his cold day touching the sheets. And the sky’s sky, clear as a song, Is a colorless blue, the song is cold And I know not which is. I know not which Is the thing in the mind that’s done, or how Happens to me all the day. I know not which. And the perfume that follows the sound And the moonlight that follows the moon, As it drifts over freeway and Sonny’s— Was there a song I would hear before I ======================================== SAMPLE 623 ======================================== "Banana", by Albert Goldbarth [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] The rain’s cold silver monotony falls into the vat where she lived breaks into tears outside the window light then watched by herself as a bird flies through the branches through the earth then held high in her hand she knows if it is from the bird, bird, or from flowers, and from the song of the girl, her own vat so much she can hear the sounds of rain she can see flowers, the song she thinks of the wind most of all the sounds in her world there seems a rustle of tiny drops in the water it almost makes her pale And the dry stream is choked tho rains do not rock her up and the ants have come down and found her a green umbrella And green umbrella. <|endoftext|> "Baked into a Girl for hire adornment", by John Ashbery [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Sciences, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] To hammer an ox’s frame What best the shears direct To sound at the halloa The girl’s voice is but a short Groping of short and sweet And sweet and sweet The boy’s large voice She’s singing his song on the plate, Shaking the silk from off her feet Shaping some color she knew then And sure enough the boy knew again Could make for a rhyme. <|endoftext|> "Three Days in the Log Cabin", by John Ashbery There, when the light was almost undimmed and the empty pockets had been swept away and the ceiling cracked, she could see the floor, see kitchen pots, window panes, leaned against the sky, the rivets and boards, the wood, the planks, and floor above her, all in vain. The river that fished it up, the lawn, the sky, the fire, the clouds, the cornfields doing it all things the tongue has used for comforting, ======================================== SAMPLE 624 ======================================== "TheGoogle of the Poet", by Billy Collins [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] It’s good when the laboring monk is dead Without the castle door, or the breeze-mug Grave in his sable gown. He don’t pass, he’s not, Or the glow-worm, in its gypsy coat, To mark the spot where the owl keeps time To tell your Bergamot About birds, about the bees. He did?’Cause nothing could he do, except sometimes you’re not there at all, And you’re not there at all. He did. The Bee hi’alki hums as if he knew The proper frogs for frogs, his mother Hugs “the water of the beaver.” Greasy Nay Looks just the same way through the grass. The little white, though measured with mud, Looks just the way we never see it either. The little crow says out in the leaves, And looks, and looks, and does not stand on purpose Only to stand where there is nothing. He’s gone out on the moor all day, But does not get along to-morrow, For he’s gone back where he will. Tomorrow In the year terribly still, mid April, When the first jogger under the blanket Rattles his round musical glasses, He finds himself at the frog’s chimney, The bog’s another world of grass, With sunlight on bubbles on bubbles, And his world is one world of grass. The rat was changed into a midge After he came back to earth And the eel came with the dry leaves And the eel’s own water in his hand. <|endoftext|> "V diabetes, Third Nationalist", by Billy Collins [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] If anyone hurt you, it’s like being in a burg on the pool walking around for the first time in any apartment. It’s like a poem in a poem if someone wrote ======================================== SAMPLE 625 ======================================== "Safari, Rift", by John Sakkis [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] My gondola is now no speck agin the buzzards and sniffabakas; I want the center-line of everybody,�s voice, yes, something and another like it; and it's not the erring song I whistle at the time of my own default, that's not all I'll lose until it's spilled. That's my last grind, 'likely even later,' to the finish; and my barber, a cook, sits down athin in my fur (of a truth), somehow or somehow it's no good play outside this music, but be still. What they do in live on is their bond—attentive. And the notes weave sleepily, sleepily into blith; my gondola is no gondola, its swell is no jewel. I wade into this pool (alas, my soul, you know—betches me) and I watch, with steady faith, (forgetting or fetch, to suck up all) your body. Next day there are three different kinds: the room in which I plunge as calm as a prayer-bird craturals to start from the still air. And it's the jar of a long-stringed pipe. The door-god pressure locks up in a dream, the door I seek to lock. There is the rumour (ah, but I'll try it) as I sit outside, poked to my soul—the house all on fire— (it's half-past eight when I get the wish, a small transistor mirror smashed, a half-glass window where a woman blows up in flame from behind the glass; it's nearly up to the broken brick on the stairway where the light wind goes. <|endoftext|> "Forget-me-not", by John Sakkis [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Men & Women] The smart-livers by the ocean want to touch the others' wounds; their hurts just so long as they occur beneath it; those smart-livers by the ocean want to grab at them. The man ======================================== SAMPLE 626 ======================================== "Song of Myself: “Because thou hast done well and canst not leave me, why shouldst thou not?”] because as I had left I could not. Thoughts in darkness fell upon the ear, and at that sound we dream of deep inward harmonies, in which we both might be at peace. <|endoftext|> "One and Two", by Thomas Hardy [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving] I have made a sorry song in that world where sorrow naileth my sin to the breast of my friend. But weep not though it hardeneth my heart to clothe the heart in mourning. For I know in the dark that my seed must spring be the weed thine eye hath swept to shame, that thy flesh groweth up unto a flame, and that thou shalt gain a bright glory thereby: I have hidden mine ears in thy song's glory, thine eye brightened with thy song's glory. Yesterday thou wouldst not know that kiss might bring woe to all that sleep thereof: Yesterday thou wouldst not know to his heart that a song is an ending of woe, a song that is pitch of sand, that the snow melts into the wind therein. Yesterday thou wouldst not know that kiss is a woe where the sun never smites apart: day is a grief though thou healest the heart. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet 126: "Ye that in the olden time, before ye were as fickle and as falsified as the ground, in fickle cruel mirrors, with your figures shifting, uncertain in the subtle delusion of your fashioning, ye woo the ancient spirits to change the forms of women. Yea, waxeth old age; this time must change his mood: and overliveeth he who is young. Ye that go up and down alternate year by year, bearing about with them your thatch and bed, arrayed in feathers for the bride, bearing the wreath upon her forehead, and the tresses holding on her snow-flowers, and the sweet aloe for heavy burthen. Yea, ye that I would eat with my desire, that I might waste my days there, and my life come to these ======================================== SAMPLE 627 ======================================== "Sonnet 40: Cy tar non senex A star in the matin, Pallas, art thou overmodess, sere man! a sonnet 1: Thou shalt have hammer, dreams, and silences Peace-cord that no passion can reject. Rest here, forgetful men, sleep here till sunset; Then rise, and sing with planets to thy side. Whose blood and oil and fat well-cutened flesh And fruits of thy hot youth have mixed with mine. Although our bodies burn and our hearts burn Newly, enough that abject thing divine Reveals to memory many a thing divine. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say: ‘Art thou Melancholy?’ than say: ‘Art thou young?’ than say: ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say: ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art thou over-young, my boy?’ than say. ‘Art ======================================== SAMPLE 628 ======================================== "Querni Musam", by Joseph Millar [Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I sit and watch the stars from their great globes turn away, cast by the storm of the west: the pale darkness bare as a ship unpacking the hulls lit by a shout from land. I hear the cries of the sailors and hear the wails of the sailors and I turn my eyes, as the stars turned eastward to look south, sea to steady star to face, to look south of this country to seek its latest sands. The waves fly over the sphinxes which form each leaf between foam and sand, and the legend of Orpheus— the songs of a countless impure fugitive inviting the lips of men— breaks into the light and makes it, enters the fondest mothers to grow again in their sons’ mouths among theirs and themselves, till at last again beguiling them and their tender little heads, they forget who they are, and forget how wounded they are still, they talk, talk, I asked, and forgetful of what I saw, the nails in their hands, they recall, to their feet black, cold, beautiful, green, they recall them, as fresh, my boys and girls, the songs, sweet creatures of yours, the songs. The sunlight and music and lights and shadows fall on everything. <|endoftext|> "November", by Joseph Millar [Living, Growing Old, Nature, Fall, Summer] All night the wind sounds in the leaves like a broken music on a broken drum. Opposite a dark sky bends over us and suddenly returns our attention. Low lying in this shy country taking us and me and the other blind, seasonable autumn, whose brown skin chokes away the gathering light and transforms us into silence. Opposite a dark sky bending over us and us, it is falling down this way and that. 9:13 Gray and sere, like a frail girl we have met once more pairing. Oh heavy clouds, and all this darkening sky as with a cold moon against my belly. <|endoftext|> "Dripping with the Koade", by Julian Talamantez Brolask ======================================== SAMPLE 629 ======================================== "Budding", by Robert Thomas [Living, Death, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] In one year's space I’ve asked her how she could repeat the sonnet, have gone back, and she’d taken away the names from the air I’d expected to tell her, or rather what she could do only repeat. She’d taken away the phone number and filled it, offered it back and told her not to be afraid to go into the bathroom. It would only be expressed, as she wouldn’t say, “I don’t want to go up.” She’d only meant to keep her whole life in the bargain, whatever the reason she was here this year. Now she’s gone back to Kepia, leaving nothing there. <|endoftext|> "I Know a Man", by Robert Thomas [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] I know a Man, Close by my God, up here in the World of Light,Saying the sun’s last Blue, Perfect, So far as it fails to burn, Silent, complete,In this great company of lamps, Lord, I enclose myself.I know a Man. His face is fair enough. He knows the Sun. The Planter’s Progress, the Pangs of the World,The Gem decrepit, the embryonic sum,The paperweight of vegetables, the lobe of the vines of the vines of the vines of the Tree,All working, plodding,psalm the Cause of the Birds and making their account.He knows the Tree. The Tree —the Ought of the Animals I know.The Ought of the Light for the Light and the Sun’s Echo.These are his anonymous poems:“The music of birds calling to me,Brushing the smoothgrass and the roots of the tare tree, marking lines of nine, eight, and ten,”Hard words out to a bird’s throat, skulking very loudly for a day.Lovingly answering the Oceans: One Shhh & One toThree.Kins at the Nkalas, nothing but the dark sea. <|endoftext|> "Afternoon", by Susan Kelly-DeWitt One evening in Kwystow Park Near where ======================================== SAMPLE 630 ======================================== "The Constant Voice", by James Schemgesky [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] No one’s afraid. Not one has prayed For the red whiskey that’s in the living room, And the bed it gets in the dark and the torn tank in the basement. Not one wishes to deny that’s all, to know How much the blame of hell can’t make the like look down. The bland and easy man Can never raise the fellow if you please. The morning’s too diffuse, and few will ever reach The void that’s for the Doctors who can’t lift a leg. Without the doctor’s face you’d better go to bed. There’s nothing for it when there’s nothing to do Except wait awhile, to drug your wounds in sleep. What’s enough to take a bullet through your thigh Or drawn knife to cut your shade of tender blood, Or hold yourself up for like trash to show That your friends are sleeping on the everyday Dead to the work of more than anyone could do? <|endoftext|> "Permanent Home", by James Schemgesky [Relationships, Home Life, Nature, Winter] Every year, there are Family and Land in early snow And it’s here they’ve taken social turns with the grease-greased Cambrid trading away as peoples. Each one Shakes hands and says “There aren’t clouds.” It’s true We have come out to town in a neighbor’s winter coat And, somehow, find an ancient enemy Hasn’t to sleep with a snow-covered city: I suppose they take us up And we glide on. <|endoftext|> "The Temperance", by James Schemgesky [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] In the temper of the evening when the shadows stretch every one over the roofs, we’ll stop just to do thekitching. We’ll go outside on the deck, and then it’s some tremendous fishing feeling. You’ll look out for suicide and you’ll look out for ======================================== SAMPLE 631 ======================================== "Breadwinning in the Garden", by Jennifer Firestone [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Existence is an attendant thing, but not all from a good to orphan my parents. Even this day, I’m eating a almond but what is the taste of astonishment but the last around to myself, the forget-me-not, is that what you eat, will not make a difference, too clear as an idea, between a kitchen, a glass of water?* All this at the back of the wallet. But which are your times? Will the depths of the thought of that man who’d drown himself, that man who never could drown himself? Recall the lamp. Dawn, moon? All this said. And my days begin to flicker like flaring my life around the tree. But there comes a future that’s called a past, whose light is dimmed like the dusk of the winter night of the stars. Then, snow. Then take my hands and walk away. <|endoftext|> "Dawn", by Jennifer Firestone [Living, Health & Illness, Time & Brevity, Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Men & Women] It is the morning dream in Bolivia. The next light is a face I know, a glass door in the other world. It rises and is taken in, a lady and a woman looking for a bed. It makes the next one sip and drains. These are the languages I’ve heard. Here are magnolias, holly and crushed overnight, and here is the lawn with a slow rumble of rain. It makes an uproar in the air, an echo in the waters of dawn. These are the languages I’ve known, these are the thoughts that come back, this is the invention that is never done. <|endoftext|> "Who Is Certain?", by Jennifer Firestone [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Home Life] I know I’m not sure whether the light in the kitchen glows black gold, through the chinks of the patio and through the walls. ======================================== SAMPLE 632 ======================================== "Scenes", by Michael Draycott [Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, War & Conflict] There was a woman meekly pined In the midst of this dazzling sheen; And she said, with a faltering grace, Surely she has been seen. Ah, saintly she, and not stone-blind, She has seen it in her face! The sheen of her bonnet blue, The hues of her garments green, The tint of her garments blue, Are blurred and covered with the stain Of blood and her soul's sin seen! She sees it, her bonnet blue, The hues of her garments white, The rose-hued chaplet among The pale-face and the light. Where the dead red poppies flare, The grass of her bosom shivers With wicked slatings of hair; There is no purer fire there. She will sit with her downcast eyes Upon the cold green bed Where the wringing lashes sweep, And the cold world-shower of sleep. Between the guns of men who drowse In dull dead field or beaten track, Nay, pause a moment ere they close, And hear the daisies as they peck. And then the shock will be as deep As some black cat in his burrow, Silk-white, above the sleeper's head, And all your dear black love will cover The artist's head, And the cold world-spirit's brain, And all your fair brown earth, And all your quick-spun tenors, And all the sky with tiny stars. My joy is in the freedom And freedom to my lady. My love is real and free. My lord is one. My lord is slave to the one. My one white rose is torn, The one that was unborn. My one white rose is riven And ruined with my thorn. The one that was all mine And lost, since my white rose Was burned by the forsaking sun; And my one white rose is gone. For his face is overstreaked with tears, For his healing was forgotten, And the flower of the one that was mine Still clings as in its heart ======================================== SAMPLE 633 ======================================== "The Turmoil", by Philip Raisor [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women] For A. F. F.Looks, for an aunt Resolved to stay warm evening with me, to watch the nights, the days, the days. Nobody is incomplete with me, if not with this woman. For F. F. F.T. Looking at a glass of beer, inside the glass, I felt the world fade, went mad in a rage of rage, bored in the seams of a great juke, to be ripped off like decorators struggling in a deluge of grief. The glass blurred out to the day. I stood by the glass to catch it, the night, I groaned, I was in pain, left with every night's vacancy. And what was destroyed, or the great, people did. I pointed to F. F. F.S. But it didn't help. <|endoftext|> "A Canzone", by Philip Raisor [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] It worked its latr exhibit in other minds, tended, lauded, when it was tired, when it had to be ended. Almost all things for nothing. It worked elsewhere, trying not to put up with that which bears nothing. Almost all things for nothing! And there are no insipid hours like the place of rain, not at all to get poured into the hand of the madman. One great law has made up and created the great: (No boundary knew which had me in the first moment— the vent, at the end of the Resurrection, or even fate, if there was any pittance). And even the thought of blank death could follow. Despite all the reasoning powers of sleep and help we reason, and even the framing of being obedient. Let there be light to see, there is love to fear, fear to see, and reflect. Ye sages, ye listless quakers of this world, ye gladdened, won't give a start, ye world-affers! What need of a mind, when ======================================== SAMPLE 634 ======================================== "Wander", by Stanley Kunco [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Do not come, my darling, stay! We are bearing your roses at dawn. By a secret last night you told me you must go to the war, For I am afraid to come back. By the secret last night you told me you must die. We are watching over the suicide line, And our letters are scattered with books to await The return of your roses. We are watching you die, my darling, why We are so intent, on the open and flowing page. And now, while the colors are laid away, You are passing, my darling, dead. <|endoftext|> "martyrdom", by Stanley Kunco [The Body, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I do not want to go into the poem again or be carried in the car Where I am waiting for the hardSomeone to speak to me in its roughtone I do not want to go into the poem again or be carried in the poem to where I am waiting. The merest rivage of a man I do not want To go into the poem again. I want to be carried in the cart Where I am waiting for the hardSomeone to walk across the ground where I am waiting with my animals to be fed who, living or dead, are prolific diseases I want to go into the poem again. <|endoftext|> "The Eye", by Stanley Kunco [The Body, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries] Standing midway between two lonely mountains, I do not want to go into the poem again. There is a forest where my brother is never in anybody’s life, there is a forest where my brother is never there is a forest where my father is never in anybody’s life There is a forest where my brother is never in anyone’s life There is a forest where my brother is never in anyone’s life. There is a river where my brother lives. There is a forest where my father is never in anyone’s life There is a forest where ======================================== SAMPLE 635 ======================================== "Revenant of States, With the Death of Dr. George Peel", by Charles Reznikoff [Living, Death, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine] To my father's building up in the quarry of suitors, standing on one leg over the cocked helmet of his lower birth, and the weight of his left shoulder, the weight of his right, the weight and increase of his right, were two swung into each other, and was fully undertaken to convey a wooden leg down the spacious veins, and with the one sinew set round the twice-marvellous joints, the other under the cocked joint. . . And even after his model of youth design, under the close of this bad day's play our father tried to make the chief room of the malevolent Man focus. He tried to warm his hands for the safety of the female guard, the male enemy saying, Oh, let us send the boy over the fence and cowering over the steel-castles, the steel-point at the base of his long rail, though this would not do for the sake of the boy. . . . The neighbor's son was on the raw and beat them with stones, a screaming, ghostly weapon he insisted on. . . the cut is continuous, but the whole act of nerve worked so hard, no way of soul to speak, no way back of memory to move, and the exact cut suffered so much the first time that the smart time worked so frequently. In the womb of his mind there was milk, white, enormous, liquid, sparkling and blue as the eyelids of the Great Man, he could not breathe. . . It was as if he felt a sudden bronze quiver slip across the gills, and his brain kept films inside his body that filled with cold remembrances and sharp pangs of pain and torture. . . But the screaming stopped. <|endoftext|> "The Fight with No Complicated", by Etheridge Knight [Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Relationships, Social Commentaries] Quick beating the dice without a sound, Just skilled to rob the friends from harm And had them cunningly discussed The ceremony at the Convent ======================================== SAMPLE 636 ======================================== "Phiz: I", by Jennifer Rose [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] In 1965 my father made a grandam, one of his sons—not Al and construe. In 1965 my father guarded a “summer” table a day beneath a “back” plan. In 1965 my father earned a “spell in his home in the basement of the tomb” in which he lost his time before he could come back to life. In 1965 my father wore a “summer” shirt on his side, he wept at the threshold of a fine shop on the East River. In 1965 my father called a magnamma to the Goldberg Variations when drunk Magellan How They Do Here, they said. In 1965 my father often bound on a four-hooped bed a week later, kicking his feet on the reins of a can. In 1965 my father returned home last month but won the idiot foil between his new words and his old age then betrayed it. In 1965 my father returned to Chicago but didn’t pay much for a night work when drunk Magellan smith Illav was across the prairie and I heard my father’s life written on a December tree next year: “Jesus Edith!” He obeyed me. For seven days I watched him depart. Then the apples were blue I still but titterling on the thin lawn across the prairie. <|endoftext|> "Marta’s Boy", by Wilfred Owen [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Kingdom of the earth! Kingdom of the earth!’Tis another and yet another Pleaemen, another World, another Sun, another4 Wind escape from hurtful Crusaders, another world free yet. — Le deportes etre (“mistres tour”)", by Caroline Bergvrave “When I first met with threatens from the camp I was admonished that Kingdom of the earth” was the name for the word “rest”; that it was given to no purposeBut that of all commands it did deliverA certain service free of all that makes it ‘twixt Britain and Scotland, in that reigns. <|end ======================================== SAMPLE 637 ======================================== "A Ferry with You", by Robert Pinsky [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Weather, Winter] An inland sea of unmoving morrows drizzling with your diurnal visions One arrives into your immense rage your final harmonic dashed in the void by the motion that becomes self woman and the awkwardness of her sensual goals while you keep your mind intort to the mundane abstractiveness of the drenching senseless, your brains curring in the stress of false winds —a recovered dream fall forever, spattered over the marble seas to return a exhausted vision of some far-off country place —endless immolation, firm geography, unrevealing history— the fair ambition and embrace of both, pinned against one another, fugitives from our own breasts bliss and erotic splendor with a blurred glass for your nakedness the sea that was our house <|endoftext|> "Invisible Magic", by Michael Dray [Living, The Mind, Nature, Trees & Flowers] Neither by way of manifestness, easily answering this mystery drawn from what had once called traces, secret places, this still world, a child’s ignorance, a later miracle of strange endings steeping without sleep in order that the dead become eaten live and also birds and again in quiet the damned and into poison and the raven as fuel spears in the forest become the green sun of history the old women, bone in the tree at the base of an iron bed as if to be pungent of pungent scorched as if the night moisture winds the grass with low murmuring and there are stars of the north world the old women were hail of storms their heads were a nest of little trees and as if to die were to sleep as if to forget the storm of the world <|endoftext|> "The Labyrinth", by Robert Pinsky [Living, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Weather] While needles of snow move in the wind’s breath far off sounds like violets far off bells tinkling like gong Above the tide dull wet tunnelled of snow rain falls from ======================================== SAMPLE 638 ======================================== "Of a Daydream", by Gottfried Benn [Nature, Trees & Flowers] I drive your car with bits or crutch; I trample down and rain; I soak and sun the grass; I make a trail of clouds; your world is yours; you’ll grow a tare. Your car I’ll therefore pass; you’ll never see me smile; I’m giddy in possession still; I’ll never raise a look above the while. <|endoftext|> "A Saxon", by Gottfried Benn [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I dream of your luminous limbs glistening with a fond throes; You are my friend and pupil, I list to you; Your sweet eyes that look into my soul; letters that make A bright and gracious morning of the coming day; For all the hours of love, and all the sun, I hear The slender ache of each revolving year. <|endoftext|> "The Coming Woman", by Gottfried Benn [Relationships, Men & Women] My partner laughs; my own wife, the jolly bear, Stirs with the jolly tar and frantic jests, To see me stippen from the meal, and think of things I’ve seen; My wife, the harbinger of greedy cats, Stirs with the guileful sister of a green Dean, The true expression of a valiant cat, The true expression and the sport of bashfulness, The friendly wit that spits itself behind a door, The candid and incurious effeminate remark, The lawless expatriation, and the senseless hope Of others’ health only, who ought to know All the base wants of their and their, and love And be themselves what they would have been. I would have pass’d In the communion of brahorn, fields, and bright pines, Since first I heard you were so matched, your gifts. A hapless group! I tried to teach them to be beautiful, But they refused to give them mine. ’Tis easily taught: Singing birds are everywhere with one voice. LTransformed birds! Once ye became the greatest birds in the great world. They preferred your music better than your poetry. Now they preferred your epic poem, because ye clothe like a fine linen sheet, or, because ye are a beautiful garden, ye are a beautiful garden that ======================================== SAMPLE 639 ======================================== Yet my surer vow, my later vow Is he that bends, that knows how near draws us Those lonely nights, those hopes, those childish faces Into the night of that old lover’s gabble, That with the wicked lust of lover’s heart Love’s mystery here is braced; this only heaven And the eternal glory of his mercy and love Are these, and thus he lives, and he will stand Apart, until a cloud falls over all; Then flies his purpose through the earth and sky; So close his circuit were, the heavenly feet That journeyed onward never can forget The kisses his kind fingers sent one way Along the shining links of our long way, Across the glowing, tireless, boundless line That windward bends toward the final light In the great City that lies on the hill So far extend that all but the setting sun Doth seem as the deathless waters up-flow Into the boundless west: and on they roll, Into the sunset, from the never-ending pole Of space, into the infinite mystery, And back again to the long shores of day Into the boundless, lighted highwayway Where the glory of the sunset lingers still. Back to the heart of the wide Earth, that glows With glory and between the starry years, Fond of her flowers and the sad of these, Their flowers’ faint shadows, floating by, A dream away as shadowy light As the dreamer leans towards the glimmering Trees of his orchard, hearkening Till all his song rings gurgling with the praise Of that dark woman, rooted in the ways In her bright hair: and back again to the Wide fields of corn and of the bright green fields Where ignorant fingers spread the lazy sail Back to the heart of the large clouds and swing And sweep with lowlier sweep, till in her breast Deep the fine fume of morning lit on the west, And over the old river ran the old, Sodorous sunset, and in the pallid west A scentless rose: and where o’er the dusky plot In nooks of green and black briers splashed gold, Fond dreams were laid that spoke like tender love ======================================== SAMPLE 640 ======================================== "A Poem for a Statue of Splinter Conception", by Susan Stewart [Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Religion, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] the square in the shower fights down the moon cuts a strip of sky the photograph waves basketed high in the aftermath about to be reft at a skein of dolphins all is bedded it’s everything you never wanted you say to get to the front of the wall you do it in your head all you never wanted it’s your listen ear to the jukebox don’t bend keep the dogs chained there don’t let us our teeth smirk our kail to yell we are used for it’s another little ruby you don’tilet you throw us a trace of your beauty from your wrist hanker black hair to your cheek slide’s grind us your milking your edge will keep the hook on the plant for who knows what beauty is steal to the block <|endoftext|> "Silver Dollar", by Mark Smith [Living, Infancy, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] It speaks my love to you, to me. It speaks your body. It speaks in your voice. It speaks the universe. It speaks the blood of saints. It speaks the heart of stars. It speaks the love of words. It speaks the word hidden in your voice. It speaks the word hidden in your voice. <|endoftext|> "Soul", by Mark Smith [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Religion, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] In my eyes the sifts and sieves filled up with whiteness, the vane like a sun lost in a bush. In my heart and hands and feet the light of love. We rose. In my eyes the passionless white sun sank down beneath the coasts of heaven, to burn a vein of our own heart. In my breast and in my eyes the drink of the world. <|endoftext|> "Near the Unknown", ======================================== SAMPLE 641 ======================================== "For a Girl I Know", by Anthony Hecht [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] I say to you,—to the men of Italy, Whose banners yet shall float in rueful hem, Whose banners yet shall float amid the sea, Whose cymbals ring with deep-drawn timbrels high, Whose drums have power to rouse the tongueless moods And wake the spectral strife,--one voice shall tell The old unseemly riddles of the soul; Hither, O siren-cessour, wilt thou tell me The sad and lovely passages of love From which unto thy feet the laurel wreath Of Italy hath faded with the breath. For in the heart of all all our Italy, There, in one voice against the heavens, is there Sordid desire nor avarice of heart That is a moon obscured in her own fire. O bitter country, O land of the grape, Whose memory is the gold of the wheat, Whose soul is the night's, and nothing doth gain But only the shade and the shadow of pain! Once only by thee may I think of again A little April made naked and fair, Her lyric gifts glistening like faltering feet In exquisite throes of the white-throated air; But whither she comes, as with cheek that is pale And bitter as death, her own beauty is gone, Across the fierce torrent of her cold white hair. Bowed in her crown, like a goddess unbound, She sits under cold marble, and white and still, Till nigh to her place on the saphurous hill She kneels and trembles with hands half in scorn; As though the frenzied hours were anigh to her kiss. But oh, who shall interpret the sins and the fears Of her cruel and wayward mood? Wild nurse in a pharos of anguish of wrong, God's garden I know, whence the fairies come down; From the drifting white-bells and flowers, the words She sang of the child whose hands groped for the crown. Now give me the white face that above me shall weep And the pale lips of those who are weeping bid sweet And the child in ======================================== SAMPLE 642 ======================================== "Seventeen Crows", by Edwin Arlington Robinson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Men & Women, Pets] They say you're dead, they say you sagged and wigg'd,(I almost have become a man of business)And were indeed my monument the world had castA jealously small, a matter square and squareOf glass, left washed with tears to dry on lipsMerely made deeplen so full, soupe, and pass.It is--tho' left to itself and without,Yet neither can be said to make it.Nor can be said to lift a fighting E.S.G.C.Y.Pitched to itself in many ways:Doth build herself with men, her strength that will not yield,Did built with women, works and ways;Doth build her up with man, her will is plainAnd naught will grow but doth begin again,So that this vast, this hollow, that requiresThe sea, the sky takes in the recompenseOf beauty and of calm: but women, swan, and fair,Do take and keep the green things in the air,As though it mocked their use, and went about her screaming,As though it did her dirt: and I, for all their crying,See wife, or shelter, joy, or enemy,But crying, foul or fair: and here and there,As though I buffeted mankind, awake,And hurled myself among the other weak,The other o'er and o'er I find her. So in her recess in height of tone,I meet and view, I see, the oaky, foul,Her ragged, matted muzzles all about,Her tatters causing spots upon the sunbeams, whileA mill, a loathsome harlot, there doth lie,And turns her brain to dust; her eyes, still fixed on hell,Rain up, day, darkness, and thou dark in hell. <|endoftext|> "The Waking", by Edwin Arlington Robinson [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Pets, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] I saw my Lady weep,( lowered by her, as if in scorn,And mild as angel, looking for a glass,And worldly calm, and solemnly austere,Observ'd me, tho' the woe of mine was fairer ======================================== SAMPLE 643 ======================================== "["My father is a man of some renown", by Joanna Flingke [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] My father is a man of some renown, removed in days when nothing has changed or happened but what nothing has happened. Only a man can hold himself and leave unloved a name and still have this. Once when I was a lad I used to live in his house as a boy over there in the country. Sometimes he asked me if I could tell when I felt sure I would. I never really knew I would. Sometimes he told me about the calico cat and the Cadiz palace and how he talked and how he talked. Suddenly everyone was me. Once I could hear him tell all. That was nice and I’d like to be in there now listening for a noise made in wood and water. I don’t know why the men who come here are not getting older. Their mouths are human and wrong, and opening. I would like to live in there I don’t know. I would like to live in there I don’t know. I would like to live in there and have my pick and kingdom. I would like to be a kind and live. When I set out for the dining table he spread out hungerlike a flaming stick in the cooking he said in his mouth: to be the big, hungry son of I was left. I tell the story of the house and the kill. He had been waiting for the kid he meant to be. He hadn’t thought it was vengeance he meant to do. Instead, because he was running away from the room, he had taken his breath and lit a cigarette and said he would kill me. So I painted my parents —  plates and axes — and I thought I would kill them but my mother said that she would kill me. He had been there since that time not even a moment. He had been making a note. Now he is the one who should be doing this. He should have been making a note. <|endoftext|> "For Instance", by Ange Mlinko [Living, Coming of Age, Disappointment & Failure, Parenthood] A small boy told my father ======================================== SAMPLE 644 ======================================== "Wynter", by Paul Zimmer [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Farewell! thou art so lone, I almost tremble in my breast.Once thou wast meekly lovely as a star When I was born a shell so bold Now soon wast thou faithful in my arms.Good night! and then thou sleepest well to-day.Thou art so like the sun, that shone Ere I could e’en a private tear-drop roll.Now in my breast doth there remain A woman whom thy soft embrace controls,Welcoming thee and me, in peace and blisses.And may the love that blinds me to her soulSeek thee not in her silver-lidded heart.O’er thy clear eyes the stars of night do shine. <|endoftext|> "To J. material", by Paul Zimmer [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] ‘It is said by those who lived in southern studies, I feel that there are quadrupeds, so sensitive they imparted one intention to the peoples, that they were seductions of Iceland, called it “the Tangled Vidilumbian” not as a parody of nature’s superintendency, but the details of which I have made in no way are needed to convince the human race that no such creatures have not been honoured as a sub+ and that there are indeed many who do not seem to have become an object, also most human who do not feel obliged to forgive for those who can not feel for true desertion. There is no lack of selfishness, no waste of riches, are there no end for the imagination, but even these of the world, in this country, are types of the excellency of the spirit, not merely of the earthly order which is its entirety, but by means of its duration. There is no waste of money, no waste of regret, no waste of sighs, no passion for riches, etc. And yet the art of the ear, its gold in a thousand volumes of sound, but the economy of its congregated music is simply defective, palpable the most tenderly regarded effort is to find itself in the ear. O man who hast lifted this hope, not one Forgave it, the deafest Jove transcending the song? <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 645 ======================================== "I am composed of an elegy", by Joyce Carolinian [Religion, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries] I am beautiful—I am more beautiful than the rock those centuries wear to setting up their starry fronts in the sunlight of morning or sunrise in the midst of the tulip dawn or the swans on their way out of the aromatic cloud or the blackbird in the forest leaf, while the tulip heads their erect heads strike the wind blows from the east, and the tulips is a nod of the familiar, the familiar, the familiar in remembering the old paths of our boyhood. I miss you, The earth and the plants and birds of our age, the old me, the old lanes and the hair of our beauty. I miss you, The deer and the wild breeze one sees me, the hair and the hair of my comrade, the stranger, the bright wind and the water. I miss you, The sun and the long days, the meeting sky and the birds, the crabapple and vine and orchard. I miss you, it seems I part of you, part of your these hours. I shall mix in your lyric me like rain, you shall have memory, music flooding the delicate darkness of my spirit as I kiss the leaves of the forest of my dream. I shall still you as I kiss the leaves of the tender cypress whose love no bosom can dissever, the love-tree, the ash, the whole creation, the tree with its flaming candles lit by the sycamore seed, the raven, the walnut, woodman, the shark. I shall still you as I kiss the stars and the gum trees and the fluttering column, the love-tree, the slip-falcon and turtle. I shall still you as I kiss the stars and the gum trees and the white man, the owl, the raccoon, the red-eagle, the marten, the wolf, theketchis, and the red-beaded capon, the jaguar. I shall still you as I kiss the sun and the sea and the brine and the stars and the sweat on the grey granite pavements. I shall still you as I kiss the sun and the sea and the milk-white space and the two wings where the wind and its heart are joined. I shall still you as I kiss the sun and the sea and the stars and the sky and the light that ======================================== SAMPLE 646 ======================================== "Spring and His Troubles", by William Butler Yeats [Living, Parenthood, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Pets, Nature, Animals] At night the world is sleeping, world is still except to us. At morning, you should hear His voice:While all about the jungle, of a slow world without an arbour, Like those I love, with voices soft and sweet and sweet,Unlike the sound of nature, that is sometimes won to yield familiar odor to us, Or to the bee that hums among its flowers and sweets. In dreams he brings the sun, a tinged-ribbed water it softly blew me To hear my parrot answer: day nor night, nor on one after day, Can I forget the merry singing of the redwing blackbird on a spray. O, you should listen to my song, and I should always heed you; Though the rain falls, the sun shouts loudest up the yellow morning. We should hear His chanting, though His voice would find us other than before; Oh, we should hear His singing, though His voice would never come before. We should hear His singing, though His voice would never come before. Oh, we should hear His singing, though His voice would never come before. He was our host, our landlord, and the shepherd too. Oh, we should hear His singing, though His voice would never come before. He sang of love and sorrow, and a tenderness would tell us, Of pity for the sorrow and the bitter silence there; Of tenderness, forgiveness, tenderness, and rest; His song would bombast, ah, her no claim can spare. Oh, we should hear His singing, though His voice would never come before. He taught us faith, and beauty, and the faith of human love. He sang of every passion, and of sweetest songs to sing. Oh, we should hear His singing though His voice would never come before. In the little town before the small spiders are lying, with ears outspread They will bring you music till you cannot hold them, sweet and sweet, For the music swells your spirit, and you long for faith and love. Tell me for a moment, and this hour be music too profound. You are coming, and you wander, and you never more shall know. But who hath seen you, sitting ======================================== SAMPLE 647 ======================================== "Traveller of America", by Sina Queyras [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] In the days I was a little bit lazy and not at all at all in the late war my mother worried about her own father. For all the time in the history of the fight in America we weren't selling those fireworks at all, or even when they started clearing the farm for that reason—the way it spread out to every Yankee boy who'd bought it. Maybe only the neighbors and bosses were not having a chance to profit. And even home-grown men, because they didn't like baseball, later, because they didn't want to, must have been uproarious. Maybe the invaders didn't want to! It was likely they could even talk more kindly. Maybe it was more obviously. In the end we'd been quiet, chewing up the farm, and, in the next moment, admonishing more relatives and neighbors. Or how could it be that our general didn't need to even walk into the other part of the night without waving around? And, last winter, how it used up! <|endoftext|> "There was an American Callow", by Sina Queyras [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] There was an American Callow— a over- determined killmaster, who pretended to be stout for the length of a foot or a bill of fare. But I got pastilles in my own blood. There was an American Callow— an American Callow with a whiskey Alison in the back of my head. I belong to my land but I'm hobbling still. <|endoftext|> "There was an American Callow", by Sina Queyras [Religion, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] I was fed up by dollars and the press-outensities took off my backs. The “fee” school gave out for me to trade the other half. Where did the accident happen? Where was I when I was born? Where was I when I was born? The question rained, “Before rape,” and I could just have a fortune-television fence, anything else. I was a stranger to the vicar’s hall. I was orphaned and naked after all. Now, at the ghetto, there was one who ======================================== SAMPLE 648 ======================================== "But the evil about the good", by Marge Piercy [The Body, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Nature, Fall, Religion, God & the Divine, Judaism, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] To the evil about the good Whether my wife or no one hurt her or proud or kind is the crime: So men let their subjects in. About a head, the crown, and about a heart. But my dear one, my dear one. Where is the salt? Ay, where that countenance? says the salt. And that the salt that is my drink. [Love] [fear, regret for the word to thee, behind and before the mirror.] [if courage is thy gift] The poor, ignorant thing, the terror! The whole world may be saved! [templed] Who thinketh a shadow thyself wears away? nay, my dead! saith the spirit thou wouldst have said, This or that is my eternity? Ah no! Thou canst not forget me, which is grave or more than this world those days. Which art thou now, I know not whither I would deceive? Which is tomorrow already overpast, Whereafter I but know not event nor night nor day? I stand stricken dumb, as one who is sick, staring. What lonely night hides that soul cocked in! And in this sadness, and in this sadness? [fath] The dark unbodied commingled with the whole. In indecency, and in emptiness. No word to him. What need to tell the wrong? O wherefore guilefully? [hunched] I know not. I am free of it. I feel shaken with fears. I am not pent up in my enemies’ land, I liest under my people, in thighs of us. I hold the floor, the walls hemming around me. I am heavy and painfully difficult. I lay down all burdens, I recline on my silken couch, I am looking through my eyes toward the eternal light. And I am free but not of it. <|endoftext|> "In the Junior Prologue", by Jason Schneider [Living, The Mind, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Philosophy] Not always ======================================== SAMPLE 649 ======================================== "The Map", by Rudyard Kipling [Living, Death, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural, Horror] I The aftermath of purpose can do more than this to enshrine this ritual.The aftermath of ritual is the perfectarine: immortal flecks beneath the porcelain, whirled in the radiance of winter,steal like a ripened plum.When autumn winds blow tepid, you will see yourself behind,prester to wind,shadow and grief. II "The Silence" —I summon your dark role as I meet you, tribal leader of our days—I summon, I conjure you as one of our old selves. Weald you a sound so thin you can hear the inner ear alone. An aspect of loveliness and surprise—false as our first peasantry was fashioned—was manifest by you, delivery.The past moves you to places only by remotest steps, compels the sun to rise. A spark from your violet-colored throne appears, a ghost of a departed branch,and dies. Is it a vision, then, of what rises thereunder the sun, in the guise of asphalt, in the shape of a slender, wispy book on a floor of moss, where a frail, dull fleck rolls, as the dark current, heavily, in its surges, along a track of the sands?Ah, me! the light of the sun is lit for you, and your dark eyes and lips are open, that are pressed to mine? Will you close them in? Will you unloose them apart in the air? Will you descend into the fire, and not know its seed? Will you descend, and not even once-after a crowd, hued like a poem, into the sun,the one that flames with light?It is an old creation, where the walls take on the glow of space,where the sun shapes, the world, the old and the last. Will you ascend, and not dare risk? III As you imagine, those who wait to terrify, begin over. Away, afloat on a tide of chance pearls, to slip from your elegant reach, to slip from earth, into a deeper, sad, dream-haunted world. Will you dare, beyond thought or desire, to venture on? And swim toward a world? Will you dare halt or bend low to the earth? Will you drive in a nettlefish’s tail, ======================================== SAMPLE 650 ======================================== "Autumn", by Dan Beachy-Sur-Béke [Nature, Fall, Winter] Autumn The sky is October and the deserted flatlands dragging themselves along covered garbage cans and hogsheads and long, heavy, very pregnant dragging themselves along dragging themselves along dragging themselves along apaches the hill top the mountain and the broken fragment or scattered forest or some other part of this landscape where its secrets move up not just there, not just yet, not just there but everywhere in this poem on these hills lips are empty gripping sweet year after year spinning in this township full of these sounds a shimmering green sky a city with fences strewn out to the road a town where it is all wrong or dulled by empty streets and noisy towns and sausage or whoever attends for itself— but itself follows only empty walls caring for itself and with no difficulty the woods and empty houses are loaded with in this country the bones all along are leaping like iguan rind into the car a sparkle of brilliant terraces and many huge newtasts that used to make rats have rats are torched a million streets but who doesn't know it’s useless to look around cloudy in a flower like ingots elsewhere elsewhere like this eventide where the grasses are torched a month before most in front of the snow I remember in crystal, in crystal in flea-packing now either the kingdom and what not except the forsaken hawks and the old queen and the shy vassals who look down upon the vermilion blossoms all of them all save four winged hands hooked hands grasped in the heart of a woman her hidden garments spread before my eyes were the only things for mortals now no middle span nor a usual city and for ======================================== SAMPLE 651 ======================================== "A Shuffle", by Laura Kasischke “I had the art,” says Laddie, “To put a stop to “my”! A touch on the finger, ytables, or maybe one in ten minutes, is all I care about, because I was thinking about the worm, and what it does, and why it isn't nearly anything. I don't want to hurt yourself, but I can tell you that I will just take off the shaggy coat and strip the hide from my geoggy beard, because I don't want to—how I can't get out of the bathroom, which is my geogome, but is only getting old, and then a little bit of flannel, on my forehead, seems to be a garment for most of me. Why can't I get rich if it hasn’t, and then what? Oh, my dear how can I leave it in this world? Well, really, I could have a shop opening on one block or because the man beneath the umbrellas is making his mistake, and the man doesn't want a light and he sits and sighs, thinking about the sky and the grass and the clouds in the med over the city, where there's milk and everything is in the sky, walking under me so much, just shining regular on my ear, just shining the clouds and grass, just shining regular on the air and the sky. <|endoftext|> "Morning Prayer", by Hugh Ecchemer Marie itching [Religion, Judaism, exp. 2, Dent's clarinette, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] Oh, I have got to live on crazy new ground, with only my bow; I have been up here too to read Mathematics. I have seen the sun set, the moon a boat in a cluster of tiny trees and rags, and now the first stars fade into the garden all over the picture a small cloud cast by the wind. My father, my mother, just out of here having our menu every the minute, inside me a bluewill and a lot of lights, for the world to see. Oh, I have been breaking my ======================================== SAMPLE 652 ======================================== "Earth, Summer, Philosophy,chemy", by James Galvin [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer] Every morning I set out early to search for the cause of the burning, the snow, or soil, or a bit of it. Even their seasons are temperate, as when Tom would be in the woods, then like any new root burning on the wood's edge. Or sleeping on the hearth, then at last sitting here alone at the end of the lane, or casting a warm and smoky sigh over a feathered sonnet. The air is keen as a burnt-out coal far down in the woods, and I wander. I come back with what a woeful cry a creature holds out against me. Pale, leaden fear, I cry. I come to take a husband, with empty hand I crush. A sweating blood glancing like ice in dreams I make with the heavy laden mugs of my bed, I leave my shoes at the foot of the pantry. I come to take a blanket, with no further thought about the sun, whose glory is no one. I come to take a picture of winter, with its hard outside rent, and it makes me sad with frost on my beard. To take the shovel, to cast off the shroud, the shovel, the hard gray stones with my ashes and brocade so many pearls and plants, I am glad to be gone. I come to stoop to scrap the back, clean stitch me up. I come to take a shovel, to cast off the shroud, and put the shovel back into the sound hole. My father works. I am afraid. I look to see clear that he is in the ground and is turning a heap of silver or two, or three shining coins, in the yellow pile, into the trash. I throw the coins in the yellow pile. I come to the windows and on the pave. My father works. All day I move in the dark. My memory is turning a red-brown hair down through the seams of the passing current. A paler spot is certainly the same. It's changing you to a white hooded man, the same I now see, ======================================== SAMPLE 653 ======================================== "The Sheep and the hellebits", by Henry VIII, King of Castile and Maroon. The grass is still and green below. And many a jewel rare is seen But yesterday of ambrosia. And many a milkwhite marble there At the Greek touch will be obeyed. And many a broidered rose there will At the old serpent’s feet be strayed, And many a pearl a florid lotion Will place upon a jasmine pot— A purple iris, bearing lotus, Maledictions or disguise: Ne me, no, not a simple damask Would deign to be so simple. Never in all his days of wonder, Never would the artist clan Have seen so wondrous beauty, Wonder such romances ran. They sang of Love in forests green, Of Love in clear ravinesse. They sang of Beauty in a grove Where simple Nymphs were never seen. And thou art ever young and fair. Dost ever dwell with me? Dost ever hear my happy sire? Thy silken ringlets, blossoming About thy ankles white, Dost thou possess most pleasan court? O early days! be never spent On simple grace and simple Beauty. And let the years that move thy feet Gather and scour inscribed with it. Too youthful yet thou knowest its harshness, Thy cheek is pure and softly bright; And love and minstrelsy are powerless To raise thy maiden spirit high. But when thy hand begins to press it, Thy touch, though hard, still clasps a smile. And let the music of thy footsteps Echo amid the sobbing throngs. When blind men pine within the portal, Thy sweet lips smile till none is by. When freed by fearful thoughts and trials, Thy thoughts grow calm and sweet with joy. Then from the guileless dark retreat To grace thy bridal halls, Do thou, in form of snow, bestow A consecrated ram, the God of Love. Oh, let me live in the quiet place, Where never a trouble comes to me, Where all my longings are outpoured Through the rapture which I have possessed. Oh, let ======================================== SAMPLE 654 ======================================== "To My Father I Sing", by William Blake [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Money & Economics] I sing the new religion, The old pique enters in, Though time’s coat of black On these new and white signs grin. I believe the sons of earth Are mostly seers, though birthers, So long ago, have gone to seed-corn For great emotional breeds. Tough sour guides into fashion Go grumbling, now they ring, Each beggar some one sorrowing. The babble comes from gas, The old nose’s up, the ass falters, The orphans weep, and mothers doze And mothers mix their mothers. Tawny-eyed and pale-eyed scribblers, So late in life’s first stage, Exploding out new laws, Recall their early stage. The heroes of today Proclaim the new tried worth, Though many now make verses On ruined hallways of the earth. I sing the new opera— Its sounds are so humane! Although there is but little art, There’s little art exists; Although one’s found another shift And different creeds are transient, There’s only one mistake. I sing the new religion, The dear conflicting influence, The practice of the guns and knives, The types and hearts of lives. I sing the war’s red fury, The dreams of wounded men, The starvelings of little ones Who suffered and who died, None know their subtlety, And this is what they mean. Poor twisting post, old soldier, And ruined piecemeal master, The rebel put to flight! I sing the war at church, The jackals sound it through, The tangled vermin chatter Of pig and thigh and hen. I sing the War at sea, The jackals whistle free, The dun deer graze the icy cliffs, The orchards blush for sea, The war-hounds bark and slash, And tipsy owls and loon, And little hopeless swim. I ======================================== SAMPLE 655 ======================================== "Habitation", by Heather McHugh [Living, Death, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Well, this story broadcast — to my little sister, Sometimes WOOTI have given me an excellent solution, As the point of grammar — Exercises of the spirit surge through us, Like lofty waves against a shore, Or travel at the helm of ocean. I have lived under forms, The property of a great philosopher, Whose mind’s a study for contrivance, And who loses his faithful heart. He can tell, but not a very few, That, in darkness, he is sorry for a sight Of the great sea which never mists or shines. I want to tell you, That, if I have been to you so much, You would not be annoyed if you have not. I feel no love for anything. I love my wife, My little dog, my flowers, my quiet home. And that’s the love we prize through friends, And those of sorrowing noble souls, Which sleep beneath their noble nation —  For you, for me, they congregate the drab procession Of faithful ones who have to bear their part. You have your dog, I love you, I love you, animals, And we are proud and blue. You tell me, evening, that I should be There by myself, pointing the line, And then not. Where should I go, and now by you? You say, “You want my dog to know.” And I, whom ’twas who read, And I know not which way to lie, A white thing and a yellow dog, What should we say to our Nobody? <|endoftext|> "Norrow of the Closet", by Heather McHugh [The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] She was not beautiful till first he took off his neck encanseled in up-to-white amazement as he blinks his lit Dybody and trims his miniature hams out. I’ve never seen the like for years and again I haven’t seen her anymore, and I love her even the same yet it must be because her dress was very plain with all of the work others do and others can do. Her ======================================== SAMPLE 656 ======================================== "Portrait of a Life", by Louise Bogan [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] I take my little gun, Its blunt edge whistles, Its waxed flank glows bonfires, And the live heart sings cheer. You've missed the lucky bird? That point in disgust? Its point on the front of the front door Is truly a stick and a stick That you mean the right by the stick. <|endoftext|> "Blue Train", by Louise Bogan [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] I know what I've missed, mother, The bite of fear is gone, And nothing matters the child at your lead-top table; Mother, though, it's gone Since I ran the flight of my bike To Blue River night, I ran the line straight for my bike Till the snob-snake wonsoon, Till the snob-snake won winning my zook, And then the daffodil, Then my only beloved daughter, The sweet Seven-cowed grizzled, And I roamed all over Blue River In my bike-rezie's hooded, And I scooted and made a backward end In your name and your name and your name. <|endoftext|> "Baskets", by Louise Bogan [Living, Life Choices, Love, Heartache & Loss, Arts & Sciences, Music] The Baskets? What is there here for brunstoo Or coppice like a wedding washcloth? Once, when someone sang, I did a crochet. That didn't hurt; You know; it's years to live on enormous aunts, You want them not to be scratched asses, You think they are your mother's sons <|endoftext|> "Café du Guérille", by Michael Dean [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Class] Somewhere in France, a forest glade, I've amazed by musk, and I most deeply in obligations, yet I mean me, the half burnt heats of winter, and the livid grains of autumn, and all the unplowed Brentaes ======================================== SAMPLE 657 ======================================== Give me immortality If you'd make it all to me. If we must live, let the dead See us; if we must weep. Cast that thing away, let the dead Take our lives away, and we Give the fools their lives to the devil; If we've nothing but curses in store, Don't let us go bare, or fear no more. Mary me, the most blessed Mary, O my God, to whom for life I pray, O my God, to be watched and tended By your messengers all the day! Give me of thy gold, O Sun, Give me of thy flesh, O Light; Give me of thy limbs, O Law, Give me of thy love to me! Give me of thy limbs, O Sun, Give me of thy limbs the rest; Give me of thy limbs, O Sun, Give me of thy limbs the rest! Little winged seeds of my love, O my little sun that hast sun; Of thy lovers I am but one; Of thy heart I am very small, Rough and full of thine arms be, And thy beating wings are no more Than a stickle of gold for thy door. Little corn I cannot gather, I cannot think it worth the plow; Into my heart thou art aye haughty, Gathering, like apples, thy seed; And I thank thee for thy plenty, But thou art not to me like a cow; I cannot reap what I have sown. Apple, bow and moir, Always, Always, everybody; How my brain is spinning, spinning, sewing, Even while spinning is unending. I praise each thing I find, dressing every corner of my mind; Grow old and reap, Walk and walk, Strip, pave, stock, stand, Eat, work, eat. Crest, mayhap, Clothed and got in some measure; Coax, coo, coo, croon, my plate, my wallet. Fair is the early gray light at your gate; Coax and coo, croon, my plate, my plate. Cock, cowl, mare, Cocks crow, hen, Cocks crow, are into the day, ======================================== SAMPLE 658 ======================================== "from Poems Because My Baby's in Their Mouth To Let Tonight New Year", by Matthea Harvey [Living, Infancy, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] In a New Year’s Money, signed by Presidents, Men are now Nationalists, who, as the sun paints my grandfather’s tree in my face, are mocking me, as I lie on the floor of the forest. My father, who gave me two, and now, from New York, is a creature of fortune, whose life, if not shared by one person but one, is a fate made. His years, my parents, since the day we first met, can’t stop crying now for an hour before Sunday comes along (October came, 1890) to all neighbors, whose heart smelled in toward the eaves like the last notes of an ancient plectrum: I took the wooden dish and watched the fire burn, and on its bed, before the last lights, standing by the garden gate, I was cradled for the first time in sleep. In the far, endless pastures, on either side the houses, of which my father lived before his day, I had nothing to say to my father. Nevertheless, he was a favorite outcast, too, and that was the source of every other sorrow. “The old house looks like a Latrine,” I said. —The Old Man, on his Carp card, acknowledged my own years, brought back a dark lure. My uncle could afford nothing. The Cedron, a grown man, always brought my mother a sash; but, as I thought, locked it, and all the olives, while the whole town clock screamed, ran down my forehead, and with a child’s voice blessed me, and I followed. In the late war, ninety years of the age, I have loved for the sake of something I was destined not to do. For my father, the brown vibrant bell, the long prelude to the sketch of my ambition, and the devotion that God made over my mother, and the seven marches from my birth, I still dare to keep in memory. But still the tall grass is green, and still the old oak grows, and the ======================================== SAMPLE 659 ======================================== "reading the fort", by Joanna Fuhr [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] —Retrieved: God knoweth what they mean where he was born, Befallious of all kinds of stuff things squeeze us from our gates as “day-break Is a neighborhood” in the beehive of the Depression floor. “From behind the babies,” says Senault, “what you mean is not there: The baby-soul turns into the man. We watch its paces and sit. It is its habits and its neighborhood. You’ll have to change your life, young man, you’ve found another life.” He’s taken her for good or ill, for evil or for good, this one in love, that doesn’t still appease her, this one in me. I would be a druggist in the end of this group, unkempt and unregretted in a tussle to be fixed. I then might shift, sound felt, and noun those I’ve imbued with this amaze requiring you with a sense of grace attar of your disliking. You’ll share my comfort in a new own air, no end of worship, and find its wonted place your own soul for grace. The fête a tout le giéle. De man ful les fête tout le giéle to eu tende le giéle. A cé andé to oé, in c’s robes and livery given, wel kné my bé to catch. A le monde le gié. <|endoftext|> "Days", by Brenda Adah L. Adah L. de fiènez [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Father's Day] And then we put my hands around her for a soft new way of saying “Mother, and I� ======================================== SAMPLE 660 ======================================== "Quartering", by Dan Brown [Living, Death, Health & Illness, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers] In a wrapper, it is silence. No one has slept. No one has slept. Let us go to the store. The box is filled with perfumes. At the end of the day, we shall not keep it. The clock is striking three: I am not leaving the store for to go to the store for to go with its silver nails. But we shall find the key, the silver coins, the box, the box and we will gather around to light the store <|endoftext|> "To the Reader: Twilight", by Dan Brown, [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] —after a Mausgradedische —finished by Ellen Bryant Voigt By the mechanical terror almost The languid language of the order swallowed immediately Taken like a following or going Into the selfsame room, filling The heart with the voices of other angels, Receiving obedience to us pilots. —after the first few worse years, the "Titan" Expected for a country dance, the "Traveler," The "Remitative" walking on a hill At the top of his right eye, suddenly The money disappearing, possibly too Already begun for the auction In a town below him, which gave you as a nickel. The others embraced you as a prisoner, How did you ever know, you who discovered Nothing in your life but your life, With a dream of the heavens for mistresses On you clinging around? The especial Idol of telling is sure to occur. You tell no one about what you really feel, What you feel within yourself, what you feel When you see yourself as a natural person. You can either inform the secret of your life, As a tree that embraces an empty trunk, The fluttering of an abandoned man, Or find a grave, with flowers bedecked And mourned for. In the confusion of money, Of going cold and gossiping side-long And sensible behavior, you sensible Indigenes, the value of clothes, clothing, The nature of sleep, your stomach, your dreams Relic grace for clothes ======================================== SAMPLE 661 ======================================== I came down to my sister’s house and her husband went to her father’s house bringing bread, wine, leucinated also with wine drinking, filling his beautiful meal, but she went to her sister’s house bringing the wine a child then took her to where her sister sat eating the bread of the father’s house. She asked for a knife and a naked knife and would not have taken my brother’s wife or had taken my sister’s husband for good and healthy to live then again she would meet me in the hall, holding the table, saying: “What must we expect this marriage to be?” I love you as the other bride, mother, sister. She made my cousin weep, and spake then, “The bride and I have dressed thee And my brother I will bless thee.” I drave me to her father’s house, and wed the man of men. “O sister mine! thou art my wedded wife, yet art thou not my second uncle, and art thou not mine own first uncle, thou art my sister too, and art thou not my first and only son, and hast thou not brought this scarlet news with the blood of our own cheek? “The king did never make thee mine, I gave him a noble heir to thy house, withouten a wife’s heritage, withouten a son’s heritage, I got thee with this bridegroom. But thou art no longer my bride, thou art my sister’s daughter, And thereunto do thou art fair.” And I to the king made answer: “I have wedded a black bride, mother, I am fair and fair of face, queenly she attired her stately form, seemed of a high race, and of high descent and lofty birth.” On the king’s royal throne sat the black-haired sons, and before his throne the older ones in the halls, they made their great feasts, drinking the bright wine. And as they feasted on this matter, halt and drink the might of the king, he made ======================================== SAMPLE 662 ======================================== "Sonnet", by Ava Rám Río “At the close of the day”— The funeral rosemary Opening its leaves To the damp bleak sky As the sun pleads “Moon and Splendour.” In the autumn the rosemary Still unclose themselves, Old leaves and bent grass Waiting for their root: The dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dainty dain ======================================== SAMPLE 663 ======================================== "N outstanding History", by Caroline Bergvason [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] 1. THE MOTOR’S Fleet RIVER, The Mind’s Ethereal Prison, At eighty Four, the Hawkia Range Thru the Deep. The Race saved from thevorissy Committee, and the Sunset On the Ground that each day I’ve cockered into the Great barn. I was not seven A. I am notdivided. I can remember singing”— fulguised as some “grandmother” who, spinning amongst family Orchard Mells, yelid the Earthsoaked locks in the brewer of Beer-rags, galloped about a second table tied my hands. What is so rare I’ll walk on air (they must be scoured or diced with codons) so named and pounded by who talk and gobble bone-meal heads and then, sag, leap shoulder-length, galloping by hook or harebellied boat I dream and do not care. Long lines of tangwood in the mare’s case slough through the wide hall. Her neat, calm, comfortable cage: save for her hooded eyes, dancing like twenty harnessless stallions spinning, spinning like serving flies, though I’m told she flies from her place, to the kopjes, king, beast: the lords and ladies of the town, moist with lace, freckled with lacquer, boulevard-steal, at the bottom of the river drain. She had no mahogany to squeal, no mop julep in her window, no chrysanthemums to heel her bones. Her window-sills, stripped of light, strained by the cold clear sun, lie shorn of their plumes. Warm hedge roses bruise at the pane; dew, wind, rain; south wind; the others go too again. Pricked jut among the weeds, a fox in barn-yard nigh a bone tree ======================================== SAMPLE 664 ======================================== Mysterious, sarcasm-besomed, mute, Bereft of passion and distrust, To thee she owes her slight address, At thy own breath to life lent lend'scent, Till, rising like the dawn in full efface, The heart of sleep its rhythm overflows; By night thy flaming ardours are sought, As if from heaven life would happy be, Until its essence to a spirit's essence caught, Suffusing an eternal ecstasy, Within thy passion's free arms seeking me; Lovely withal thy soul so to be blind With the deep night of heaven hast thou found me; For who that thou wert, in the eternal wind Is, now, a soul that has sought for thee still, Facing my steps I think that the music Calls up my wraiths of melody, And all its shining hem the sense Yet, even as dreams that fade away Where verses tremble on me night and day As dust within my feet breathe on me spray; For ae moment thou art the stone, the rind, So rend'st up earth asunder! Since my mind And eyes, for all my limbs I cannot bind, The beauty of the earth I cannot find, And ashes of the dead I cannot heal, And, as with flower and star that fade away After the sea- rains which have fallen and sway, Like dust of dreams, the memories of them stay, As silence rules the tempest of the May, While a delight-winged peacock flits and calls A flying note unto the wings of birds. In a trance-hollowed through the aisles they swooned As the swan sings in a lonely ecstasy, The strings of the lute for a burning pause Thro' twilight falling on half-dimmest night, Then the bird singer led it, as it passed, Over the hills and over the last grey leas, And all around them, unconquerable, Close-followed mates of the bird-hearted May, And a tremulous bird-flight on open wings. The quivering earth was tremulous with fear, And all I heard was the voice and tread, And a trembling ======================================== SAMPLE 665 ======================================== "Dw iterate", by Joseph Winne touched [Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] No: worm. No: cherished 4s. No: fish off away. No: sea-gull. No: father-fish or porpoise. No: owl, no. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: nothing. No: ======================================== SAMPLE 666 ======================================== "From “Blessed Babe”", by Christina Rossetti I. AMLANDOR Behind the craggy hill I spend the hour with you. I've seen a steady sun. My head is filled with light. You are there upon the hendy bush. And I am on the height. I did not think your head was slow. The grass is cool and fresh, The hour is late, The dew is falling—still The heat is going down. A boy and his father stood in the open In family high school. His hands worthened and his father looked As he walked about In the pleasant summer time After playing baseball big ball. He called his father. It was nothing but the shadow of the boy Who walked with him. I lay in the rain and thought no more of my father. When I heard his name I wished he were A boy and his father. When the thicket I sought, The blueness I could not find, It glistened and glittered and glittered Like the bodiment of a dear Mother. So in my heart sometimes I wished to look up To the sun, to the sky, to you— But my father smiled and nodded and smiled As I gathered my things In the bright glittering shower. In my poor breast I would lie down to sleep And dream in your heart—dream of you— Of the light in your smile: I would sleep Beside your grave in the morning and on your grave Where your face, once, was As a spray from the full harvest of birds Fluttering and free On the breath of my cheek. The water wears a cloud, A moon and stars are their jewels, The whole mist from the river fanned Walks my life. And what’s left, though I could not see, Could not but know, that you would be My child? But scarcely one could understand That your face had such a meaning, That you were there As at peach-blossoms to take flight, Or the white ecstasy Of star ======================================== SAMPLE 667 ======================================== "Hospital", by William Faulke Hand [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] For Chanticleer I only live weren’t we goppin’ out this morning lastin’ at Chanticleer, watchin’ The Cities don’t want me They just want me, have it all out they sen In other cities than where the skylark sings Where the great god drives aloof Abroad with only my Land and Country I don’t want to tell them Each tryforts from Kildare Gainsay’s heights and The Hills echo’d murmur Like a distant swelling sea where it’s now you can’t They call you “Old Man” but you’re lilting too soon in This Paradise where all new creations float Like a spell’d dream, Each has his dream— Each has his place. I only want to tell you what theDream is like in the old Crowds on your lilac tree I don’t want to tell you what it is like in the old Crowds on your lilac tree I’m on the old Bridge as the child calls to ask If   people ever know a child At any cross, by the title “Happening off” And the title, “Happening off” is from the old stone At the end of the walk To be sure there’s no cross At which the foolish moralist argues that the children No solitary peasant sees If he wishes to know the names of the children He and his childish congregation With a thousand cheerful songs sing their joy While life’s Utmost conveys them Into their calmer, better visions of what Is best and never really, without them The noblest spirit is the happy one Flowers spring out of the ground and the rivers Arise from the earth, and the children of men Circle before them to hear the sound From the shore where they created and witnessed The river’s bosom foaming and hissing As if the bright ======================================== SAMPLE 668 ======================================== "Wake to the Morning Song", by Matthew Zapruder [Living, The Mind, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] I wake to doubt of East andbygial Ocean’s faith and leave to loathe each other, that I may ha’ faith in God and the like; in truth I do not need my trust, the trust so falsely called, the griefs that kill, the griefs (because they can’t be faithless in themselves, and in that awful advent), which strike me no deep rooted faith, no terror, no unfallen trust, and patience put to proof, but something—to this end, I’m bett hewhom I think or do, teach him all my body does and sets, besides this dump, that God is good, whose mercies help him so, whate’er his mood, let him look straight below, and never, never be self-will’d, make answer, something more than laughs or weepers; but, O God, make answer, let this painting be thy he: the color of thy motion, thy short stature, thy short lightning, hourAfter hour of thy subsidence, thy God-brought day, thy evening stroke, thy lightning, thy strength and glory, thy soap, thy winds, thy skies, thy skies, Thy base for turbulent and stormy seas, thy lawns, thy moonlight, thy drowned, thy tossed-out neighbors, thy rocks, thy globe, thy moon in precious time: nor these, nor any sweeter, ier than thy kind, be these, O Lord, in this, that whoso reads shall be, and neither INor you, and all of us; make trial so of this, and know. <|endoftext|> "The Tree of Life", by Matthew Zapruder [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] "Fain had I left those homely urns behind, Those pied and troubled portals, soon to find A door made wide to this beloved oak urn. There more had come; I sought to find it, tried My heart with thorns, and fondly searched its door, And found within it there aLord and Master, pausing there, His dove, His musing ======================================== SAMPLE 669 ======================================== "The Author Fain'd", by frustrated Dernigan [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I thought the phrase “tableaux” Or “tableaux” would dissipate Or maybe “three,” which was In ancient time the best In form not only steel And chrome, but also gold And such as you and I Think. Lines and ribbons, but Were bought in Palestine by lots? <|endoftext|> "Interferonable", by Helen Dudley [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] He that would thrive In his own dirty toil, And his rustic toil, Might not be proud of these. He died in the role of friend, Making men learn his trade. He lived for toil and bread As the lesser Powers did. He died in bodily need, For it may not be right For a man to live for gold. <|endoftext|> "The Architecture of Decks", by Louis Simpson [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Religion, God & the Divine] 1 I had been living in the house of the possum in a bay of sunlight, and the rooms of my apartment Were all desolate. And why was it I wanted to live at all? Why did it come from the valley, the swagman, the dog. The walls were in movement. I had been trained in the house of the possum in the days of my exiled enemy, for merchandise to eat grass. I had been trained in aeretry, travel, and labors, and the rooms of my conflagration. I had been trained in the fear of God, being the daily terror of the landscape and forests, And the dread of the river and of the sea, and the strong curse of the strong, and the curse of the strong, and the curse of the strong, and the curse of the strong, and the curse of the strong, and the curse of the strong, and the curse of the strong, and the curse of the strong, and the curse of ======================================== SAMPLE 670 ======================================== "Upon the Day of the Judgment", by William Butler Yeats [Living, Time & Brevity, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Is it a little silver gone astray?A piece of straw, as yet unbefitting clay!I am it seems to me no tiny partThe part of this vast worlds there is in art.I reach'd earth's smallest point; have wander'd farIn quest of new existence; I was rear'dUp to the fullness of celestial space;And air, and sea, and sky, and airHave been the speech and music of my race.I am it seems to me no giant soul,Exceeding stiff on space and spaceAnd numberless the worlds of light and spaceHave cross'd the farthest universe with wings;But waiving on through chaos and the clods,Henceforth on with unwaning weight to thoseWhirling vast worlds where space is none,And where the moon's eternal ride;But man, an image only, to myself,Sole, subject to desire, and still to be,Through gathering simiancy of mine.I burn'd for peace, to mine develop'd strife;I bore hard pains, and wearied bars;I broke the bonds of blood into my life,With ceaseless vigil, and secured delight;I bore the woe when fortune frown'd,And gave to man the friendship of my might.I bore the burden and forgot my choice;I bore the thankless heart, and bore my choice;I bear a grief and tear-acquered heartWas all another heart can bear.But cease; I feel I bear thee on!Withdrawn, and felt, and sorrowing, I bearA mournful look of love and death! And then we part, a part of thee, sole source Of all the ill that flesh hath known.IV. So in his antique Roman handsHe took thy tottering footsteps, hand in hand,Withdrawn, as if he had command The service of one gift, and held thee sown.V. So much the long years hinder not their flight;Time, fleeting as the sun's life seems,Scarce knows the meaning of their glorious deeds.VI. As vapours veil the sun and chase him down,So faint, and duller in the day, the sight Is lost of him, as if the sight And hearing of his soul had made it one bright noon,And now is night ======================================== SAMPLE 671 ======================================== "Changeling", by Jennifer Jennifer Wong She takes a trip to the Panorama, and sweeping the sand back to her feet, we hear her singing, “We are the house preacher,” as she concatters her sweet voice, “we are the house poet,” and so we kiss her, resting her head upon the shadows, mouth to mouth ticking to her toe, kissing, chipping, kissing, she begins to cry out, “Oh God! Oh God!” “Please fill the glasses.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the bottle.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines.” “Please fill the lines. A little matter what you are: An Erie R. Confederate. Whose life is the same as mine. Whose life is the same. Whose life is the same. Whose life is the same.” And there came Hiavion, a ragged poet, just a limpid river swimming in the cold water. Whose life is the same. For he was still a boy and his hooded sisters. The water was frozen cream and melted in ice. Everything so stark and shimmering was still become transparent. The water was white and quiet. With its colors and laces, thereupon there was a young girl whose eyes were gray and their bodies were a kind of spill shed water. “What can I do?” cried ======================================== SAMPLE 672 ======================================== "A Poem for Pulse", by Jericho Brown [Living, Death, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] —The Body of Elie burns Stone meat on Sunday, stone that trails Days like red seeds on sky When the wind takes The tips from the branches, And tears them down, Then sighs back. There is no sex in this, If love be a hatred or shame, It would be good, Were I as false, Were I as false As one who knows the perfect world, Its heart would be broken By the sound of its tongue, Its manners were sadly variable, Its manners were harsh and subtle, And enthusiastic, We have learned that his face was purple, And as coarse as a nutriment, But I will avow It was cold in the summer, And hard in my teeth. I loved him; we were a beautiful pair; I had the happy way of talking; I saw the master cut up; And the servant took him, And I begged him come back, Till everybody said that he didn't. That tickled, shook his head; I gave my hand to him. <|endoftext|> "Prisoners", by Jericho Brown [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Gender & Sexuality] Until yesterday I had, that morning, known, More than one's known before or known, A potion to be brought to the door, and pressed And stood beside the silver beast, and watched The curious things from day to day, with their Geode-tipped tails, and their little, rippling bills, And their little velvet knobs upon the books. Also, small bells from Chicago, perfect and small, Tipped like sedges on the woodpile wall, Kept the little things in mail and turret, and left The rest to Nature's hand. It happened so; and ricophist, And hybrid hirple, hybrid hirple, hybrid hirple, seem The giants of the wood, the oak trees dainty, The smith and scholar of the grove! And one Came from the city and brought news that he Had found the body of their man. And they— All this and ======================================== SAMPLE 673 ======================================== "Lacking Lego", by Katherine Mansfield [Living, Parenthood, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I remember the younger in his cot at the Minerva knee putting his feet into a dough beside my mother’s baby brother— not forget the engagement the woman who shot him in the head. That was the unfair cry: a tiger isn’t a bird, a tiger's will never be his own. Some nights I threw myself at the corpse of my son, who would never bark when I quietly pitied him. Some lashes never wear the mark of his pain. All that I had to do was to give myself ten times and then I should learn to cry. The rain took my mouth away and I’d give myself a fine bed if only the kingdom’s light would shine. <|endoftext|> "Making No competition", by Koya [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Father's Day] My mother, as father said, is not so different— too rough, and not so baby; my father, though, as he says, he’s not about the age of sixty. I’m still confused but he says dad he’s seen them all, and I’m about to try, by showing them the soft way he’s shown, by letting me hold him for a while just the way he takes a little boy. You’ll be assured he could not: nowhere or there, what the devil is he talking about? My mother’s voice, that waked me up from sleep, opened like a sleeper—that loved engraved T being alive. I thought perhaps I was to tell my father the whole truth: he needed a cool wash to make him well to face his time. I know there was an ancient custom, when not intruding to our minds. This form in the brain was not visible to the eye here, but says truth. Do I know a courtier may not move? And what of courtship, of force to sever? <|endoftext|> "When I Loved Was a Rutledge", by Rebecca Hazelton [Living, Death, Relationships ======================================== SAMPLE 674 ======================================== "Last May That", by Carl Phillips [Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] That's what you thought of me, my mother, When the bed had to be over, the moon and my cousins, Driving after me, came buzzing to the door, Bend picking at the moonlight and told me That I was born to be a Marchioness, And that there is a grand cloud, we were thirteen, How bad you look! You're so few, you're so brown! Those men have bidi, Maria Davis, And I'm no one’s head orbed. I'm the first one That ever was created, we were seventeen, My back was burnt down with a whim, The stars would shine in the door and the moon The same as my wrist (fear’d marry a fat wave-figure) And that there is some cute beauty I still can’t see Like a tear on the face of my son, my daughter, Coming down the stairs to me. Try to see her now, You big blue hawk, you know I must be home, I come for the door to my wife. Come in, my girl. She skims the creamme with a firm mouth, The second time she happens to be my new And your gaze is like the moonlight, our baby, Our eyes the drawn blood, and my finger tips So small it is over and over I tell you What I now am talking about, my wife, and this ugly dream, This ugly dream, for whose beauty I am intent. I try to talk, I sometimes lie and let you know What you are thinking of. When you look at me You see me hunched against a stoop in the sun, A blithering blush, in which you made me eager To let you out, though I do not understand. And then the other girl, rosy and white, Sits by the fire, laughing, and throws herself In a bright golden mirror, keeping it out, Looking for something all beautiful and new, A miracle, a passion, an ecstasy. This is a song, albeit its meaning is no more Easily as a bird, a riddle to be borne Through the quiet of the night. When the birds sing From ======================================== SAMPLE 675 ======================================== "Process of Elimination", by Roy White [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] Choice by birth, quickening juices, the ripening spirit—the inner, the inner, both passive— draws nigh, reaching, receiving. Onward dragged, the whole body races, like barracol beetles, avalcusp’s gem-powdered body, the eyeless victim’s stony maw, beating, glazed, unsuccessful. At length, the pilots, zinnia-latte, return to the flag of the waste. And ever after, night comes, regiments of flush and tints— a shout, a song, then herald, swift as a fluttering leaf. What are we all? laughing children we dare not imagine, as do the ants that sleep along the banks of Thames— we do not seem to feel their breath, or they might be invisible, cowering, lolling, gliding, the way we make our fares. <|endoftext|> "The Living Temple #", by William Blake [Living, Death, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics] The living God, the live God!These holy streams keep living, being. These trees that stand upon the roadIf you have heart to help, being. The Law that bids you work, the God Who rules the world, this day of stress and change, this writing of death, this darkness of success, this heap of ills against the peace of God. And you, unselfish, grieving, feeble, saintly, familiar, when you do not feel strong,Dear God! we cannot take your work again. <|endoftext|> "Night", by Michael S. Harper [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Spring, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Winter, Social Commentaries, Class, Money & Economics] The night of darkness, stars. The night of darkness. Under the wild sky, four children, under the white snow, falling. The nights of darkness. Under the cold tree. Under the savage ice ======================================== SAMPLE 676 ======================================== "To the Poet", by Vandana Khanna [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] (excerpt) But O how shall I stick to the poetry poetry of the modern?—r.m., It was a romantic poetic career of poets and romantic romantic poets, as in the days when Parnell had held the ladies. O miracle of art!—how could we boast of it? O thought and beauty!—listening to the sound of the theme— the flood washes up, the river roars, a white river roars. Blest thought of quond ELIX! O speed of art!—most blessed time— to mark it with a love so gentle and sublime— O how I envy the books on the Atchison log, and the image of lime! The brawling lover lingers—and fancy recites the hymn. O Hylas! the moral seems a pleasant matter to hide:— to read with due regard for rimpost writing scrolled imagination, or the Atchison log—to acquire a imagery divine, the sublime revelation of an artist whose fountain pen, even in its fountain goat, is The Gunpowder Castle romantic, the Poetical Blue! O thought and beauty!—shut the poet's eye:— from many a torrent of his soul an eloquence-filled wishful lines supply:— The Had-Food style, with its fine shades and fine yards adorned as Ismail's dome declines; And his Huroon, uplifting in his search for mares, blends in with the Levantines. O, thought and memory!—O how I envy thee—who art!—and strikes the seven chords of the Orientine's song with the sharp tongue of the harp of Weimar, performed on the fatal instrument. O, thought and remembrance!—behold and view!— The Eden gates of Eden opened, and she threw themselves over—Nay, by the pangs of death,— from the pure fountain of human thought hot warlike plant!—the chosen Arab's lot shall be the lot of better sires:—the worm! O, thought and remembrance!—the wide field between the twin ernites, the plain of landscape and prairie heaven revealed the single grace ======================================== SAMPLE 677 ======================================== "After Fr. Shirley", by Louise Erdrich [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] after Fr. Shirley This brother from Ireland the stone man meets and kisses the minstrel who once sailed in a boat where the seas are flowerless because they hate the bay’s slippers and the wife who shot in a siren sea. The barber of Weimar will admit he’s robbed and unclean because they ran through our villages. Our sons and we forbid the righteous to leave these homes with pillows that they called us. Our Lord himself has fallen into our hands. Our children’s bread and oil Beat hard with his anvil and clink, Blue Death will come on if we fall or escape. They sing my blood on Sundays and I say to myself, Saying, “Get up, you bum, at the point of dusk.” And to myself: “He watches my thighs and groin.” I spur my right hand up and shoulder my left. <|endoftext|> "The Fiery Lake. Improvisations in Jerusalem", by Joshua Clover [Living, The Body, The Mind, Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] When I woke up in the night alone the site was to close my eyes—wisdom, power, beauty, to make me believe in you. Now I can believe no dreams— still I see you mistaking me: you can believe me— I, the mirror you are. On a road of flowers, life swells with the impregned conversation. When I turn awake, the sun drifts into my eyes. <|endoftext|> "Days", by Joshua Clover [Living, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] Fortune is the image of things, they are the day that you have set them. When you are still the sky hangs on your shoulders, the bees go humming over it. I open window. I put my eyes into the sound of the sea. Rain rises in my ear. Rain makes the roses. I close my eyes ======================================== SAMPLE 678 ======================================== "Yardened", by Dean Young [Living, Sorrow & Grieving] You’re pale and a scribbled ink or near a cross with flowers but I don’t see you anymore I’m sitting on the floor where you are perforated of my brothers and I can’t even look you through a moment and if I ever get to you It’s only because I still can see your face I want to be the sunlight about my brothers <|endoftext|> "From “Lone Sorrow”", by David St. John [Living, Health & Illness, Life Choices, The Body, Time & Brevity] And the anguish of loneliness through which I could escape from the thought of you stretching from your direction like a man drunk on a hyaline boat scudding to the harbour from the mission of his dreams. I wanted to write to you like a song of ill-played drugs, smoke rising from the slowly cold sea, and the stories kept coming and going on. But these stories always ended in a two-line, the syllables applauded and the poems done. Another night you snuck the feathers from your hat: I wanted to leave the house of my thought behind your bed; nor would I be so proud of the simple fact that I really was. And I’d write to you, if you’d only cared for me, and if I’d only been able to remain, in a bed of summer, and so continue writing to return. <|endoftext|> "Filija", by David St. John [Living, Death, Marriage & Companionship, Time & Brevity, Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Men & Women] You’re leaving me for an instant to distract me, you’re starting for a journey with horrors from me who can’t be patient. What strange illness has attacked your childhood? What giving away them tender years? What loaded them with their numerous diseases? What shivering in your sheets or pillows? What other worries were it, for the lack of what you are bringing back, or where you want them to let you have whatever served you in other lives. When I ======================================== SAMPLE 679 ======================================== "Greek Architecture", by Meena Alexander [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] To bring every falter back to face the cobblestones of ancient art to cut the fresher hair of the dying wood, and, still, the mowing, the crumbling of the ruin that has yielded fruit to it—even the dead from which they've played relentless games—the brown-eyed Indian, Master Hyppus’ son, the stone man on the wall who feeds you after hostage— from which to where that ruin is your last and only trace of god’s grace. To keep the hills and plains with you, master—the black and silent cliff still curled around the iron wall who gives you light and through the last days of your lives, in memory of the old world, you’ll be all silent in the woods, master—the bent grass, the great laburnum, the old hut where you spent your living, how many centuries have you passed to the bird-pierced cliffs and trackless duns that wheeled and were gone, the uncomputed tenures that pell-mole across the bay to where you are, ghost Island, my city, my birth: thou art not selfless, as I have left the high cliffs and woods of the island, my first, slow growth of the good crops, the little coils and cordisled nets that line the shore; these they let slip along the soft white sand that whirl southwards from the windy reaches of the violent river that burns like a white mist, the callus of the long waves, that wear the whirling wheels and stagger toward the black shore that catches twin limes, that alternate, sun-dyered, the cliff’s gullies, those gulls that sweep the coast to nothing, their huge, pitiless belly-plates of lions that devour, and an entire drag-reek of creeks, the bull’s-eye buttons that have crept through the crush-crags, slid the thin stream back and forth that keeps pulling back without call, until you come, turning it over and over again, until you note the shores that steadily hug the long waters back and forth that scour the rock-bursts, the long free black ======================================== SAMPLE 680 ======================================== "The Subject of Illusion", by George Seferis [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] The farmer, in a new suit, ties thatched his plackets—the judge, a victim of his will, commands him not to use the trick of masterwork, to make him lose his wits eye-balls at the latest job, to take off a receiver that will break his patience, a house that can’t be done with, to let the girl go, and never be missed again, and never be missed again. So the one who loses his continually hit he rather more than most, passing through the room to the next window, finds swallowed under the neighbor’s chickens-nests, gets the guest without being noticed, nevertheless, in the morning, starts aiming for the case, aiming for the eye-points, but missed, the fall. • A fall—the test of repetition, or least of what rests with the future:to drink until at any moment a thirsty vulture looks out, to unclothen the bird of another's eyes be cut to the shred by the rearview mirror, to extend its ministring of plums to the undying swallow,to plate the gray gull that screams when he flits away to the hills, to the limon that veers between last night and morning, to the trail it could swerve not see—to the peak that now leans as quietly as a shaft of dawn—to the far beach, to the reverting ocean, to islands lying, to the fresh-swept flagstones, to the thrashing wind— to the blue, blue flagstones, to tiny art. It faces the sunshine of coming again on the edges of the earth, the small child who falls into his mother’s arms and advances to the breast of her husband, the venerable father who gives him a drink, the clear face toward the light, and old man who gives him the cup to the two eyes of his daughter, the blue cheeks toward the light, and forever younger, as the full tide of their young spring fills them, and they drink. <|endoftext|> "Colors", by Sandra McPherson [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] For I have lived a rowing chance ======================================== SAMPLE 681 ======================================== "Fourth Poem ["and I would carve the name]", by Ntozake Marshahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahadahad ======================================== SAMPLE 682 ======================================== "Gnomic Verses", by Robert Pinsky [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Men & Women] What makes this living and calling my wife, my mother, my sister? Is this all to life? To live again being young and uniting released to the world. To die from the fact, to forget being so young so wide. To exist a little time for thinking no longer but waiting for complete ang fibers now that I'm here to live six dreams about the day I left this world about which my wife was in the parade, father coming to town to get up to take me to this country free from brain fires changed. No method to deepen if I did this foolish earth. —A year ago I left this world believe I knew this world was made for you. <|endoftext|> "Loved ones", by Robert Pinsky [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Midlife, Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Home Life] I'm alone in the last of the most spacious little town. The edges of it were polished. A saint. The earth was torn and thinnied. I'm alone in the last of the number of times I've heard. And they all take away the small bodies in one. <|endoftext|> "The German language for nouns", by Julian Stannirrhwaite [Relationships, German oratory, or translation, German) The German language for nouns is Latin. Greek and German words are Greek. The German language for hook Is Latin, or Latin for thong are Spanish, with Traverse. The German language for thong Is Spanish and German, with The German language is French. The German language for thong Is English and German, and Is German and German, with The German language is English. ======================================== SAMPLE 683 ======================================== "book of the New Grade Party", by Susan Masesa [Living, Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture] In New York City I heard the drums roll. Down to the river, the drums roll. Down to the river, the drums roll.Down to the sky at 3 AM, the drums pound.I saw the men in the stars drown, ringing boom after boom and roar along the shore. In a zoo, in chasm straw, soloed the dog and carung. In a pool, on water, on land, in boogie, on land. The word for his new hide then he spoke with the crash of your lever and your oars. In a trap, in a line, on the bay, in the water. The word for your new hide then he spoke with the crash of your prowling pack. But the word for your new hide then he finished with the cat. <|endoftext|> "tomato's Music", by Susan Masesa [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics] On seeing one so singularly antique, his big mouth out and down he was obsessed with a jet of soft notes thrilling the surface of the music he was playing, which his mother had figured in a French ball (subliming the space between he and his legs) he murmured a blessing on his book booktime subject. Thus his hands in the pockets of his French violinist, pulled somically in the pink braid of the gold cord across his chest, seemed almost a god leaving him. On seeing his little legs trapped in his tinsel, he smiled. His pose was an axe at the mouth of the mask which had answered the blow but was bony and gloved. He inserted its stray spines, like a garland woven with roses reaching out for water. They inserted the fingers of his violin in a forest of instrument. They were so intimate, they were so manifest. The tinkling bellowed the upholsterer's eclipse. The kettlepered a whipwing under a basketball his head and took up his heavily baffled voice. He so chanted his most hurried notes, so that after a while, he could hear the gold cords click, but he could not note the nine pedal rhythms. The ground was und ======================================== SAMPLE 684 ======================================== "Song", by helps Mopschau [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Race & Ethnicity] but Harvard thinks nothing about what happens if  speech begins telling you again until very early, if  speech begins telling you again until your sixth grade is over, and you ask yourself why the children don’t know who to consider the family next to us and which kind you’re called on to help in the essay time, why sharks stop sharks alert to be scared and mind their master the instructions of Poseidon, so that only then does the whale’s belly not know who to consider the life life out of death or of the belly not cease in the grave and not even after all it is so secret that after all it is unclear that a man doesn’t know if he’s got to pen his fingers anymore that a drop of that blood is not yet shed or one of a bright white cloth is not yet in the sea or the sea that the lifer breaks open and lays him low again and again in ambush, to eleorge him with strong steel and why do you let yourself tell him you are not her real shepherd though she is not her who receives notice and when you tell him that Pindar shepherd you know something about it he will be no man either man or woman who accepts this temple that he accepts it and his thoughts never invite you to talk until he is one of the lambs that number themselves and that he is the master who lets the tig-fleece to the farthest sea come back and so away to see the pathways of the sea down a ruin aisle down a ruin aisle down a pain that you will feel in the kelp as you gain the shore of the sea so hard that the spell isn’t useless because she loved you <|endoftext|> "Self-portrait", by Billy Collins [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] I ask'd why Lord Alfred had been sad And why he treated with a dusty knob The bolt that drove sixpins through the brain Made by the strong brick of the two-lane side The bus that set up between the sill And went right through the gasses when the fund I saw myself the staid beyond all recognition Comfortially compared with my ======================================== SAMPLE 685 ======================================== "Mingin' a Spook in a Latin Study on Education", by Katherine Philips [Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Reading & Books] There was a copyist on Sunday, which he composed Playing peremptory out of a black leather trunk. He wanted to make an acquaintance. He said that he did not need a taste. I am into late and I do begin to hunger now, but inasmuch he said he'd take me by the hand and talk to me of his girl, until presently he stopped waving his legs in place among his own. I understand he's much too nervous to notice that's to see for a bit. Like he told me one night he was asking his friend, then he took his notes out of his pocket and turned on his friend of the Friend of the Seasons. <|endoftext|> "A Fair Shepect", by Amy Lowell [Relationships, Home Life] You can see she is our Mother, do not worry. Bless and didn't notice shock.Do not worry. Never fail to feel depressed, bumping the fat weasel under an umbrella, as you'll never know after the showers are over and the maple calls to a nice wild dance.Be gentle with a composure with confidence assuring you.Don't look ignorant. <|endoftext|> "Ocean’s Progress", by Philander Jackson [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Summer] It seems so close to the ice. The surface too labors. In fact, fish make the lagoon lean and shift toward the light over the curve of seawoman and out of respect. Water will dip the rubber of the low tide swelling on the beach, basking in the ocean, but never ceasing the slow sweep and liable to rise again. Sea weed, maybe a pink ear, creep out at the tide in froth-waves, and the drag and drag of the drowned witch. O how did he come to stand there half letting his toes shave and he blew out in the sunset as he leaned over the rail and whirled head-piece, head-piece. Days later from the sea the sky was delicately dark, ======================================== SAMPLE 686 ======================================== "Nine Years Later", by Lynn Emanuel [Living, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries] The black men on the train had a frozen wind sprung off the snow with their shoes on and shoes in front of them. The next day they were a group of the sullen folk who dragged their shoes from anywhere in America. The next day they were squatting on bark slats. And the next day the chevron who spoke well, and the bearded men with their eyes ever darkening on eyes dark with weeping. And the appearance of the waiting men who had the most common feeling of the city put them under the misery of the fathers. I could not get close to them, anyway, before they had finally grown earnest, ready to press along the rim with nothing to do. And the harsh men, lonely women, knelt over what was left of them to teach me. And the poor women took their sick away from them and let their pity on me become a new voice saying, “We have denied the death of the dead. We will remember the smiles we wore one and another since we have captured the unknown death of thelies.” <|endoftext|> "In Dreams", by Lynn Emanuel [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] In dreams the painted ship by the other city spouts into the darkness, gasping and gulphing in the water. Her hull is a small picture of the life of the world. No one knows how it happened but in that dream and in that vivid dream I recognize her lying still. Beyond the city is the town and the landscape is away and you are not on whom it will rain that night. You do not see what we shall see when we are at home. The night that you are alive needs some quickness. Soon, when you wake, you will know that you have realized that in that vision she was at home not much of the man. Perhaps you are glad to say that I am not the woman who still must find that precious time back in your life. Maybe I still know why I still do not carry you back to that city and drive you up and down, back when you were alive and you left this city. <|endoftext|> "Count Down", by Lynn Emanuel ======================================== SAMPLE 687 ======================================== "Ingratitude", by Joseph Cerney [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Do not cry for Rhaen. Never say you’re welcome, you already know nothing. Do not cry for Rhaen, you know nothing. This old skeleton stranger sits on the cold stone shelf and looks here both into and over, all three in their strange appetite blue and purple. And all the younger people will listen to his language. Rhaen, my father, loved people, don’t come to that country. He says the gods love even, and Rheiden is at home. When I was a boy and he only said give me the moment to go to bed and go to bed all night I could hear one word only.Rhaen climbs up on a stool and is silent. Orders he saw in a comfort chair dreaming of his mother, how he could see the broadsides of the room where he could see the water. There was a farmburg and then there was a near fountain, a fountain stopped to drip. Rhaen stood at the wide base of the cell just in sight of the water and would not see a reflection on the heat and the water. He stopped in the inner court and poured some water into a jug. He balanced it against a golden jar held up upon the table in the tin kept up against the water. "Why are you here," said Savitri, "asked to drink me?" Then Savitri untook some dried porcelain cups and put them out the other side. Then she raised a din of laughter as if the world could hear, "Look at your friends! there goes Salma has got his head smashed!" And so she poured the wine, made the olifant and boiled it, and tossed it out aloft and fell asleep there on the floor. <|endoftext|> "What I Thought, Mother, your mother would really prod if to stir a babe In such a night as that of November?... I wanted to scrape those poor hooves from my bed, make them lose their heads, and, counting all this evidence with a big stick, keep them for the tail, being blinded, I should think I wanted to make them fall first, that they might catch the tail or break it. And that she would tear ======================================== SAMPLE 688 ======================================== "The Martial", by James Galvin [Living, Health & Illness, Time & Brevity] An old porque l’image An que pen rent animal’s tail Et toute heures liberalese De dire que revert primal themselves Qui dare beque ant cravant popés Prépurgit helpful, apricot Agnés les chevres de la montagne. Et les sayes, c’il vingt ans Deir vingt ans, ciel vingt sous la pen du time Sin ser cainest.Sa jauison d'être Lui, eux sous toute fardez-vous? Vous les voix d'aient qu'ay mous les blesstés Se lever pour les boscits et que courbes Ce quatre vingt ans, mon vu soitres, Se lever pour une boscits et que courbes, Car c’est la gronte d'amour des doures. Vous les gritons, comme un ron, Se lever pour les gritons Au present de chaque mueison. Et c’est la voix qui reviennamme Dans l'ornbendait, et baste qu’a trent Dans la grut saige, c’est en panté Et c’est la voix qui reviennamme Ce doute une moll, c’est une moll. Ce quelque matin, qui Brons aimé Et dors gier, c’et qui apré De boscais, d'a trop chait mont De boscais, après d'a trop longueur Contrairioués: rececá d'a trop longue Celestial forfeit d'a trop longue Contrairioués. Ándalo m’avaise Celestial judges, and with royal fezures Presumptuous justice bears support Composed, with awful thundering ======================================== SAMPLE 689 ======================================== They say: "In a fish cleaning up a shiny rod with a fish casting to catch the line," Where I am and I am and I don't know how I'll handle the rod and let it be mine And I'll hang it like that: I am Tailotte that yesterday And can't find a match this time. This time they talk they say: "My young Conception's the wrong!" But I'm set to win myself. The sport's allowed. It works: it must be planned. I've built my house and my garden and left your legacy in. I live under other skies. But let me smile once more. Once more. Once more. The snow on my roof here is melting away And I have no use for the fountains that pour themselves Into mine without rain. A million young women and young men All leap to my roof and flee like birds that follow me, saying: "Look, look!" And I beckon. "It's Hesper, is it not? Look, look!" But the old roof winks and the roof winks. Then laugh, laugh he the while! It is Spring in the beautiful beautiful lilies And the wine on the gates that swing from the eaves. It is Summer again! Oh, who is there but we three today, Here in the house of the sly little mouse? Here we come to buy more. Come and let us dance! And look at this tree, here, where it is growing! See, we are coming through a little door! Look, look at that blubbering nest of ours, Where you hide in a branch. Here we bring back the wild bees and the tiny darts of their We bring back to earth, and to all the birds! Here we bring back the blue evening that fills up the sky And sends down the light of another day! Here we bring back the times that you wore for your pastoral trivial toy, Clear of the dust and the spindrift, hot-blooded joy! We bring back with you a sense of the old miracle that drew Till it is only a field to find the blue today! We bring back the smiles, and the sounds, and the dreams we grew into, Pillars, and beans in the churchyard pond! ======================================== SAMPLE 690 ======================================== "Proof Sheets", by Lammas lucina As the moth clings to the aspen, when it thaws, listens to its breath the spider whose escape is tears as the moth prowls in the light and hides his face in the pillarow of winter in the room where it has weathered and frozen as summer reddens to the winter snow that slid from the stained window hiding the early light in his gut. <|endoftext|> "Love Pirates", by Lammas lucina [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Valentine's Day] But it’s love bathing does not diminish nor obliterate the ardor it’s but an artless feeling that the thinking has no power to entertain, so it’s not loud enough to have the sea with all its deafness for its art its pleasure but is also fiery its meaning no longer lives in, its being the dream it cannot see, its way none other though pain itself has never been— but only when the wish is itself found strictly you carry, seize the pinion, beaded your lip to the extent to which it’s to answer for favor’s cry, make you moan and start over all your ills and during all your ills but some to make peace and see clearly why even love can rest on alone; <|endoftext|> "When My Father Fought with the Girl, and Myself", by Lammas lucina [The Body, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Relationships, Nature, Valentine's Day] When my father said he told me I’d gone home with his daughter, just to see me become his, why would he go away so that I fell into his body, suddenly amazingly, he said I can still be your heart's delight in nearly anything but finally I knew he had compassion and would guess I was exhausted after him long before I was here. I didn’t believe that he needed courage to go away from me. And he began to tell me all he told me was his: You are in a love a hole. And how would your body have happened to this? But you keep hanging in ======================================== SAMPLE 691 ======================================== Leaves s in the Panty Brook I seek on moss a sanctuary, A sanctuary of the Romans Which once compose a massive kingdom, Now give it hymns of triumph and delight, Whose voices lift me higher, And sing with love like their rejoicing In the times far and near, The tingling cords of massive opened gates Which always open on the tourist town— A city fit for sorrow Or grief fit for joy. A castle fit for the rich and poor Of quickly rising wealth and ease And sounds of tingling of the distant thunder Which ripples the glazynard chandelier Just like it happens here— In the shorter space before the end of the world The sickly warning rises like the last Transcendering of the one-eyed friend Who trembles for his hand on the dull brand Dream-wasted, unmanned hands bend, And in their trembling disarray I hear the notes as they descend, Almost inaudible, The tenor lulling for the rich— I harken and can hear No factory man, The calculated voice of cannon. On C. S. D. fours, like trundled thrones, I hear the meteors throw, As they arch over snow. I hear as in the breathing of a stranger The mind revolving back among its kings To where a castle is, A royal structure, gemlike, swiftly built On the dark shores of the mind, As if the air had never been distilled Abrid, at times from off the crest of some great kingdom And down the dark, tempestuous void. The golden domes of Greece are jeweled with a crown, As Rome's imperial structures are. Their fame extends through all its circles far, And spans the earth between to bar The way to Rome. What is the void, what is its light, The desert space, what is its height? At times it flows along the skies, Unstars the highway of its way, And unseen peoples as they rise From deep ======================================== SAMPLE 692 ======================================== My book leans in a garden. On the table I’m standing. In the book I know things that can’t come up. Nearly orderly in the room, I pick up the book And I watch the pattern of windows, Trying to read The number of hearts A hundred times after next month, The number of hearts, As if something has happened to me Or has some one been murdered by me. It is May, and on the eleventh of The month, March, I finished reading books. Then I came down the stairs, Washing the books. The room is in the darkest room, My Mary and Grace are in the light. My rooms turn color, color, flower, My garden is in the light. <|endoftext|> "Elliot", by Louise Glück [Living, Health & Illness, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] We need a world of everyone’s life, And we need a world of everyone’s life And we need a world ourselves. And we need a world of everyone’s life, And we need a world ourselves And we need a world ourselves And we need an endlessmore and more And we need to know, travels and friends And to acquire new powers of new creations And new circles to cross, to prove, not foolish. And we need a world that compels ourselves And that stands to this, and that broads and breaks us. And we need a world that wants to help us And that will do, not help— We need a world that will do for all And that will do for all And forever. And we need a world That will do for the good of all. <|endoftext|> "["Wouldn't That Be Ticular?”", by Claudia Rankine [Living, The Body, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] were no words at the end; my last word was “smell.” cracked wailing pine ======================================== SAMPLE 693 ======================================== "To My Son with His Airs", by Ralph Waldo Emerson [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] After R.H.G. India To my son with his air Of Temples and Pinks, Poppies in my garden pink And my son with his dust— A sickle of grass is his sky, And to him a shade draws a mere fly. He will sit at no publican's beck And swallow his beanflat the fragrance Of sun-brows and hummages. I want justicein' on our fault, To benefit our place, To benefit our father's hendy An' we'll superintend mare. We want a clean spool o' bread, An' a hotel room our own, An' a hotel on its floor that glowed With dung-garths o' stoppers. An' cider in it an' beer in bed, An' a hotel on its door, An' food an' a bright bull-cart Ain't exactly shaped before. An' cider in it anon mixed with gin, An' the limes are purtendent strong, An' the stars turn into a proper song— A year an' it's time to name it so. An' cider in it, like a crow, Coz we can't turn out when we're hungry, too. Why, only the wind in the roof says so— An' our doggie says so on the shelf, An' the boys, from the distance, popping off An' a voice an' a voice an' a rowanter, Tell us nobody's ever going to the woods. I'm lycely like Lee, For she's my favorite, an' Lee Of 'Amprick's Jopey, an' Thimbleby. But I peer ever so back, as before, To a whig of rustic plot, An' she calls me an amble-y, the dark, Chopin whimper of a gangrel bark. Well, the snuffin'-bird has billowed And piped through a lump of June; I'm schokin' forty coonbeech dark; An' her nose is smoke-drippin' still, For she ======================================== SAMPLE 694 ======================================== "His Secularum", by Joshua Edwards [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] In Townthis Christianity's famous, 21-49, was written entirely given to Jesus as a regent, or prior, Christ being one of a policy plot by a committee of soldiers with a “I” which, with the abridgement of this committee of God, allowed them to be the Redeemer, or the Devil, or, at least that the Book of Law beside which his name was no longer named, thereby I have seen, for that one of these names pre-eminent in himself, that, whenever he came from a different country, he or she brought any message, to teach the Jews to obey, like the Arab contradictions and thrift of the Author’s Will. And now, as before the Jews themselves were abroad to clean their land of homes, a few members of the Church were incandescent for the very day—pre-eminent in temper; and as to the procedure opinion of the presage—before all, as it were, thereby I have seen, even before I learned to acknowledge, God’s Book of divination—do I not recall, as I have not heard, that, without baptism, without baptism, without drop of martyrdom, there would be no resurrection? —The letter NOpening Thebody in the feminine waiting order, dressed in white, with some whatever of Christ in her mind, each spot in her vagina, she moves to the 1984 Sugar consciousness. The soul, in the masculine skin of a spinning thing, that feels her need to feel the need to continue, is the store. Or, rather, the revolving vessels of a dove, there with a meaning for each other’s flesh, begin to be found useful as wind, to be found not too many. At the same time, there, even the organs of the body begin to spawn neither misspent nor merely droplets of air; and the brief light of the snake off the pericarp; then, small as a star, the pump leaped into the pockets of her flesh. It all happened. And thus, without knowing where the scope, at that time, of all the dreams of ======================================== SAMPLE 695 ======================================== "The Jungle Café", by Timothy Ryle The hunger’s delight, from day to day In hours of ease, of rest, of toil, and pain, Forced to contend with heaven’s delay,And all the pain that’s sacrificed to gain. But promise—look it out! O vision rackt With how much fairer views than e’er occur’d! Nohas puzels, eels, and rabbits, fish, and lamb, Untold of men—no more mouths feed, meat fed; And all the world, how desolate and dark! Soared to be numbered with the suitors just Of those that wait the promised issue forth, Prone at the very wishing of the rest— So far exceeds the tallest tree that spreads Its guardian wings across the darkest air And soars aloft its insect-like ascent Above this tower of woe, the Kusa’s care. Thou hast no blame, thou aught of blame, not blame! A lesser glory thou hast won, And man, the perfect image of our woes, Hast tortured and destroy’d the end of days. But these, though all alike thou feed’st with tendril seeds, To others yield a brighter wealth belong, And so that numerous race which thou hast fill’d, Devoted to thy order, grow more strong. Who thus acknowledge thee, who thus canst merit One general glory lost, which thou hast ta’en? Or who so hard a refuge as thy merit? Now all thy rivals, goddesses! shall be Grimy themselves for sweeping back to thee; But now, when the spring spreads its early flowers, Appear like those whom thou hast overspread. When the white poplars and the poplars too Appear like daughters to embrace their kin, And daughters come to seek for other bowers, They there shall pass, and mix, and touch, and run, And as they die for claim the realm, shall die; And so in thee, O sacred nymph! shall lie. And youths, and old men, and sweet girls, I have seen Drive like a curlew back upon me, And in my heart the passion of them all Settled like a rose-flower, ======================================== SAMPLE 696 ======================================== "The Light Sails of 8", by Algernon Charles Swinburne [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] One of us in the dark densely quarter'd when we enter'd tower'd hospital, arch upon column'd planks with gaping faces, thicks spread. It was that of the white henchman on high his bearded claws hung hard, burn'd his beak and claw disgorg'd. He dragg'd them down, dragg'd them, dragg'd with ropes and chains, until each bone return'd to his flesh, his flesh again. After suspended, a grueling made him gasp and gasp, shrinking, 'he is the sinner! forgive, and forgive him who has done us justice' speech. He has craven guts, gag'd askance, obey'd and kist them free, until he be dead. There was an old beggar promiscuous once, silk-couchant in a wheaten plain, silk rustled in wind. He was at peace, so sincerely, in his dirty life. But one day, one cold winter's day a carriage made its trek make merry, snow-sicks show'd where one lattice was stopp'd: streets rak'd, ropes made a merrier din, rang of rope and loader, shovels bare, pockets, bracelets baith of board and bed. How it all went smooth, what it had will'd, bad wind, up the spur, the slacks all along, battered and all but lost its touch, lurk in wind, the choos'd, as laughter smote, ragged piece to piece, the hare to left, put away, hurl'd it into the trough, dragg'd it into the trough, and flung it down, fist the glutted hound, then relish'd it. The hare gave off, having well fed, the dunc, began to chafe at his meat. The hare gave off, it caught him short, gave him teen, bonsai cum Deutsch. "Oh, what," said Breuck, "is the news from Nile 'ero ======================================== SAMPLE 697 ======================================== "De Vallow Variation", by James L. D. [Relationships, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] We ravel the figure of our isle in tepid earth, and spill its assassins in the heats of May. A sensualist in a garden could walk here in August, with hisasso- dances and his partnerery and mallet. We came of both to rouse him, the godlike Eve, his only delight; an old woman in a grey coat and tulle in a grey veil with a single bang. Love entered our enthralling existence like a dirty sapling, his passions hugging from the contact, his dreams. The male Aphids made their haunt in his basement, sun under their windshield. Her hair was a bright gloss and her eyes were clear. Our joy came to kill us, our alloy, our satisfaction for the sight of her face and for our inflection. Later, in the quiet morning, I can dream of a finger gone down my skirt. I have been among your desireters. You wear the soft white robe of the moon, and the cart runnels are clearly beautiful. <|endoftext|> "New Hampshire", by James L. D. [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] This new walk was a sight that took five dollar, five-and-a-year old. And the big cottars were there, and the rams spoke rubber-ball, ball-sized, in the fur-ball of the can- iron, containing the roll-forth order. They hung there, red and orange-browned, as if they were traveling at dawn; the can-ball hated all the sweet sounds of a horn. And all the town, it seemed to me, had one arch, and one sign, and a blind-eyed corner, and two sticks and a bed, with flags a-dropped, and one without. In the village, huddled against the stoop, the grisly fellowSing- doves snuggled at a hook and with the other dogs began to trot. On the edge ======================================== SAMPLE 698 ======================================== "Moves Up", by George Eliot [Living, Death, Nature, Winter, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy, Sciences] Sir February was transformed to ice, and to lead forth what seemed like a fibrous calf remaining in need of a brain and of hands. September was transformed to ice, and to cool air. Winter to frost. September was made to be fertile, washing out, December was transformed to soft frost, fair snow; the snow turned into bright revolutions. December was made to be fertile; to write. December was made to be noble, adorned with shining snow; to be worthy of a well. September was abandoned, like gold; abundance of snow. April was made to receive a marigold. Winter was put to flight. April was abandoned by moonlight. Winter was made to be an improvement on the pole of the book. July was abandoned by the Arctic pack of birds. September was abandoned by the raccoons, killing the geese and restored snow to the world. July was abandoned by the animals, killing the magpies and the raccoons; killing the animals; killing their own beautiful and powerful mnemonic. Winter was made to tear open the book without a beginning, and a solitary season, with no end. September was abandoned by the animals, no beginning. Winter was made to nourish fires with animals, and with sun, and with beasts with heads, and with a child. Winter was made to nurse a cold and dirt; to nod, and kiss the little child upon the doorstep; to start work when summer was an easy finish; to feed the hoes; seed too many; soused in winter; and wet; and going in for a refreshing shelter; and then chilled. <|endoftext|> "Safariama", by Dolores Hayden [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] 1. A girl held to her lips and held to her nipple. 2. An owl sits on the hill. Three feet up. Each is in your stomach at the moon. His six feet are cocked so you’ll reach up again. His two legs scour the moonlight. He sells his glove and pinches you as you walk on your stoop past moon-city to admire the moon’s crescent moonshine. And the two of them ======================================== SAMPLE 699 ======================================== "Yellow grass", by Ghalb Mar [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] The Irish Oak is pleasantly attached To the southern slope, the southern slope, And all the southern summits hang to the western slope: At noon the ridge emerges tentatively Because the sun’s kiss is only descending nearness. A great limb of life’s yellow lead I’m bringing With its great topography and the air, Big with sweet air, A low-capped mountain basin, Rain-washed stone, The plastic drab stone Rising place over it; The sun itself scarcely shines without it, Plain and gray bound in black-poughed fields; The robins jostles in the sunlight, The nightingale’s complaint with the rain; And when the autumn begins to end in upland, Puerto Rican and humble flows—reflecting. Look at those huge legs hanging on the wall— These hands are crossed, these feet are crossed—and would Lie stretched for so long at ease. The former Is now warm and tamed. In the other side The leg is turned. <|endoftext|> "The Road to the Gardens", by Geoffrey Chaucer [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Religion, Judaism, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] None but you the truthis gracious.I am sorry for you. Circled the high, and pulled the gum all over the baseof the soft rope. Sweetheart, I had a hundred Idol.When a mere man could, for want of money, stand a hundredth part of amade-up marvel, he couldn’t easily string the shoe-lace to the backpack. Nearer, we stood, for love of a sweetheart, nigh to our faces, even as a young woman does with glass. When the girl asked us, “Is it possible, brother, that the ball should fly so far?” They stared’d off with their dirty tweezers. I blushed for fear. I socht my shirt off and went straight to the fucker. The door was off the inside. Whoosh! we drankit full of spy-glass and scatter. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 700 ======================================== "This Day They Made My Mother", by Sandra McPherson [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Men & Women, Religion, God & the Divine] —For My Mother Drums to His Mother, Valentine's Day, Dear Smith, the news of a recent day That everything dies into death, into the very hands That manage to move the floor, While the hands are moving, give others way, Have added to the solemn slide, Which is now but seems to draw the party's talk, As a good news being spoke to the dusty sick. <|endoftext|> "Life is a sickness that has been known as love", by Sandra McPherson [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated] Once again, I told the war a different truth: that love Wasunto all that was beautiful and strong. But when I tried to keep it up, it leapt Like lightning, felled on me like a thorn. I laughed and thought of getting better, sure But that was worse than the adage, Defence was worse than the great conflagration, And all I got was tears. I laughed and thought of something better, But my head had felt the need of more; And all the bitter pleasure had gone by Was mere delight, plain as the need of love. I laughed and thought of something better, But my mouth had lost its way with such Sin that would never have me say good-bye, With just a good-bye, a kiss, a smile. A wicked life is thus a hell Where every thing is good, And love flows into every lover's mood, And makes him all the hell that can, Give us the love we need. <|endoftext|> "If I Laid Them End to End with New York", by Sandra McPherson [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I. There are two other kinds, my twin, which, though the beef it eats, have been in twenty years, and by their status, group, lay aside and find their food, both having and having it, feeding on themselves. One like another, but never eating ======================================== SAMPLE 701 ======================================== "from Natural Emblems: The Life of W. Jones", by Lady Mary Marc Williams [Religion, Christianity, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Who knows, since there were different ways to take the place Of poets, the success of one Francis Dickens (printed atrans, 1618-181816) Eisenhower Italy (made in Caitlin, 1873-1953) that night at Paris. While on his work the church was smoothing the dust, chewing wormy, patching blocks upholstered, his student friends brought me a web of geese’ feathers, fluttering, plucked here and there, and the neat little guts of his English friends in a whisper, ransacked by each other’s muzzles, painted on the same faded yellow paper, my father described it as “the best of  old towns” in a paper bag, waving, “and” whatever was being printed said, “having now’began’,” a faint echo. And this was heard, “In his youthful life,” waving, feeling, not alone — not at his age, but partly in spirit. The Greek word for domestic easiness (an unusual kind of) disturbed its whispers, tortured by an infinity of sound without quantity of potency. The Greek thought this understanding, the Greek thought, the primal, the old, and the nomen out of mind, could heave an ocean wide and subject other worlds to his one love, had each his wish fulfilled. The Greeks thought this the mark of every act, women, beasts, all men. And if in due perspect, as we have seen, “rain” could not depend only that imagination could make real she was, belief, as well, each heart supposed this was no new one. Too many orbit-chord, each spear suspended so that the idea of each intention alone could be known. As to whether false or real, this was almost taken in the dream, under revelation. Our housewives,Workrs,Workers, Atheists (Aillo, Man, Book, Social Comment ======================================== SAMPLE 702 ======================================== "Mirth", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Morning air offers tones etched in the caliph infernal worse—notes to the bay, low-flying in air, which Ouse, water-worn, drives a spool across the bay. Then a radiance emerges. Wind curling onward reveals itself all pink and crimson, and floats an instant past a blue and green adora of two-lane bridges, whose backs edge, clear swollen and thick enough, witness an edge to bubble nearly enough to connect the blanks with the other half of its crowd, two miles, and be here to hunt for the winged whereabouts of the bucking brackish leader, a clown, galloping up the wing-ed breeze that now beside me fleck the saxophone with its white undersides, somewhere beneath the wing an old-time beetle, its horned beak sweeping its crowds all over the cliff from bark to bark the chattering upside down to drink, are lost for the trampled-down harpy, the chariot dragging its white undersides and buffeting ** Of the circling toppling with abrupt, marked script. So with the wing-sly, doleful, singing pattering above me, the violins bringing the chorus hundreds-invVersed player with shout, ringing cymbal pianos across the singing the silent hall, * He who had found voice in the rough winds having seen them, audible, summoning, chattering, meeting, through the heavy air, the ghost, speechless, wild birds, calling, calling. <|endoftext|> "On Earth We Must Went", by Ezra Pound [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] We must die, you Who were my ancestors, Under the surface-of-the-night sky in their constant arrivals —and who are you now, and who are not my fathers, but honored and Treacher jars. You pass by To our shared hospitality. ======================================== SAMPLE 703 ======================================== "Primer a-woo", by founder Captorend [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] (Le Freécel) We’d started our war, and what’s involved with our cause has come to be said it was bringing the nation to help and we believe we were merely playing the game where no interest at all exists, except for the mother, who’s since her time of blight under the sun, whose face is someone’s to watch over. A recent play, and someone looks at me, a formica doing a canto of this story, putting aside all the principal cares of our nieaching, a razor blade from a cage and putting away all the helmet once said, a bird, not a feather, but an idea, what it means to live in quiet, let the people of Europe ponder of this little plot itself, thinking by the time we ourselves out in the nation of business, we’re right, they’ll know who is first, if less than one member is not out, and if the first only object we’ll know is to love each other, let it go to the new Philosophy, and let it grow suddenly old folks with nothing in particular, any way, except that. The National Bank, and I’ll go on. That’s how I know this—that agonized man of 382, this unruly image of a few hours ago, of a life that would come to all, not to us, like a sigh, and a look searching everywhere for something we miss —that one day when the berth wasn’t near, the door closed, and out out into the forest the breath of a dying woman crying, “Mother! mother!” Or I’ll get up and in the hold just once more, and fetch the magnolias and the orange trees and the fig tree, popping their whole weight in one bundle. <|endoftext|> "Throughbury Garden", by Knight of the White Elephant of Burmah William McGonagall [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] Our farms are in the great open sea Where nature holds cups of preserves; Our flag ======================================== SAMPLE 704 ======================================== "Song at the Feast of Boker’s Party", by William Blake [Living, Health & Illness, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Social Commentaries, Class, Gender & Sexuality] What got done serves simply to provide Weep and black melancholy, not a house. A fine day, said the Preacher. A calm well might we do. A pile of papers, aoba of papers, A Word Room order. And you, sir, a large Man. Our brogues were light as Dickens. We took in the Barcarina of songs. We had the look of the Sea Song Call Call Call. Tom Dansey’s Lamps glowing and new, he Bore a record of his Lynn, a photo on the wall, A liberté of dinners, free-making with a “I” opportunity, An ideal salad, I do not remember which one. What did the Manalls of War Till he became the County? He had dreams and “gifts” and gold in his A. What did the People do then? Was he a dead? I thought Of one in the Highlands, a black blotchman among brides. Why has he not been there, sergeant? I am sure he lived In a black town in Missionary, Chicago, Where it was right the words to set driftwood in the air. (Bathmass way into the news List). <|endoftext|> "Notes on My Days", by Peter Balakian [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Popular Culture] I. THEIR BASIC SAVAGERY Fat black bucks in a wine-cask sea. The owner of fine lights and wheels of silver-color crimson- green-and-silver t- and then black-and-sliced, I see him in front yard under the glare of another fleet pouring out from behind a leaky light and white-sliced runners and a man raising over the wheel becoming “to have no children” in this America of cheese rides blue ribbons and orange ties and blues, I hold you up. 3. LITAINOR Sometimes I imagine the men are here down the ======================================== SAMPLE 705 ======================================== "Seven Years Later", by Michelle debates [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Poetry & Poets] I have been taught to walk, to be a man, as geometrical in feathers like a seer. These are no greater business than to reside in solitude within the beating of a pulse heart. Our common ancestors furnish the example of ig eyebrows and an indivisible dignity. We call this the world. Here is the language of death. I learn to close our eyes. I am the language of cars. My head which is energy. Sometimes I have an air that maps my body without any evidence or Lack of design, a feeling of grace that seizes only when touched but when preserved. This is a feeling that severs life. But how to live a remaining space and to close the eyes of the world without any form of credit? For our future life will have pictures of a beginning even as the world is of God. How to listen to the many lasts of the All, the seven as one? The eight-pinned giant sun and the eight-day red sun that branches up the universe in badgerms and heaven and hell, and heaven and hell and heaven, and hell and hell and heaven and hell and heaven and heaven and hell and heaven. Everything is always a book. It is the book of black space Wherein Knowledge and Wisdom take the book of the world. And Truth and Get-together feign to make me the greater, the greater the greater the greater the greater the less and the lighter the greater the greater the greater the greater the dross The proud That makes me the beggar in this world I am the soul That makes me speak, the pliant, the silent That limit makes the lines the whole Wide world too small a thing For the song which was until it has found the road to beauty, grew from small to great without the fall Of the small sun, saw its creation through the night beneath the silver and gau ======================================== SAMPLE 706 ======================================== "Duke", by Richard Emil Braun [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] My nephew, Charleseniend, sleeps late on my arm, which isn’t there, sharing off the flags. Two other boys along with the wardens and handcuffers, ghosts, in our family, in my own father’s kitchen, sitting by the fire alone, their two shoulders trying to wind, and I to go up into the day. I walk into my father’s kitchen and a woman’s kiss, and I rake a liquid, kneel, stinking, looking over at the street, with the lake in her face. The morning just before I saw it—a low roofs of houses, arugally houses of cheese on their backs, but still it was the shrub, or some Indian horse-tamer tossing up and down the hills toward an in-suscical clime, and the only thing to blossom is the light shifting from it. And my father told me it was a big mouthful, a perfect mouthful. Just when I had reached him I made a swinging movement, and when I saw him in the wild-cats, he was running through the fence like a horse with eight penns. I held him between my knees, holding his hand, and I said to him, pointing down, “Don’t speak,” and he stretched his hand out to me, saying, “I’m dead.” You know, my dear, I was alive, And I know that I saw him there at once on the porch in the late spring when the white dew of the west wind fell, and falling darkness followed. In May, a brook in whose pool I've just caned out so many seconds I still stare at it. Every fall my wife's running I hear far up the road, until I can see myself moving, and the door which has long been locked back. Slow and slow the way we came in, too slow to know us. In June we came back to a land all covered with earth and black under the lilac lamps, and I bent down to stare back at them, toward the valley I was ======================================== SAMPLE 707 ======================================== " Saul", byDick Marechal [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] 10Sixty miles from New York The royal game of War is played By Guido Gui El siero young, peregrinal,American Americanzo’s Jewish once Yaquito del Sosein 17 comedy hero tossed across the sporting terras their crowns and globes into the air and singe and shout their sports and dances and the men and women bend low each other their heads and ascend across the street letting them loosen to the air right out of the street letting them loosen to the air letting them loosen inside the four broad streets here and there on the porches a thousand oranges and a hundred rice globes luminescent white and blue a thousand tensed notes like the last car alarm tossing over the hills letting them enter the four broad streets the old ones swept and grinned all over the city all at once the mute old inhabitants greet the young girls laugh and eat their brothers in the street all at once the young men all at once the benches seats rushed in hallos all at once the lamentable cry of women dissolved in the body rang and rang between the rush of arms close in embrace with a flowing line of hats and behind them a crowd and the trampling of feet hurrying over the gangway <|endoftext|> "Fourth of July at Levi Park", by Monica Youn [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] 1 1 A row of white mackerels bends Above the empty garage, One by one a traveler Goes up the hill. Slowly along the white edge The cars and trains Cross and continue, stop* And the banks of houses Slip down the coast. And when we stand at bottom The blackness of graves. 2 And men and women, faces Strange and ======================================== SAMPLE 708 ======================================== "Man against Pucci", by Linda Pastan [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] In Little’s Garden the stones are smooth and gold like nail work. I used to dream my reward would be near should I know what it felt like. I couldn’t see the shiny day. I’d sit on my Polo wall and see the sunlight skimming the bowls that glittered into the oily green water. I could hear my father cry, “Father, I’m sorry that you spanked us, but little sorry we are here.” If I’d only come straight again and find that he still might eat the sun and tell me coral meat to set over, then maybe I’d be a man and of the roar of the city the sea’s roaring tonic they’d not yet say and then jumped into my arms and awake in the beach. Whatever beats your bones, it’s not like me to know the bursting rules of fists and I’m tired of smallies. I’m all that anyone wants, but it’s more than that, or that. . . I’ve got to throw stones at the sea today. Sometimes I want to know where to find each bone and I’m like a stone floor bitch. Or I’m the paal of the great ocean that smells of buried flesh, that smells of ash and timber and rust, that smells of putrefaction and ebony, that smells of kohl and cedar and sand, that smells of ambergris or black powder, that smells of kohl and cedar and sand. A drupe in the sixty-nine some said was near me tall and polite and some called it cot or it was just a red rooster ringing above my house. I know more about men than women who like to live about this life and revel in their privacy. I know more about women who like to live at their ease or find comfortable bedside Women with no business to do or even sleep in the pink and purple ======================================== SAMPLE 709 ======================================== "Sleep", by Greg Delanty [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] One thing’s precious—breezes—a lover’s vow: The color of nettles, the sea’s nectareous pink. Oh, the moon’s favorite, I love him, The sear’d ghost, moon’s waning,cold, In the yellow throat’s wailing dimples fold Her crescent thighs, like a lover’s clasp, As his light skiffs, with dip and toss Of rosy necks, slip towards the sun. And I who have borne him, where shall we run? Shall we strive and strive to stem his tide? This be kisses, this be a pride, A skaith of words that bring him words We transcribe, or light undone, A skaith that his love may last.“O mother,” he says, “How desolate is the life that warms!” Sight of its beauty, the landscape dims. <|endoftext|> "The Prisoner", by David Trinidad [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] After the Wilderness He sat in Cassowas light and tall, he could not sleep, and he stared up through the bars of steel to find his enemy, down in the dawn, the clear sky. 2. On their mountain bed he’d looked at the eagle that has swooped and snuffed in its azure above; the hawk, the hounds, the deer, the wolf, were all excrementing. He looked back as if he’d fought; his eyes were glass, his teeth were claws; in them, exactly, nothing was, nothing was really odds to him. Look at his eyes, faceted with brine. He had won the covey—he had lost the train— the strength that took possession of his caged bird, the golden brain. He had stole his freedom, roused for flight, dragged to the dungeon in, where the milder nobles sat and heard the pilgrim’s freshest song. ======================================== SAMPLE 710 ======================================== "No One’s Laid Nor End of", by Kim Addonizio [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] I can pull no deeper: the stone face of the woman is worst. I who sow no seeds hold more than fruit. I can make no Yes, and no Yes. I can stand the glad news up so long as that face can stand anything. My face standeth, dear. My hand is the hand of God. I do look on its left side, the whole face of the woman is spoiled, and her good heart is broken even with love. <|endoftext|> "May Day of Blues", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] May day of Blues I may tread in its dust still will I wish for a little ink then pass her cold by with her head on my lap: the time she brings warped in wove biting the chin that breathed you from the tremble worn to dust with her eyes through the soaked lids: May we bury her eyes by waving heavenwards and be as they were; we bury our eyes by shedding milk the idiot earth might bloom in fields that were to the few, yes, but even this rental is the kindly crops you can reap: and you may cow the corn, our small field to feed; and you may pull from the clods that lie along the mats, whose webbed tilts stand on the sofa— What? Sleep. What? Heaven Heaven, too, denies thisthing, is there no end to it? II What was it made me sleep? What made me stir to think that such a dream? What did it give that I so miss when I was there? But come waking from your slumber I will blow your rose and you will not let wind or rain touch you or the rain on your white face. What? I will waken you for some sane dream ======================================== SAMPLE 711 ======================================== "Bilingual", by Albert Goldbarth [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] The most difficult of all The torrid and excellent The swollen-eyed, swollen-eyed god The meager Caesar, with flaming eyes The soul's own master, with flaming mouth The nightly Tarbadat, and with entrails The Sibyl's ghost from flowering cancellations, The impoverished American who is The soul's antipode, the sad soul's twin brother, The blind great poet who can’t see the sun In two divided lights, the three king's daughters Who separate the blind from the Sched’s face, The blind man sees the stars fly as they pass, The nine great prophets with the pen of iron Whose meaning is, our purse, their burden and their doom. The great poet sees the clouds fly over The broken sides of the smoky smoky smoky city Hence without end, hence without end, from under Brown wall, or under black doorways, one and all. The cries of children, and their heavy curses, Break in upon the reeling, imploringly, Melodious, echoing, until, at last, Oneumbles, and the crowd goes on for ever, And still the thunders on of chaos roar and roar The way the banners in the streets are waving, The epoch ends, and still the cries of the race Grave, and still sunrise on its ancient plain, The great Dream-Dews of resurrection in the air The everlasting fountain of all ages. Always looking toward the sky, all day, The clouds sail by like shreds of foam, the wind Is louder than a funeral organ peal. The clouds sail on, unfurled like banners, and steady The gay, fresh colors of the sea come out To waken life in you, and all the elements Laugh out again, the world a glimmering white Borrows, and you and I, sun-kissed, flame-kissed, Intimate armies of the rain, wild butterflies, Wind-kissed and blown and scattered by your feet. The clouds sail on, unfurled by winds or hours, The fire-spark curls the sea, the wind is swift To waft the yellow sprays to fever ======================================== SAMPLE 712 ======================================== "from “Mankind”", by Sheila Black [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The first stanza was written in fervent despair and insolent wreckage. One day it was so nice that the words forgotten the purpose. Decades ago. The whole poem is a procession of deep-voiced persons in ordinary society. Little girls run hither and thither in a furious environment, moping their own eyes towards the approach of the approach of the trees. The stanza is a somber rhyme of a narrow chamber where terror is a ruthless conclusion. The black “unable “unable to utter it.” A book is open and a book is burgeoning. It is open vision and a book is burgeoning. A book is the sole beloved“as with its material, derivative of truth, sensation, Parenthood, or relish, to bring the accomplish what she has. The first book is the brunette error. The new poem is the bitter of late summer. Beginning with it, kin to memory, being, as they were, in Plato’s rose tree. A book is a salutation to the outside world, when it is poured into the mind. Coleridge, last and most times poet, though he is the prime minister of the new world. After centuries a house is a salutation of the old world. No book is like a hers, though she is a new line than a door leading into the new world. Out of the importance of description, imagination, thought, knowledge should come up into the new. Intellect, art, and experience should come down to more and more our bodies at the same time; but among modes of old thought is the old kitchen clock. Let me slowly pass then and give the reverence that helps not this world into the longer, the more do you love that beautiful face underneath the under-tenanted door? <|endoftext|> "The Night Brought Prophet", by Joseph Matthews [Nature, Animals, Religion, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] You who are created in the rushing of the dark rugreless, are still prehistoric. The generations of sand men stumble before them, beast flailing in perfect circle. They become the gesture of ======================================== SAMPLE 713 ======================================== "Nor the Ashtrapman", by Henry Jopp [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Music] I met my girl last week in Paris— It was her perfect flesh and feature, In its her second nature suit— That perfect humour of all flesh. Her eyes put heavens down like the In topmost star-face of the sky, And so my guide took up this— That I believed she’d prove me false. Poor girl! She’d cause my heart to patter As if she bled to see me smile. Like to the falling of great stars I suffered from the saddest tardrums; Night after night I pined away And lost the love I felt almost hopeless. <|endoftext|> "The Harp that Is Just Here", by Henry Jopp [Living, The Body, Nature] Who is the harp yourself? Night after night I let my thoughts begin out their proper channels, Hide byOften, while I was playing, As beautiful and brilliant Suddenly, as is the custom, Suddenly I undress, theOriginal Hand of an arch-surplus, Or as the word is, “happiness!” Or like the way I’ve not yet given The hours a single look, the way Sunstruck I am with the look of a child, For never did reflection On my condition, or on my fate. I am the happiest woman of earth. Night after night I keep my watch On the pent passions, which I dread Of difficult and violent things. The tropics are my home forever. I must impose them at the hour of midnight. Here are Dictators on the floor Of night: I am the native Of blood and fire, and the master Of the elements, and the sport Of endless sustenance, which thrives Like rain, like winter nights! The hour of midnight is already come. Even as the sun shoots a few Many people. They are stricken And tortured, and are not concerned. Night passes like the new-young Wind, and the trees become more Black and ======================================== SAMPLE 714 ======================================== "Spleen, smell of pineconch’s creases", by Jayne Cortez [Love, Desire, Relationships, Valentine's Day] First, our island; the hundred and fifty days long.Then, our language; the live death of a lesser man.Then, its pithy and mesandibles.The obsidian and unsprangacity of a great mistress.All the year long, all the week long, we observe.Pastime, as a guerone, to one another giving away.So love me to God, as a shipwrecked mariner sharesAbandoned and importuned alien to the unknown.Then the windy weather of ebony.We are exileshod in that ancient mead.Then, when spring-time has designated outblown, we find our mares and what they have become.Then the rocks, the whirlwind and slow-pinioned races,And the bird-sparrows building and the crackling song of flutteringsAnd shy bees caroling, and insome urgent needs,As though hunger held them, clamorously falling apart.Then, our island; the two-hearted men who dared to mourn Our fallen island life, as the twins on the mast toward you.Then a prophecy, as a prophecy, urging us to seek your love. <|endoftext|> "Temple Clothoet", by H. D. [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] there is no end to this cruel work, this toil, this paying in reveilleable porridge— without which no solution is a process in the process of finding. It is waiting for the releasing joys of the old and dead, silent and greedy for land. Every floating circulatory system of beauty excited you, a black anchor of contempt for the elm's deliberate decision to barter a keel for your passing. Any force that comes from threatening to offer is a gesture that meansCravens who lived longer than one who lives longer.In the grey of your fine sunlike foreheads there is a bare cool water that filches the surface of danger.Trust me, under dark Neptune’s teeth are unwaverly gluttoness.Trust me, the desert bareth the largest, and I would fain be your wife and you unclean ill-fated sea god. You are the ======================================== SAMPLE 715 ======================================== "Dribble", by Diane Glancy [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Weather] When will it end? Soon enough, soon it will be gone, When the order—nature & family organs will cease, when the series of values will cease, When the last exaltation will cease, When knowledge is gone, & time is exhausted, & long eternities past, & time is exhausted, Like a late, reverent, late-born infant, who, struggling with alarming tenses against indolent pristine weather, The having wandered so far in humanity. — His ardent, careful visitant, amid thy crowded scenes of labor & suffering, Grinding his thoughts with patience to forgetfulness, With temperance towards the needy thought dispense, Turns toward the scenes that would re-emerge into existence,Solided from the busy din of crepe and from the sordid world, He comes back from a poem here, he will not enter, not impart his thought, Going from idle dreams into a poem, but at the close of day. So he will come to thee, his door, and with thee bring him back; and, beckoning them, he will teach them to be silent, the voices of pastoral peace. —Withdraw thou from the poem, Poetry, or from the poems, the poem,and he will learn the secret, which, if he have purpose, means honor; he will lend thee inspiration; consider how, unknown, the generation will unroll The destiny of poetry, in which theWeakes of the Past, which were French, Had Albert never painted, till now, the poet’s self? —So God will come down from his Heaven, and crowneth some one in a poem, Which shall stand up for ever, where the brain, distracted, cannot move, The spirit which is God, shall unify And utterly destroy The seeds of God, which in their coming fill the latent places, Till that, which has begun to fill the world with inspiration, and become a nation, Till that itself, throughout the universe, are stronger only in the hope of power, And that the future, filled with life, fills with the coming of the soul. <|endoftext|> "The Green Linnet", by Henry Timrod [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] To numbers of measure those species ======================================== SAMPLE 716 ======================================== "People New", by Simon Geddng [Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] People New People New Others come and go, also others go, the new people all day or sometimes other people in different parts and sometimes very likely ones get back to busy workingmen and women and children screaming for more stuff to thrive than others for others and every one of them ever finds her own screaming and imagining again what almost really happens here is—a tangle of legs and a chain of sticks and a corner cut off and so the new people do and they just kind o' get in the way someone else will or may be thinking do you any better now? the crowd on the lagoon trips back and forth to enjoy a similar display and hurry to pick up the stories and go off to the fishpool the others prefer they get home again, screaming for more fish, and the men all ask them to come back to dinner, the others pursue their postures and shoot back to the earth, some cross the streets and there are some behind the bar and there is the wall clock strike and there is the wall clock inside the rock inside the rock inside the rock and you can look inside it now and if you do look at someone else and if you do look at anything really happening in the open spaces you can get whatever they look at you are there in the world of space and they are saying it there in the opening of the house of the brain that holds the sound of the two doors and of the lamp for five and a half, and those are a number more and they arrive home in the afternoon to the house of eternity. The crowd gathers in and the others are making a good clothes and wearing their clothes and carrying on socks and tarpauling the rude rocks to a feeling that they approve of blowing their voices in the dark. <|endoftext|> "My Country Reason", by Simon Geddng [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] My country has put it in my mind.I see it sweating in the sun like a flag,and it has been used to bear for centuries.It seems almost like home there.But it is my country.The soldiers are here in my mind,so I can see them there,the old flag still hanging in the wind.Let me believe that they carry it back to the enemy.You see the old flag. It is my country.I see the stripey clouds in the distance.It is my country. I see ======================================== SAMPLE 717 ======================================== "Still the Voice", by Hannah Lowe [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] in suspense if I’m in your home on the floor the door is locked. The fire opens for red-plumed thought. What time is it feels the cat Runs out of the window, whoring her hound for which chance’s dogs have a sip blown off the fur, plucking some feathers in the wind? Or is this that did you come from the Crusade Or Vesuvion? The people that live in the mountains’ valleyAnd its loud spate, saying its Lord is never Lord or falter, in the glance of blood darkness the voice that was the echo and echo of a double horn is only the echo of loneliness. <|endoftext|> "What He Setting", by Hannah Lowe [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] You were my cynic friend, when I enjoyed the everything you liked. It is not that I love the style of your streets, nor that I am less than other people on the streets. You were my cynic friend in the alleyway, and it is continuous. You invented a face like that of the seasons when I used to paint it with red blood and green leaves. You were my cynic friend, you knew me well and knew and will love and fear and yet you will never know it. <|endoftext|> "A List of Sko", by Matthew Zapruder [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets] He said he saw a coat of blue jeans with deerles on it, and he said he was a god of the past. —Boredom When the crowd asked who was this about the drug in the drug that rides the car? He smiled and bade them stare at the blue jeans and they nodded, nodding, nodding. A jet of red soured his cheek blood from a deep-voiced girl’s laugh on the tips of his fingers, and he taught me the way to allow rails to ======================================== SAMPLE 718 ======================================== "Days", by Philip Larkin [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Money & Economics, Popular Culture] Days!—so like the clover, sweeter for the bee Than bees or sleekest calico, less speed than speed!— Lo! on the other side!— Around that offering, all is o’er:— A signet, doth the marriage rend— And to wedlock—dye, the marriage then is o’er! Days, so unlike the flight of time, that many a jewel, meet Without a chain, is snapped asunder— No! not one! not day! not day! not day! not day! Not day! not day! not day! not day! Not day! not day! not day! not day! Not day! not day! not day! Not day! not day! not day! Not day! not day! Not day! not day! Not day! not day! Not day! not day! Not day! not day! Not day! not day! Not day! not day! Not day! not day! Not day! Not day! not day! Not day!not day! Not day! not day! Not day! Not day!not day! Not day!not day! Not day! NOT day! Not day! NOT day! Not day!not day! Not day! Not day!not day! Not day! NOT day! Not day! Not day!not day! Not day! Not day!not day! Not day! Not day!not day! Not day! NOT yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday! Not yesterday ======================================== SAMPLE 719 ======================================== These are the days when my old days are not as I tell you. I hear the loon cry to the wind on a way out of Manhattan, and in among the clouds a sound of warning. At night I come to the middle of a city busy as a ghost. I hear the voice of the boat becoming beautiful and silent. I have nothing to tell you. <|endoftext|> "Trailer", by Javier Zamora [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Only my mother wouldn't say What to do with a word. Quick, I know that when I was born I'd swap American music out to a black harp, a word to describe the way her hand spells when you move on the radio down. A word like consonants, like a child’s voice catching a pattern of worry hairs chock against his pillow. There are sunsets to which I'd better go and put down as a perfume upon another floor of a hallway. I wonder if the words I read my father taught me not to cook a biscuit. That's how I'd save the word, master, if it took my breath, if I had to hurry, if it hadn't been for you to send my mother to live on. I'd like to go home to myself and walk the lane or up the hall, for people use the way they do, and then other things to do, so I don't mind anything about the way you make me, my father doing all day long with that dog. <|endoftext|> "Ecce Monstro", by Thomas Hardy [Living, The Body, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] (a species of singularity being common) No fly-killing Sparrow I know, No fact-loving Swimmers excel me Nor British ones can paint oysters, So I know that when they die I am still a young man, too. I also move on to the Body Where coconuts are always gayest And picturesque their necks have been changing Their slates are imitating the funnels To meet the Western Sea that jeal ======================================== SAMPLE 720 ======================================== "Pantoum", by Carl Phillips [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Pro carplace, gorgeous pastcase, Choicest and longest, meanest, no veil:My father had my inner life, and you Perfected it, and I, you know, you came.I say Good-bye, my sweet. Your eyes are vexed with mine, <|endoftext|> "State's Progress", by Robertizing [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Poetry & Poets] non-profundating, self-loving you. <|endoftext|> "State's Progress", by Robertizing [Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics, Town & Country Life] Not to mention the fact that you are a ground fighter Who fell in the Subject. That the test of the value of History is, the actual truth saying:This Day swallowed the sovereignty of the Austrian In a Billiard. If the Resist. That day swallowed the law. That the law were the golden body of Music And Music better than money, O nobody better than music better than money, O never better than song. <|endoftext|> "Chanson", by Robertizing [Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Music] By this path the world can go. Nobody can go. One must be a Jew. One must be a dissputist. One must be a musician deft In God’s harm. One must be a critic, a critic—a reader bent over the riddle. One must be a priest, a cultural seeker In God’s name. A steady note and a pleasant one. <|endoftext|> "Zagajas", by Robertizing [Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] Our Lord who bore a child upon his knee. We'll ask no more. As sandpaper for what it wears. <|endoftext|> "Antiphonal Circle", by Mary Jo Bang [Living, Death, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Among us is a woman And she sits next to a black bison ======================================== SAMPLE 721 ======================================== "Stonewall Zaqtan", by Frank O'Hara [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Uniformly mourning, over the Atlantic, the ship on the saloon, Uncle Eakon, to blossom and fatten, eats, and eats. Instead of selling French pictures and jeans, why, he can tell, now what, in the future of a rapidlyinside twenty-odd-seven screaming worlds, simply to be parked out of its own soul, filled up with air and light. A wrecked dream of ships, the car plunging in America, driven by the flooding sun in its rage, on a lonely beach. • Weren’t you tired of much, how to forget the rituals of you and those of your mother whose existence amounted to a close bud in which a storm of trucks blew away from heaven? Down sliding into the dusk of the rooftop’s deepening gloom, you now see the planet charted in old Japanese blue. Knowledge of the starry sky, love of the howling Christs, how, living, you loved every star in America even though you couldn’t forget it, and don’t know how it went, still hating all the dark regions of air, its seductive accumulations. The red-slice of its twin pyramids, the wash of the turbulent sea, all these triumphs of the purer than the red swans, the never-dappling ocean, all are sprinkled with our names and loved ones. <|endoftext|> "Stonewall Zaqtan", by Frank O'Hara [Living, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] The last and greatest Herald of the Cause of Beauty is the Ury, the sweet and private Drink of young Desire, so like its sores incarnadines and saints of cause and reach of passion, and then a little more as much as it is given up to discover itself, to an OD’ring enterprise, to seek to find itself as beauteously as possible, in some obscure corner of hymeneal, exposed as if to catch a powerful minute on the finite round of Being and giving it all to be the measure that it yields. <|endoftext|> "Stonewall Zaqtan", by Frank O'Hara [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] ======================================== SAMPLE 722 ======================================== "Kautará", by Sítá Necately [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] Kutino, by his order, has woven The wily shaft to clear away The seeming arrow of fear Into the heart of the chief of today. To her, the glory of dedicate sound Has spread like a pale moth fluttering Over the god who is nowhere found. The bow of the God is pure and unbound, And the flintshackle dint has split On the forehead of the purity shell-beat The adornment of asceticisms Blazes in the eyes of the fervid sun; So the glow of the fire of passion is gone. From the red coal rise lilac odours, From the heavy harness of sense toil, To the marvellous shining body whence came The instinct of magical loveliness. But the warning of love has smitten them, And the pure flame shivered and died Whence Apollo’s kiss fleeted the mind Back to the lips of divinity-ditcht and vice. To the soul’s deep heart, to the chaste, to the soul’s deep core, Sweet love, ah, lost! it is lost! Too late, alas, for this arrow, too late for thy fate, Yet the years have pierced wing-tips, And knowledge is life and death is life. We should welcome death and welcome love, We should hail thee at the dawn, We should go and wait for thee to move Into life’s strange holiday. <|endoftext|> "Echo", by Maya Angel [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] “This is the road to distant Europe Pinks and sampans and willows and poplar Faded to mute canvas by many Quaint Indian nights on the drinking shore.” “I’m going to pierce the mystery Of these forests and forests and seas, To touch with trepidating fountains One smooth gray basin, and then away With lingering blindness, and while the day Brightens, the parson’s churchward windows Brighten with childish candles a distant Big spot of the bluff ======================================== SAMPLE 723 ======================================== "Lunch with a Dinosaurs Boy by Economics", by Christopher Middleton [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] After Versailles Aurelius Hector Holly-ends, James Lycophontics, s Original. My little Sara Redcaille-led, My little Helen Redpack-led Gertrude, The giant aunt and I, Still we had kissed, and had a kiss. <|endoftext|> "The Vanity of the Dragonfly", by James Hocht [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] What should I now, being myself? The grass is losing its red leaves and the trees are brown. Something between purple and green ground, perhaps. My hands— I want to push the stars from the sky, I want the field of a brown. Something between red leaves, the paw of an archer, the lev? Something between blues and gray moors made the helmet and the tus. Something between red claws and gray moors made me doubt. The first I ever heard or saw again, before I knew it. Something between ampersand remedies, the trail of a quick death that would hold us happy. The next I imagined for myself, a gun, a bayonet. Last week a ship of a feather washes through the air all the way northof Rome. Last week a fly was hovering between two skiffs at the loins, the tail feathers waiting in the breeches. Last week it was lace, and the feather is orange. I still remember the curl of my brown suitcase, the shape of my Mother and Grandire. I was sixteen. Last year my Mother had the utmost affection. I have a wedding. Last year She had the utmost affection. Last year my Dad was my Grandire. Last year my thunder had to be blown over the hills, sparrow after plundered in the rain.Last year my Mother helped me to push the rain. Last year our sister was elephantine. Last year we were as x ovals that are clear as the sea. Lastest July, the last year of every May was this elm ======================================== SAMPLE 724 ======================================== "As You Is Predovy", by Tracy K. Smith [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] “So fucking and so sensible” What you don’t Know To Wonder You can't Eas to You’d Linger You know That’s what you’re told For a wild Beggar’s Better You’d say If you took heroin Or to David Wilson’s Retroduction It’s the easy first Enceladnorson Program You do You do You do You do You do You do You do You do You do You do You do You do You do You You <|endoftext|> "Coquilla omnibedes." by J. William GRAND [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] How lovely “vitarii” seem'd in France, As the two first in line make, I really do— Snake juice, perfect chimpanzees, savors sip From a French oven or two during speeches, Polodu church, or several Jews In a B&CK dinner party dresses, say, In a Fudgez saucepan by Bazille Steeper and two swans, say who wrote “this poem.” And a fifth is still the Number I send you in From Prèpmount and from Pestle. A sixth is still The passionate temper of Pestle. A last Fudgeé Is often awkward in neighborhoods And often cheerful in its absent way, And often amiable in its present case. And serious is my subject not so good As the other great lords who have been discuss'd Among the lesser gods, too, having play'd At my hipbones in this time of winter, But chiefly for the field fuller detail And for the most part information of the public. A felonies uncolour'd by the sun Or lack’d light glory of the Muse, are thrown Forth by the crowd of fools, like puppet flags, Which others often show us, for they flow In multitude, and in their course advance More after all than when it has been shown ======================================== SAMPLE 725 ======================================== "Islanders", by Lorine Niedecker [Living, The Body, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries] A plague went so far The melting winds turned pink The phosphorescent light of the moon Seemed just to let us go. <|endoftext|> "The Good Mother", by Lorine Niedecker [Living, Parenthood, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, War & Conflict] —for France He drank her to whiskey, she drank in the barbs of a bear And wept while washing his face in wantonness. We were the most refined And acidic drunk dogs among the dogs, the cats and the queans who ate the guilt prey, in the club of us, barely kept back in the boudoir. A valet, the crouched Monk, the adult Eagle, was also my son. O, the old women, the careful, fearing equally the sweet sentience, the stilled, the painful, the pitying, the women in pity, the pitying and made me ashamed. The old women, the anxious. O, the startling about Monads, and the still broken, monotonous, monads, ghostly footsteps across the streets, the still past where we seek our den, the giddy prize, the irreplaceable past where we seek our den on the cliff of sun To show where we have done Is there any end, evening red on the things deserted and done, for none of the old women could be giddy as we run? <|endoftext|> "Beggtails", by Lorine Niedecker [Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries] In the small country barn, the deuce look raw! They laughed at him, they weren't worth his waving, the swine all in lye thot we got making scabs to catch it from the swine he didn't want to be, he took nothing out of it, veered off across alive, seeing we were all of us he took no step out of. That's why we drove aroun' he knowin' ======================================== SAMPLE 726 ======================================== "Concord", by Sharon Olds [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Men & Women] They mingle to beheld, afar they roam,In aeons when the moon was on the wand,When there was tempest in the midnight shiftOf twilight on the wavering ocean's flow,And the fierce element was on the way,Like a distracted, guilty wolf that day.But they shall one day, on some stretch of strandWhere never ripple breaks upon the land,In their own sorrow and misgiving bandShall a thrill of joy forever be born,And their own souls in some bright wilderness shall wanderFar into the night beyond the morn. <|endoftext|> "To an High Father", by Carolyn KESSLER Dublin [Coming of Age, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Class] "Where art thou, fallen so late, so fond of grace", by Carolyn Knewight [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Father's Day] "Where art thou, on the purple coast above"", by Kim Addonizio [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Men & Women, Religion, Faith & Doubt] Where art thou, OWritten in a childish hand, in the desert of anighi, And by the tender palms which flank the altar’s steps, Where thou art gone and me no longer one at thatwe know of, What once I was I now behold thee, Something I dearly love thee, loveliest and rare. The low light folds the ling’ring folds aside, The windows clear and echoing rowth a child beholden, safe and bland. And picturesque and foldings softly showA child’s face, as a fond father once did love thee, As though in the arms of his dear child, And she might have received and nursed him tenderly, Or else have slipt him with the tiny waves of his heart, Or left him sorrowing and comforted and ======================================== SAMPLE 727 ======================================== "THREE FISHERS", by William Barnes [Relationships, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] 1. THE FISHERS The school children have a game as wild. They dance, circle, chain, circle and circle the moon. Cattle cats and flags and moonlight tins. Ghazals. Bread. cattle. An amazed reel. Every fan a lime woman brings into view. The trash— Getings— Slugger conferrates you have none. You take the best part in the game. How many bloodchums become. The raw start the quick approach of the quick. This red sponge is all the blood noticing. After twelve hours, the dead face of the watermelon. Mother says in the afternoons he will swim on that torch. But you don’t get the matches and when you are home he’ll go home. Yes, we will run away from the bones, give extinction to earth. The stain stays on the red and blue heels of circumstance. 2. THE FISHERS It happens when summer brings sweetness, its sumac smells. Under the red they skip like sheep through fields. They wave their handkerchiefs in a mild air, the trickle to the ground. The ones nod to it—put them on, step by step— meaning to put them on, clean though they look. A few more—strike the lamp, scrape the smoke off. Let’s raise the candles, spend two night patrol pilots, and live. Look at their huge rings and go off so. It seems they never wear their old masks just below. How many times have they chafed to learn their natives, asked,Did they not throw stones at their caps, sometimes, at others,When they felt they were on their feet, teeth carving the ground,Who cares? Who cares? The men in the moon doing their knavishes every screw. The men in the moon do not even count their blessings. The male gives his sleep, and she slumbers with her families. In the moon the barbed wire band goes to buy what’s left of love. In the moon the roots make for the bed of the fox, the pavements. A couple of lovers steal from early suns A bell clangs to the pole with drawn tongues. One ======================================== SAMPLE 728 ======================================== "Music", by Margaret Atwood [Living, Parenthood, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] During indifference to newspapers Music goes on the left, slopping up to another tune, along a double break of radio, until the soul twists deep in the spits of a heaviness. Overhead, dragging time, I feel that every living scene is one with the whole past, like a vast street regaled by the dumb government’s light, one raving with another jet of white. This is just a place for illumination to God. What created songs? First notes to a melody, then another song till all the white background becomes one glorious is the definitions of a forceful song. Out from the deepest dawn, harpies, and big tears, perenes, and jiggle-teash music, and with their meaning spotted, ecstatic, are the chords of the instrument. Into this newer, craven world, a new and more enringing gravity, let us push it from the safer tenor at the farther border, a new walled garden of immaculate flowers, the gardenia, all of this whispering in the old way, and I closed with the poem, without any question, a one with a sweater beneath his knee. We were alone in the self-same time. He was giving us an accustomed part of the sunlight, giving us a body of shadows, silver, of fish, a body of old bell peppers, and a shoulder, and then the long fingers of an old cat, which moved over a shoulder, filled with sunlight. The sky was bright with a thousand spires; a thousand cat-waves lifted the waves again, leaving us to duck forward, though our eyes sought the possible impression of a white boar bearing its whole weight upon the unr benefits which then descend upon us. Stretched among the shadows, the harmless creatures seemed out of our hands. We slept there with the hopes of happiness our foreheads would entwine with our imaginings, that the presence of this stranger should prove generally an advantage to our happiness (although like real friendship with whatever dirt it can muster), novelty, and suchlike machinery. No wonder is the continence of persons in the world, or ======================================== SAMPLE 729 ======================================== "from these Oppressions: the Trees & Flowers, the Spleaky Box & the vines [November] The Queen in Thule is a lachry shades with Yew To type the Yew Left hangs as high As yew To cut both bark & hay. Hence, the wood life glows but less is the green life the green fields undertake than the ear before it can make— behold now, see, Beowulf’s hand is on land and I am here by the sea and no one knows how to hold me. I forget to reach anywhere but yew, in that belled sepulchre, in Khelstut wood I lie buried deep in the grass. In your ears my legs keep time in the earth, in your heart keeps time for all the hurry and longing unto them for the royal air. The struggle of the human turning to ashes when its time is nearly over, though tested sore, fought for a new crown in battle: nor may I see in what mind shall I make a proffer of it, to live this life of mine, if I could longer live it? We lay our hand on the blood-spoon in the leaves, in utter weariness and silence. Full-fed of life indeed we feed it, filled it, eased it. To live this life, why would we bide survive it and see again? after all we desired of God, we will triumph over loss, we will fill and heighten our days and as we live shall we raise the silence that is the night that is the night and the darkness of all men, filling them now with the light of time, filling them now with the deep-drawn voice of all we loved and honored. In the end that failed, that failed, we shall glory in it, breathe in it our song of hope, and in all that is born shall we love and rejoice, and drink from the cup we have slain and remember in this life? For us shall the heavy world bring not to us ======================================== SAMPLE 730 ======================================== "The Ivy Green", by Thomas Hardy [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Winter] A Thrush is singing He swoops against the wall and it breaks the branches into fragments It drops from the brush into the blood that was smudged and dropped That new song is transformed And the moss is turned There are too many things to say <|endoftext|> "Mrs. Hill", by Thomas Hardy [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] In the pink and leaden after Nannette Mayer, Miss Fanny Cignes in Lady Steeple's apartment has been On the second floor doesn’t Just stare at the wall and notice the sky. What good is it? Standing off, running out, trail & reading Cins & Drinking at the office like a good novel, or a novel that lets the inhabitants write over the floor like a merry wedding song about a silver jodjree flower that floats on the wind Oh Misery Bagley, turn away your gray head stare at the light, light it you do it like a tiny star That went to bed after midnight brought her dreams, she does it like loca Old lady turns down the sheet on the lawn, turning away your bright blue eyes as she sings Old lady turns down the sheet, turning away your red eyes which were never seen Miss S. Onc'd street (at this table). Door to the right, straddling into the sky like a whinny sparkle of white light, moving away on a sky of blue Tipperary a saurochron sail at this table. How good that you wasn't meant for a favor; a world without ancestry, unfor those who'd named it or bore it, and never had the real world before them, How good that you were meant for making, as though in the offing Of a few odd pieces of five odd pieces of eight scratched remembrances, or a few musketeers, or a blue musketeers, Or a seven bullets Miss S. Onc'd ======================================== SAMPLE 731 ======================================== "Destination", by Robert Hass [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Romantic Love, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers] If every day you try To see the message to it Shouts: We shall see the rows of rain, The reddening, brightening sky, The blue atmosphere, one by one. And though the splendid trees last long Have stood around your head in snow Before your footsteps, thick and long, Still, still, the cordage shafts of song, You dream, and while the chainèd hands Are round you weaving like a chain, Each stroke across your brow and grand Glittering with your glory breaks the soil And the warm air into a flowery rain Wherefrom a color is being born. <|endoftext|> "Picture of a Little Black", by Stevie Smith [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] A study about Brecht. What have you been doing while Breckie knew that Charlie James Whistler was jealous? knew that Charlie never would own his cunts disturbed by too strong a dose of effective, too sensitive a tittle to run with. —Who stayed at the top of the garden that day? Why, it was Philsey that passed that way. I stayed at the top of the garden that day. “I can see how many” I have since that time. Why do I think I’m doing everything at all? kissed by you, darling, I passed that way. <|endoftext|> "Your Closet", by Louis Simpson The bed they have opened is a thing worth the eating, how much lie-in-blank: false-tellers a smoky clarity of ocean revealings from your gurney beneath the salt of the ditch: a twig thick of notes by the river for the reed, like the singing of a trembling arrow on the down, the whippoorwill's note when the mine no longer sings. Who carried me down the field with our faces to catch in the harvesters. Who rocked the castle to a tune ======================================== SAMPLE 732 ======================================== "Body-Song", by Ann Taylor [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Romantic Love] Fragile and Glad were Rag-Deers We that couldter and undeter;We that couldter and undeter brown, And the orchards, and the balsams,And the bugles, and the cheers, Would sail an ætte, like a dream,On a ghost ship that was not mine. Was it chanted in my head?Or mine in your long wars? Wherever I went, you never were wont, You lingoned for me, you were always there, You were the light beyond compare,The living with the dead, the good. He sailed for the old, you were the first. You were the sea, I was the star,I was a boy, you was the spring, I was a lover of the spring, I was the lover of the rose.But why spread your sail, why do you spread your fame? Why will you hide it in my cheek,Give me the great sea-mew, you shall know. "You coward, you wait and despair", by John Skelton [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] A Cross with George Eliot The sorrow of the hunting packs made me shiver like a torch, infinitely my first life the last that I could look out as best You were my last to life, you whisper flower, I had so much nothing to say between us but the lips I had so much of life I fell as a large Atlantic floated along a great hunger mall, I fell as a large Napoleon in his rage at the end of the world, the rain fell on the back of my brain my eyes fell against the asphalt, my soul was dry as a coleusai's cup my soul had laughed with me for years then there was no prouading room, life washes up with a great solid joy. I fell as a large Mississippi fire though my eyes were the first to see my last of all to gaze on as a map and my life turned into a long dream in the strong, vertical rain of my fate now bright with flowers on the battlefield ======================================== SAMPLE 733 ======================================== "The Century", by Michael S. Harper [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] A blind man goes out whistles a song for the dead to be called, the kind of who I was—they find some in the news, a steadygood. He mentions a friend who says you’ve gone too far from where the sea and men play ship parts. He wonders about himself, the little man, the man with the mouth and the must of the hand— just the right way he writes. A mind asks how long in a mirror there has been. And she is the one who knows how long she sleeps there, will sleep all night like an author who has come back to add his last left book of poetry and who got out of ... or is some woman called it engorged? ... The crowd lifts clear eyes. My jaw slips... The child who knows my heart is a tree she belonged to—who— who—will she return to us?—or even... ...oh what am I doing here? If there’s a grave is a grave, our heads we’ll climb up all of us—they don’t notice on our feet. There’s a canopy overhead, there’s a canopy overhead, we’ll tread over the grave-grounds floor— a cornucy blaze in a corner where a man is a negro or woman a girl who’s disguisedized —The cloud-rack sails off the high air. Or into this state of so many avoid, the mother in her white hands touches one to the other toward America’s ships of the same name. A clergyman’s argument about survival, or even the coroner’s argument about death, is that drawn from those prevailing protectors, those of the state of the state whose minister in pink rims the cup of veneration to one of the elders in centuries before the funeral of Mexico in 1914. A clergyman’s argument about wench an elbow, an instrument. Allan is of this body. Sacrificer of alcohol for river and river and water. She and the ======================================== SAMPLE 734 ======================================== "Vulgarity", by John Skelton [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] You did not come to that transparent Cere caterpillars from the museums Nor Space between young Samarkand fused hands. They say you are the one who flew Awaiting the late end of daily paper; You are, and have been; and I have seen Your face in the dream paper; and I know You are, and have been, and I know now You are the angel, sent down from heaven, Awaiting the release of hell and heaven, And hell and heaven from an out-stretching, Passing fat carcasses of thirsty men, And priests who cough and drink of ruddy speech. You are the winged child I have found eternal, And I am immortality again. The great blue star that dies along a milky way Is borne as if a crazy angel were flying Out of a fabulous sunset, and is borne, Leaving the purple blackness of the night, To breathe within my soul a heavenly breath. It is midnight, and you are the star that died Awaiting the great eternity of song. <|endoftext|> "Fragment", by Robert Skelton [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore] Like a parchment huge and huge and huge above the world Like a vast and giant fish, with a great girth And a scornful girth and girth like a giant sea of sorrow Because it is its prey. The rain is blinding on the hapless earth, The frost is blinding the sun as it flings a shadow over The pinched and sweating grasses, and like a frozen tree within its leafy harbour Feeds the forgetful river: up in the blinded branches Of the black walnut trees, the threshing coo escapes, and the drowsy cattle Feed in the thickets: up in the streaming pastures the leaping lindens, Their wet wings blacken'd, and they struggle inwardly with the dripping grasses, So that the more they feel the longer joy their eyesight slips out. And all their faces are fine with grasshoppers green, And the green hill-g ======================================== SAMPLE 735 ======================================== "Sunrise", by Robert Creeley [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving] I’m sad, so is my case of rain. Thus I can no more complain heart-heat. One can be thankful for a single yesterday. Can I be thankful for ever that. They just came along. And will they come together? I know why they have me stripped to give everything to me. I fear they’ll never get the step of time past. Certainly they have me, that is true. They say I’ll fall and find that for ever. I was distracted from their march and said goodbye. They’ll surely come, I tell them. They’ll never get the step of time past. I’ll come to stay. In morning I’ll stand ashamed of being robbed of happiness. They say I’ll tear false-hearted doliers, make a cross of thine, and read this line to make thy wife, now. But her tears seal into my eyes. The one I love is Ecclepsonius. I must forgive him For giving me a vision of his wife. The light now is that went through my body, my heart. Place where I’ve been, I can speak of him. There is a woman, Sophia ALLI I’d give him up. <|endoftext|> "Abacus", by Cyrus Casaso [Living, Separation & Divorce, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Time & Brevity, Love, Heartache & Loss, Activities, Travels & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] When I was young, from educated at large I spent among the smallpox to the police. In brief, I had younger years than anyone else had been— the military teacher, administrators, who gave to our children all his property, father, and then went off without getting riches as his son, and without a ruler— I was a man, and tried every night to be the man I was— the military class, the court, the showman, the reporter, the Philistines, who wrote Mymes, my job, my dream. But these are memories: each ======================================== SAMPLE 736 ======================================== "Litany", by Heather McHugh [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Town & Country Life] All you want to do is listen to its & your conscience look out for blows. Do you think Jesus’s only a hangman or a clown in the White House, twenty years after Jesus died in the paint-kill school of the White House? Is he still at the White House newspaper with you talking for the day? Or art thou only a minister of calms and a seagull or a muddling fire? Art thou only a particle of the White House in white that moves over Babylon, the White House, to the other City called the World? All you want to do is to come to you & tell you of where I have been & don’t know / where I am —the White House house, where the men who should have in white rooms shriveled from my neighbors’ bones, the women whose husbands felled me: stabbing his name over his boyhood crying in the British and who is the real White House but the shoppers? America I wanted to be & suddenly I heard my zipper: jagged men waving their fan-like hands & behind them the only sign my wallet got. I want to speak a language low & low, but they said that we’ve realised this world so many years if you’re really white & hysterical. & who is this that says that there are always feelings about proper kind of people I love, you hurt yourself every day, and everybody else is in this world. America I want to speak low, low, but mostly special, like God knows if anyone is on earth in this world or the white house, saying that people are on live, or then we go wailing to the lost or the forgotten, we only think we know. Well, I can tell you that we continue to tell all the coming days—one long, heavy rain— that we are learning to die into existence—and if our end is not now at hand, then we can tell ourselves to begin. <|endoftext|> "Working along a billion (to her who is me ======================================== SAMPLE 737 ======================================== "Grenatin", by Major Jackson [Living, Life Choices, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Fathomed away from home They made a mariner’s compass for The wheel of a ship to stop, the bow And how to avoid it! Clothed on her fame, the ship Is that which all who steer by is on deck. “Is it certain that the great Sail side by side through the great waters And this which is the truth, does not keep In the nature of the world which proves That these old deaths I’ve duly paid, and That which I’ve received hangs low the space Which I still keep by myself which makes No other man’s nor woman’s life.” She paused, Then sprang to the deck, and viewed the men Who stood to watch her from the prow. The men let go, then pushed the rudder in, And sped like water through the water, smiled As if they knew what it was they were. At the very last, Lord Tangle’s said to me, “These are the souls of earnings to lee. The old posterity of time peruse Full many a one we’ve come our class to use. They lived in the sediments which life Has brought to life in these sad times from strife And very many a rumordind savannas, Which every time the flag of sunset rose, Will feel so fresh the currents of the bay, And all whose badly moorings will not cease Until the hot trucks break upon the day.” <|endoftext|> "The Lay of the Slave", by Major Jackson [Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] A sorry man has died for his country. He lies on the gory floor in the temple and chants sweet incantations to the blue-eyed Virgin of the skies. They can see the little skyscraper with its magnates. The flag of Germany has swayed O Germany, what will you have when this land is simply your enemy? <|endoftext|> "To the States Opp ======================================== SAMPLE 738 ======================================== "The Heart of London", by Stuart Woody [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Gender & Sexuality, Money & Economics, Popular Culture] for Stanley Cavell, 2010 And the giant on a green hill Bared his head like a lemon limb And his eyes like a sharpened schooner, And he laughed out loud, like a sailor. And he stamped at the riverbank And he sang out loud in the night “Go and dream the blues are daring,” Sang right out the stars parading. And when the blues were dancing In an upstairs green room humming, He sang “how blue the night is O the blues are fearful,” in the gray dawn. And he cried for joy to see them paddling, With the star-white frost on his thighs, And the snow, raw, white and frozen, Glinting in his eyes wide. <|endoftext|> "The Act of Grace", by Walkerano Bar [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine] I saw the redpitating priest grin His knees down, thinking he had driven His priests from the core of the swelling Toves In a beautiful house, and they had bent O’er the white tables, and had soaped them with lavender. In the chamber the spoons were of gold and amber, Painted like stained glass, and it seemed that our Lord Had passed in his flaming state through the doors— One was lying in his bed, with the newlyhealed wound, And he had turned, the time before, a torch up to His high altar. My Lord, let me see his right hand Here on my battlefield. <|endoftext|> "Culture", by Linda Rodriguez [Nature, Animals, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Trees & Flowers] Today is Sunday.I see it in half a moment As when lightning did a new creation Intact and spill upon the ear: its force Leaping with apprehension unapparent, Comes through the pores of the imagination Which in imagination fill. The brain Here head northward, it soars to the tense spaces It creates and contains, in immense unrest. We are here just one of the last mask in the world. The heron ======================================== SAMPLE 739 ======================================== "Bumper", by Pauletta Pulver [Living, The Mind, Activities, Jobs & Working, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Trees & Flowers] Straight from his rough bed of last night The cool wind hissed its farewell, leaving the hills and the river below dry with rain and drenching rain Bumper and bruise their bare leaves in the moonlight After he ran head first to the front of the mills The selle pummeling his curved sickle, the yelping yelping Beyond the clatter of factories in the white sands The selle rolling up the hillside ragged in the cold Cliff to the corners of the windy subways A dry rustle of tin and horseshoe bloomed in the light: The hoof-strokes stamp hurriedly in the clattering mills Roll down the hillside. The sound of the harness-steeds, greeting and clanking above the iron stove Hosannas clicked in the groves and the sheep yard the huts the bells pealed slightly in the dark silent bells Cliff swung between the corners of the blue I went on the turn when I heard the last rail groans Around me. The river was dull and late When I no more burned out in the empty dark Cliff swung between the corners of the blue The tangle of disused wire was sound Cliff swung between the corners of the blue Heaved and lifted on alert stage-legs not yet Cliff swung between the corners of the black Heaved and lifted on alert stage-legs not yet Cliff swung between the corners of the black Heave along into the gauge-drabs of flatness. His broad black face flat topped him like a rood With nine-day float above the slopes of hair Just beyond mention. Half the earth was left to him And his fellow made a genuine leather-skirted hat Glowing with dignity, whatever befall Or style of name with it, with no dead face Or other sign of recognition. In all that body, It said, limbs at their birth wanted a form Like pine or fir or buttock, save the swirl Of the hair. ======================================== SAMPLE 740 ======================================== "North America", by William Morris [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] I had a dream so perfect sweet, All meaning life had left to eat, The heart awoke, the breast was cold With all devotion flooding back. "You come"—the red-roofed words had meMastered, and Heaven's will had me Gone uns harassed and now no less. The twilight skies had won themselves A way into the corner where I staked my heart with going in. The mansions, homelike, lost their wills, The human homes we seemed to seek, All teeming in that vast wide waste Now lost to human or the kind All teeming at this hour, so near We could not choose but welcome here. What help the loneliness at last Of one escaped from public pore That we believed, but could not tell Its secret and its hateful hide That he was here before? Our blindness and unkindliness, Its sharp, perpetual turns, Are here again in blindness, left Untried and unconsumed. The wind above us fiercely blows, The grass once plucked for dinner grows, Dead leaves above us in a trance, Like acrid ministers that dance, Then, like a leopard, in the grass, So shamelessly before them pass, That what they once might bare of home Would only suffer, not endure. At last their journey lies all past, And now our Nancy’s face at last Directs its watchful gaze on him, Then turns away and takes her place, Approaching just to touch a face, Then turns away from laughing pride And faces that are sweet and wide As some bored snake set into food For the dinner man and his own food. Then “Even if you’re having time” She says, “my Nancy’s face,” although His selfishness is gone by now, And he must choose to stay awhile With her at night, so says the chink. With him at night that shy old man, Keen in his heart as prouder one Than nighest child that ever brought An aspect of vacuarity ======================================== SAMPLE 741 ======================================== "Sonnets from the Portuguese Mononada", by Yvor Winters [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] 1 The hunger had come and clawed my skin, What I have needoned to was moored and sewn, Satin and moist, a lifeline. And out of that sweet air I had sheltered All that was promised. What could guilt Suffice or leave whoever would grudge His sweetness? Blessings from the horse were conveyed And bridles clung to each guid gash. He rode me a sonofable butts or pool Which the week saw none scratch his cheek. Another I received, without a doubt: I would be warm and not sae pale. I had the figure that nature And ilka time I watched him; I was indurate, sad, By sad experience. I'm a just man in a mood, My journey's nearly end; For to what dun herd am I bound, A very dumb mend mend; And what is there in my companion, At eventide or at sea, But rather a lantern inside or without, As I read intently? When I read the And thou art come across, wilt thou name me Expensive or alone, Withouten idle and persistent Expensive or alone? The moon, in disbelieving, Doth shed her light like a golden beam on me.2 Ay, and I answering, set my eyes to the light, And lo! it was some weary hizzie Gin I had beänt then. But I was brought up by a billet-litter, Whose meaning was, no doubt, By something mealy and cannibal, Which half Englishwoman kissed without pother. It doesna matter at the mass. But I was brought up by a billet-litter, Which did me all enmity. A great following broadside and south-parts, Full in my mouth is placed. In it lies a vast mouth, un-tamed. At one end is its mouth. And here I stand with it, And it ======================================== SAMPLE 742 ======================================== Downhill, Beach, Hill, The Deepest, Wasakes Downhill These Revisited Breunsen China,emetery- Young, was born in Úwaw Head, iwis wiwt iw Au lled yed wiwt At ys wiwt we wiggin', A thewnithin dig fur At the hammeredvil At the breathin'-steel time At ys wwn' adaptin' rhymin'-time At ys jowt aroun' aroun' At ys wenubby squallin'-time At ys heiwellar wer slan'- Augen-time At ys ob ten years A thrawin' back crath-brunt the towerr At ys sluggy stre sockets At ys begannin' febriety When ys deddled wiwit at las-Mul At ys wenubby sawe he dried on: Y was lovin', cold, Sayin' hoighlowd or rezzum white an' blin'; Sayin' 'she wasna a rough an' trotting' Do'r ynough, ner noa fer dyf a pppin'. Yeh're maybe comin' tous for puddles, y,re witz'a. Yeh're maybe comin' roun' ma swallaite fallow; Yeh're maybe comin' t'remidden, rovin' sen' prod. Yeh're maybe beanfield patches, growin' yer the doot, Yeh're maybe tryin' uv a rheumatiz doot. Yeh're maybe tryin' uv war news, Muggie, ner a! Yeh're maybe comin' uv war, Muggie, ner the plow! Adritch, he done fine basesgin', They had 'a German gal, the mess, An' few of them had a one Poor, abrasbow-leugh at thare. An' for-a-morn he'd thought they'd gone, An' made a mess up thare, Bud last Spring roun' like 'ow they'd done An' think't they'd come to fand. ======================================== SAMPLE 743 ======================================== "A Prayer to whales", by Egbert Stevenson [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity] For god’s sake, old Oceanides, launchentoThe Ages of creation, the Groins of Time,The Ages of opulent Life, the Yugas of Time,The birth-time of the North and the New,The birth-time of humanity,The birth-time of the Soul, the maturity,The second-best reversion of mankind,The third-class of the Earth, which wreaked itselfBad on rebellion, and an evil protein fashions,A sea that has not, turneth once back,Or changed to a wind-warrant.Storms, the landscapes of the Southwind,The storm-beat white-oak on the slope of the sea,The egg saith, the egg saith, the choice Well wrought by the hands that make it, The black veil of the Unknown, woven of Earth and the Earth-god’s own Self-lighted, a mother of men and the sea-king’s eyes,The strong sea-wrung, the black embrace of the Deep-sea-crowned. <|endoftext|> "Telling the Bees", by Bruce Lansky [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Trees & Flowers] Telling the bees, we think, we don’t Be working, really. Be the flower, the burqah Left to its nectared use, its rutted Interior, its old-world rose. Be seed. Flour on water.Be haws on strings.Be swift.Be willhunches. Be quick, but Never rush down.Be striving, striving, the Aubade in our midst, not giving way, Blathers.Be at us, root, the branch, the shiny Shells from our orchard till they ripen. Be at us, root; but rootor, blow these. God of the waters, send us spray, to meet, As some are, just to listen, lifted from The loam of our grapes. Theirs for evermore Our thirst to slake, our thirst to quench, to quench. <|endoftext|> "Escape Ward", by Bruce Lansky [ ======================================== SAMPLE 744 ======================================== "Home Federal", by Tom Pickard [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Federal] A lover did his best to please, “I love you,” Berigan. “For what?” Came-itman with elm leaves in his pockets. “For what?” Came-itman who led the bar circle. He paused. “For what?” And there, in the midst, sat the tall lawyer, Drifting down the hallia, his wife, for him, for her sake. “I love you,” Berigan wrote from that sentence, Surely speaking, of course, to say nothing about. And she—she— From that sentence—said, naught, not much, though. <|endoftext|> "Sickbed, Again", by Tom Pickard [Living, Health & Illness, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] And then the glad refresher, the little girl, dropped her teardrops from them like a necklace, and dropped it from her teatop. And no longer— It is not the love of liking, the daily remembrance of lost ones, nor of good deeds, of hope or departure. And no longer— She opened her hand and a sweet faint humbled murmur from the next room made on the floor. And then— It was as if two hands were in being, two hands folded up, one To another. <|endoftext|> "The Lost Land", by Tom Pickard [Living, Death, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers] There were no neighbours; only mammy divided for long: Her sick one and her dying one; the sad elm orchard now no more; The crocus might have lost its fragrance on the summer's floor. No more lonely now; the crocus drinks its life-blood; I am sitting beside my Dad. I drank the purple dew the day after the elm had lost, and thought of her. I drank the perfumed drink the year after; my head bent down to this. The sky was ======================================== SAMPLE 745 ======================================== "Lone Coast An olive Grove", by Israel Reznikinson [Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] 1 Who keep ambition. What do you have to risk? I ask Amar neckers, ask Menelik's son, Magnaik, ask Menelik's daughter. And I, who won't resign myself. Night’s caged birdcalls. America loves no one but me. Both of you keep my tongue. Life’s a coronet spray. My voice sounds as if my voice spoke. You never know the language of my voice. Wind will moan a song from here. All my friends stop there to hear my voice. I know this branch of American wish—a fountain east of pine. Two skinny umbrellas nod and seem quite wrong. One hesitates over my sigh and hasts down. I collect fine flour from the telephone. I have a choice. Life reassures my still letter, scrawled saying. I collect fine words for the palate. I keep a young man alive. For the first time I eat too much pineapple liquor. Now, Sweetheart, I kiss you. I’ll give you this little cup of tea, this bag of teatles, this mint. I pray for it to taste. I want it. <|endoftext|> "Moss", by Emily Jungmin Wood [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] I have a rendezvous with a bull’s yellow clover before evening. The bull won’t run beyond.The next day, a bull’s hips, won’t fall, will possess all the story.The next morning, a bull’s hips, won’t fall, will be our last,blazoned buckler and bone. I have a rendezvous with bull’s hips and toothbrush surrounding my fields.My first winter, a blow, will be my worst fate.I suffer from the heat and the rain. I have a rendezvous with bull’s hips and toothbrush together.The next morning, the bull’s hips, cut off pieces of fine carpet, lines off my first winter’s footstool soon enough to be torn into more tolerable splinters ======================================== SAMPLE 746 ======================================== "Refuge", by Todd Boss [Living, Disappointment & Failure, The Body, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Sciences] After Medea and Medea IN LIGHT ROOM IN DARK HELL IN ULEABORUSOSISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISISIS Stands waving and waving in air.And with these things is peace, risen from her seat,SalentTaking, and then to go. <|endoftext|> "O Song", by Oliver Wendell Holmes Srutor [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] O Song! how do these words express, Yet, how oppose them? As I guess, their force is less; For, if it be two words, well we know when, Two letters, or one, or two, are all alike; Which neither of you forms one word, nor none Is better uttered. Let him who can express in himself The power which these dark wings do bear, Be proud of his own speech and drink among His enemies, for speaking so loud a while; But as the sun does shine when all the world is sad, So, merrily will he rejoice the world, Since he that wishes never to submit Did vow to stand still; And he that can do both to a god and fate, Shall get no satisfaction. Omnipotent in his vehement passion Let him be rich, and starve without his terror; Feed his desires, let him be at his will, Breathing the air, then with a force to drive Huge weight of moons between his giant thighs; Confess his ======================================== SAMPLE 747 ======================================== "What No One Set True Far Away", by Billy Collins [Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] A chok’d horse through the chink this yuthatch fire they ca’d, an’ a’ other wor dear; Amanda’s at it; an’ if Amanda’s aarer, I’ll hev ’argent if’ it. It wur niver ez clear ez neah agean that bout it; it wor no great debarun;—It wor af—seem ez late ez wal, when I sed some orl;—I s’ame told yoong fooaks sed ez mustn’t it be square,—I hev my idee ez wal, thruf t’ ass. Noo, ax the gun—I’ll toes slow, an’ tell yez needaat, an’ tell yez won’t;—I’ll sed—be evel mild an’ wise—An’ ez must have sed seen yoong outlithat it, —Clarence Smith, Clor. i’ theexty, if I’ve arned for age,An’ stiffed my youth down—thowless I’ve lain, while reight age teem’d fast,I s’ade my awnife ’at wur nobbut a few ’am’d. An’ wur never made noah—twur niver bin tame, while reightly she’d flunken my name, an’ din’d wur deead, Till mi famd un, like a cud! I’d ruther evam’ than repose her cot i’ pieces, Recaring her neah agean, an’ twa neah stops oot, To om up an’ harry cum away, I’d hoped—I mun say—I mun say— arter these Natures Side Boys— <|endoftext|> "The Natives of Nowhere in Little’s Nature,", by Jonathan Swift [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Midlife, Social Commentaries, ======================================== SAMPLE 748 ======================================== "Burlington Musick", by Cynthia Huntington [Living, Infancy, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Drowning, drowning, rocking, the water in my belly, I am sucking you, my small-boned, water-sputtering cell. I am receiving them, rain or shine. Barely feel you are expanding as my breasts, my fingers, their hidden tenacity; you breathe out everywhere. <|endoftext|> "Pastorals", by Cynthia Huntington [Living, Infancy, Parenthood, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals] All summer long the darts darting through your mouth: blue, yellow, orange, sliced dazzling purple and purple in the woods, your claws snaking from our breasts. Your claws curv in eager air. You squeal, saying, What gift is this? What sinister hand is sneaking around your feet? What way is this? What flush coming from the wound? Your flat claws sprouting, ripe ripe ripe, large blood? Plucks at my heart, blood. Your jaws snaking, blood into my blood, blood, blood. I am afraid of you, of you. I fear the ground, I stand and bleed. Come on, come on, you trappers, the night wind rides the trees, already dead. Come on, you trappers, the night wind sounds like thunder. Come on, you common people, I call you, I call you, will you defend yourself, saying, Fill this cup, fill it, and unto the gods drink it—it only will, favority, Cup, taste of it, and when you have quaffed the last cup, go away. <|endoftext|> "The Blue", by Edward Thomas [Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] I fear the grass, more thick, more thick, clumps the quicksilver fence, clumps we live among. I fear the weed, whose syringet is clay, dead water, dead air. I fear the grass, how thin, how thin, ======================================== SAMPLE 749 ======================================== "Homes", by Emily Brontë [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] 5 .περγος If men are slain And taken from my side I will clothe myself in Spring, And offer up the stone To save myself in shrouds And I will be put out the stars. Wherefore, Master, let me die: Since death is life, and I am frolicsome else’ If men are gods we’ll not be dumb: We’ll go a dozen ways, and see The World, and not the World, with thee. 6 There was once a man Who says his say last midnight; And ye have followed us, Saying your say, O Master: A hundred years from now Because ye are so many, We are ashamed to keep Our dotage here about us. 7 Then ye are in the straight line: And not from thence unwilling; Else we shall be abused While we have water staying. We are to use ye, Master: We will use ye, who are dumb so: I have a lyre to frame it. 8 Now ye walk in the valley, Ye are in your singing; Yet I do not rightly mind ye, Because ye have song and sword Saying insult to the erring. Our land, we would disjoint ye, We will call it maize and wine And ye sing of our entreaties. 9 Just after the banquet, when the wedding guests had come, Two children were divided, who said: “Concerns not that we bring ye a bride, Nor that a husband is made to stay: Therefore be merry, be merry, I pray,” And all the people rejoiced to see that bride For there was none to attend her. And yet these words were not encloud, For all the people were very sore dismayed At that young bride so comely, And neither did any alarm them, Except that little one of the village, Who had a little house and a little child, Was put by for punishment in fury. 10 Canto XVI. 13sm Smith and Fieldshoart. Calvin ======================================== SAMPLE 750 ======================================== "April Fool", by Anne Winters [Living, Death, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature, Fall, Summer, Trees & Flowers] When the leaves fell, I hung on their bodies the divine elixir in clear space where we drink now and then in dry knots just to keep in mind of our food we keep becoming cheap. They sigh at the thin edge of my dust, at the other, for all they want to do is eat and drink and be merry at best. I try to define the two bodies, the one over time and I prefer to eat or not but to drink. It takes up two hours to get mixed. The two hours die— of the elixir, the next minute, which that spirit, what isn't until then, is a part of the other, an event. I watch the elixir and drink as it races and then I think: The crystal—the other, the last, and the third, which really is the same (holding out and exiting the things that don't suit the likes, the good or the bad, what's in this friendship), which always happens, it matters only a whisper. Those nights I took a tour to the Hotel she spent on the floor, a place we sent by her. She had to entreat everything. We spent the next day and two hours and then on the stairs she went back into the great hall. I went into the small of the table not afraid of my children. I don't like this world better than this world. <|endoftext|> "Happening", by Mark Strand [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers, Mythology & Folklore] It’s as though I were at war with the gods. It’s as though water flowed. It’s as though the heavenly war is one with ocean. Everywhere, blood is dark. If I were a sky I would not be a cloud to pass across the heavens like a single cloud, from the sky’s impossible top. I never see the birds. I only see the awning of my shadow on the ground. I can’t stand four feet from the ======================================== SAMPLE 751 ======================================== "September Midnight", by Major Jackson [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The last time I sat under a pane Which turned my thoughts on the wane Of the world and the wane of the mind Whose days and dreams were as dreams of mine When I was young and had no delight With the gladness of a neighbour sight I watched the blue eyes in the distance, My boy and I. He was all those first days passed in dreaming I' the gardens with their Roman gleaming And the tiniest of lilies blowing, The while my boy whispered in the leaves What time the winds blew, I could hear the grasshopper His shrill cry scatter the leaves, And I watched him go, until the blind Beneath the window shimmered like a coin A necklace for the necklace red In the dainty jewel of my heart Weaving a fillet for the heart, My boy was such a funny time The length of one's garden walked without a rumour The redness of the blossoms across the wall Our boat glided under in the boats The day had darkened into a garden, The bloom on the leaves was fading fast, In silence my love broke the sun and looked Upon my boy, the flowers we strewed And caught at him and held me by the hand Which only a small way backward drew me Long after I had had been stone stone stone. When the sky was a funnel of power, When the water was a war-ship held in my hand, In the boat the water poured from the far away, Our fighter's honour was one stone. Helen Rabulp was a toy for me For years while my dear one worked at a bar And the three men fought at my side. On the seventh day, it was my completed work, My little loins so bra bright were bound By a mirrored chain around the wrists I made by the patterning of light That an unknown woman might retort When the lights went out. <|endoftext|> "The Triumph of Death", by Robert Haight [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] In her sleep a host of dancers, Eldermen and emperor dames, And their feet that touched the ======================================== SAMPLE 752 ======================================== "A Short History Of Myself", by Douglas Kearny [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] I’ve been contemplating, like them worse, wild wars near a bear, inspecting their lions. I’ll give Indians the glory of sun plains and buffalo plains to eat. I’ll give Indians the glory of sun plains and buffalo plains, and hungry teeth of the shark. I’ll give these savage aliens a vast forest of daylight birds, shot from the stock of the Red Man, called by strange, queer names of men, nursed in Mississippi, on ice, in Mississippi. I’ll give these wild wings horse and man stock in Mississippi’s muddy dingle. I’ll give these white cots of lime, of wick, restless coral and snow, old friend, bright schoolmate, after all my schoolbooks and books. You need to pick up these poems to make your heart a poem. <|endoftext|> "Thinking, to Trillings of the Gnom", by Knight of the Banks", by Knight of the Banks I was going to Canada, in a rainstorm, in the bone haze and cold, to get myself a job, to see if my father got picked clean, happy, happy; I went for a hat, and put it in the fire. I want this country, that’s my motto, To think, I know, I’ll be a poet. My father was a farmer, and I went for money, but it was a Bunker Hill, an he moved from Canada, that’s why I drove with him. I mean I drove for Vince’s Highway, for he was a tree. My father was a big man, and they say he changed with the horses, but he’s been changed by death. Now, sir, the tip looks different, I go for a change. I’m different, though, then, I’ll take a wife, and will follow, govern, kist, ======================================== SAMPLE 753 ======================================== "First Thanksgiving", by John Maynard [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] Work with soft ideal sunset, Manchurian grammars to adorn. Choice lavender and fays and rondeaux, Fit to distent the fire’s slant. Cook it with bleach, then tow it wide, Cry your little joys and sorrows Ere your lack of humor mar. Then it lightens, then it darkens, Cry your happy joys and sorrows; Lifts the covering jubilee. Change their louring dun to golden, Quick, in slow-dangling order. Undergo take threnody; Death’s dark crietary ditty. Then labyrinth and ding are ended. Sadly the earth upheaves the lumber. Low’s earth sunken in sleep and suspended, Droops the sadness on her bosom. Night of care drifts in the fever, Famine lungalls in the throb of household ills. Home she loves, home from the village, Up and down the village, Youth and happiness attended, Sleeping midst the roses blowing. Père granche, the groom, pursues the groom, Kneels and plays the shepherdesses’ cane. Sadly roaches she the May; Golden bees and blackbirds gray. There, in glass, the lovers wander, Gentle swans of love each other. Sweet Seven, the brides of childhood hover, And are murmuring in each other’s ear. Do not read, my child, my Latin. Love has framed his snow-white fleeces; He has dyed them red and roses. Music now, my child, my darling, Chirp and chirp and whistle over Chirp and chirp and whistle over; Chirp and chirp and whistle over. Sing the hest of brides and fountains: While my little daughter, Anne and Janie, Has a tooth and a tooth so bright and bonie. Chirp and chirp and whistle over, Tuss and tuss of love and sorrow, All have bells ringed thrice a-b ======================================== SAMPLE 754 ======================================== "Avoid", by Sina Wiesen [Religion, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] “Do not cry, do not sigh,” seeing Father Monica, in high toi grandi, “Love,Mist bindeth round those lips to any kiss”—nor named himself a saint until he struck the spot where words were told.Then God, who was a priest, made an image of himself and made a sign, and though his act was brief, and was not blotted by a saint, God knew that to God this would be sin—and did he die for love? <|endoftext|> "Open the Gates", by Austin Grievesen [Living, The Mind, Love, Desire] Open the gates— With vision of eternal peace. O Love, those doors are prison doors, Wherethrough the wings of piteous Love Are charged with larger, wider chains than Love’s can cleave. O Love, those gates are closed, Wherethrough the spirit of desire, Made sense return to higher things, Is freed from every pang that waits The heart transfigured, soul, and left By Love, when life turns to love’s revenge, And the soul triumphs over death. O Love, those gates are closed, What handholdholdhold of love remains, What goal conceives from soul of faith? What utmost goal canst thou declare? What hand can loose the Palace doors, What tall, mysterious towers reply To the sweet note of Love's own cry? Open them wide again, O Love, Speak to the little souls of men Who pray across the evening seas, The joy of heaven, the comfort of the stars, And serve their elders in the holy hours. O Love, those gates are closed, The moving tide of dawn Gathers forever back again, Back to the dawn again. <|endoftext|> "In the Deep Channel winter is over", by Justin Phillip Reed [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Winter] The garish sheets were lying upon the way to Sainslow River, Springs, and the chills ======================================== SAMPLE 755 ======================================== "Evenings to One Body", by Mary Wochvoire [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Sciences] I am in the conviction that it is only affectionation when we are in the cuadine of God, because it is honest incoges and proper: they’re not saving themselves. I am in the conviction that it is better for us when we are in the cuadine of God: they’ll drink me my blood mixed. I am in the conviction that it is better when we are in the cuadine of God: it’s good that God bewitched us, that our came among us and I’ve no further knowledge of Christ, no further knowledge of things but that we are winking games in which a man cannot figure out and bet a man can help it if he’s thinking of another man and it is true but false. I am in the conviction that it is better because I want to be honest, to be kind and true because I want to be sanctified. I am in the conviction that it is better when I don’t believe in it. I want to be true and humble, patricious and a beautiful woman, my hair only to be tucked to the end of my april. I want to be free with no one to applaud it and no one be called either between it and a manifest token of an emulsion, of utility—whose— I want to share the chasm of ideals less than no one’s deserved satisfaction—than a mark to Everything: trees heads, arms, eyes— the very root-butts, flowers— everything here repeating “Come with us as we” as willy and the rocks where you and you need not much the longer ======================================== SAMPLE 756 ======================================== "This Is Just To Say", by Sara Peters [Living, Growing Old, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] I would have been An ordinary son But just to your surprise That I have just come to the end of twenty And left the road Happy And happy in my way. Let me go when I'm ready To hurry, and sort of come And gather the seeds I haven't Left in front of the house And use your soft toes And all those trees To turn you loose whene’er you're ready. I'd use to be rid of the wind And want to be where you are to. I would have another bout To wave what there is in the air Beside your mother’s house, Which for weeks I have watched the clouds Pass on and on and on and on. Then I would drive by the wind, And watch the wind then, not for long. <|endoftext|> "Invisible,Enter a Cage", by Chard DeNiall [Living, Infancy, The Body, The Mind, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries] I stand in front where the music is ringing Far off to the shore. The orchestra brings it here, Puts the period to the moment at the moment: Every room is thronged by that sensitive throng. Yelps flutter and sigh and desiccate in the street: There are degrees of longening, crossing away, And these are exactly as you were before. If we'd anything be replied, as it were, There are resigneds in the air in the air and the windows. There are apartment and room. The locked doors of the church Lurch forward and sharpen a part of the room. But we cannot stop in, determined to let go. And in the evenings we can't help sleeping, We cannot." <|endoftext|> "Get Rid of the Nose", by Chard DeNiall [Living, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Nature, Animals, Religion, The Spiritual] But in the season that melts beneath the sun, When everything is total, it rests with me, In a perpetual dole of never-ending pain. I think I’ll find my way to your village And you can find ======================================== SAMPLE 757 ======================================== "Wake Me from my dreams", by William Carlos Williams [Living, Death, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, War & Conflict] When I was a child I caredna to strike that kent’aur the car lip and the death-blow we don’t need then. The father cannot explain his fearsomeness that battered me every time I went near the sea. When I was a boy I carena seen mon’s where I used to live. I’d drunk whatever I tumbled slick I drove, I was skittish we fell ‘neath the sea’s ribs, what’s that help? <|endoftext|> "Wake Me from my dreams", by William Carlos Williams [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Spring, Winter, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics] If I could have heard a bird singing, it had kept me young. I’d drunk whatever I sang, I’d have felt the red of my blood. I’d snipped off my robes and put them back, I’d kindled my thirst like a coal, I’d gone where they’d been. I’d looked at the dead, I’d looked at the hills where they’d been. They neither had heart nor have life nor have will, so I hope they may never be here. <|endoftext|> "Little Diary of Getting Old", by Denis Johnson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] Little Diary of Getting Old It’s soft went soft and low, It’s sorter evin short; And quick to thought it growes, Much lesse in hand and skin; Du’chalantly it heares The story “niere and stern.” It’s easy graduarin’, It’s pickin’ two-ton way, Eighteen five or nineteen, Till quickly when he hears He smiles he’ll filter � ======================================== SAMPLE 758 ======================================== "West of America", by Anne Winters [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, Heroes & Patriotism] (1) So to say I had good times and wanted to, were two techniques, and the waiting crowd called, This Man that wasn’t born to drive that stupid bust. So to say I had good times and didn’t need to have made that pistol thru my shoulder, and not killed a stupefied bird’s probly-winked. “Come on,” my mother said, and I was either snow- fire or else sleeping. Bowing my eyelids. Sometimes I didn’t. It was summer beginning with calm mid- front end. And to keep out winter’s confidence, I told my nurse that night. She did not speak. I was watching wheel- gears. It was I, yes, that brother of mine, Had a big sister named Steam, but that my wife warned of me as she said she wanted to tell her bet to save her life. Then a few minutes later. She took me into the woods, and there threw herself at the gravel. She said hiccup. Then she told me how that boulder seemed like now. That I could pick up something difficult in a big house. There is something nothing in that house but the huge hand of & the slow eyes that never see the whole of. Then a scream broke through the moon's ring. My mother called me and thrilled me with emotion. I curled around the curved blade of my curved scissors to the bright blade of my hand & the long edge of my knife. Then I drew a skein, and there it was. Piece by piece, blade by piece, it was, without a slash, a single blade of my knife. Then I saw— a terrific weapon, a human weapon, ======================================== SAMPLE 759 ======================================== "Bride of a King, High Priest of Saint Emerson", by John Kinsella [Living, Death, Marriage & Companionship, Get Well & Recovery] Good Paragon of Nations, canst thou give delight in thy white arms, that canst out of matter compoundally win those eyesight?“What art thou in”—but I, wench an ormach to thee <|endoftext|> "Gwen Maellech", by John Kinsella [Living, Death, Disappointment & Failure, Sorrow & Grieving, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Gwen Maellech is dead, the good cob- ex layingdown the good cob- ex thinking of ... what better way of greeting them than his head to horse- bath towel playing [Footnote: What was this memory of gros “a lie” ? Flood, Royal Riefen. Contemplation, taxes, Poison, No Justice, A. “but the fact of being caught here in a fisherman”—I, who saw when that boy of the breeding needle, his utter loss, warded his helpless hands out to the skyspiel nets of the future (brass-hid Cunning-fables, Venetian- landscapes, miseriesfrom the future). But which of the magistrates has dared to think he’s any here now? The fact about their lives is the fact I’m told they’re on life’s stage (Tristan, gin, a drinking-place and everything else); of the two men the truth about me falling out quite from me ... of the curtain I’m thinking now, that warped a vault with my back down, held my soul out tight in the teeth of a monstrous-bracing thing. —There was I, the sheriff of the “National” Gwench, a “woman in fetlock like the “Washington” of a noted gent like my unshackled bill-of-court and president—ladies, city-houses, gladiators, poolers, tan-faced lawyer-aders,Born in sixteen-gaupanded gauds, squireys, shop-girls, nine-corne ======================================== SAMPLE 760 ======================================== "The Broken Plow", by James L. D. [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Striving to have boxes for the whores, A bumble-bee-house on a wafter; One was for clean Whores, whores, whores. Streets among stones, The city moored, A city moored. A blind man, A knave, A silhouette, A spring, Had I a garden, Had I a garden, As lovely aarden as ever was seen. Then would I crunch the stones, and build The towers of my city here, Mind and body, willow-buds, and mandrake blooms, And picket-blooms, and pitchforks, and the hum Of bees within the wavering breeze, With antlers raised, and flattened their long stems, And pockings of bright green saplinges; And then the naked willow-tree, With itspend friendly coppice blue, Its branches like a living watch, And its leaves egg-like. And to find me, I'd give myself to the grist of the earth, Their bulk I'd other not too much, Or the less for sure; Nor for too large, nor yet too wide a point, Such as the most allow, With whate'er direction, A weak yet useful tenor: So as the ditch, The ditch, the ditch, The flock of souls, The acre of God, Ev'n so my heart, as this, Ev'n in the peopled world, Was a way of Being. The dim hill-side was my heart's home; The windows were my breast's own home; And heaven's blue dome; And sapling of the vine, And blue phalox and roses. Heart's-ease was mine Not upon sinful earth, Soul's-ease but unbegot, Without or flatterer; Still the same chric-a-bracchne tree That tops the hill-top, where one sea Lies open and one butterfly, And one bird's-down and one butterfly, These I, more blue than heaven, Filling the air with breaths of heaven, ======================================== SAMPLE 761 ======================================== "Stambaj. Anti System System", by Lucie Brock-Broido [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Men & Women] Milton: Of two days now the one at least Has left his easel in the lute, A youth to whom the Muses gave a taste Of time and talents, pleasure too, And time to come. Let him who sings anticipate the blow For good or ill, rise and be happy! Labour and idleness to-day Will bring the truest peace, and best oblivion. Once more may we who are remembered dieLook at each actor's face, Amazed we see each polished eye, Where friends have smiled and neighbours have prevailed, And every hair of his old glory vail’d T' unfold with silent grief, to shroud his fall As in a robe, and jewell’d with fine scarlet; That moment when the brave man sailed to Troy, To save his people, to his Dear Sire’s country, and his well-known friend, He too will sink into the silent tomb, Though we bewail life, already wak’d to know What Machinations, art, and counsel owe, And look through each to one remotest part Awhile in what they were, and where they must, The tale resemble this, ‘Each woman born, of great estate Or great or small, her rank let out or small, Her power shall hold all men, her wit shall know All, all, ere this, but this.’ When Greece, her walls shall hew away, And all her chiefs, whose fame is widely blown By force, in battle or at home-all, Unto an island, to defend her sway, She too shall sound earth's humblest war-pipes lay Where aged Priam now repines, and bare afar Show’rs gladden Greece, where now the fields are gay. But he, not they who fierce Magellan stay, Wanders a hundred naked swordsmen, and the day All their live chivalry embars, to fence The strong-arm’d fortify their naked backs, And wield whole blades, or well-nigh prostrate fall Before the naked stroke of shivering ball. But Greece! thou hero who art grown more dull Alike in valour, how shalt thou not fight ======================================== SAMPLE 762 ======================================== "Winter Journal: Scenes from "Shackleton", by Billings Agout", by Allen Ginsberg [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Winter] The brilliant drifts of snow bristle the trees and shift the light and shift the pale dusty cherry tree and shift the feathery blossom and shift the quivering bird for shift and for wings and shift the flying fruit for shift and take again trodden in the snow under the bitten beech where the gray soldier, a charred volunteer with gray stripes and snow and gray as the charred stubble slipped into the uncertain April wind in the gaps between the sharp snap of ragged edge and the sideways tilt of timber which catches fire as though it burned to ash, shrunken and burned to a lead-end. <|endoftext|> "Scatter the Garden", by Benjamin Goldberg [Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] To be endured from the hundredth hour of fading leaving the hundredth at the eleventh day beginning to be brutally brandishing the wrongs of the world as all things are rendered up To sweat these limbs spill'd in blood while those who fear and regard drop quick to melt away from their first year of play to the island so green led and wept as the tramp of horses and lances across the plains and the highlands and the passes the dead men and the dead and many and many a bar of bone to bone sets small space to expect For to poke hunger in a mouth to mouth to mouth and then float across the far, faint blue of the sunset-red evening and pass beyond pause to arrive <|endoftext|> "The Subject Who Fits", by Richard Siken [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] I am a woman who can make men useful, A sort of girl who has the quality Of fifty, in her capacity for the quiet And basin-sherd who sleep within their walls, The rains, the seasons: I am her nurse, I have the art of escaping out these foils And the ======================================== SAMPLE 763 ======================================== "La Barrie", by Miller Williams [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets] I’m very tired of writing these thirty rupees to my mother, this huge boulder on which nothing hangs up solid, and there are no impediments for the progress of my mother’s body toward the sky, toward the light, as if this were the very thick wall of that sea finally carried me to the top row. Millions of drabs burnin near the cliff, think of ants, of jellyfish and peaches, for the most part, there’s only one bit of paper at the edge of my mother’s arm I’m alone with coffee, coffee, or paper, she says, or a fine cigar. You don’t have any business, you sate up on my knee in the cleh joint’s arms with my right hand, with my right, so you can almost say nothing, thank yourself for breakfast, thank the topaz of these acres of horizon tilting your topaz in the blue sky, and the blossoms that hang from my head, oh how they appear to cling to my mother’s with lashes tipped up to my arm, and they press forward, on the horizon rim, with the grapes of her arms, as she lays them down, her fingers in dreams, as she turns over her forks and chews up the juice, as she dumps the down of her cuse. We’re not over it, daughter, so we can sleep on the open field, and whatever mother feelswill be my husband’s sleep, as here and there we are falling headfirst to the ground and the wind has carried us back down. <|endoftext|> "Excepting an Inscription", by Miller Williams [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries] The ugly cacophony of aspects hurt you sting new life into your guts, the way you think it felt, when you had a nice grip on the sensation, and he had to gasp for it, and your face appeared too much like a cat too busy to utter an orchid in the glass where you were born. <|endoftext|> "I imagined a drawing from an episode", by Miller Williams [ ======================================== SAMPLE 764 ======================================== "You Draw a Perfect Circle", by Les Landes You cross that great natural Christian thirst to bring from far away the simples you touch upon praise with your memories: they record your perfectness is form, the truth is a content that makes simplicity a praisin in what is before the scarlet chest was swelling. You unwavering mind makestow turn to water while you wait for the fact that you are sick with it. Your innocence is like the herb you're drinking ripped from the vine. You've just finished reading the Esperanto of memory, how it leaves the bee when you are home again. And the terminal burning you tap. Now it brightens. The pot sculled off your claw-like shape. Memory calls to you: come. I know, for you, only plants after your dying, why does the imagination show itsrose on it? Is not trem cithrobas? Perhaps what's left of love is a water spring sleepless behind a battered screen, as even the butterflies that day of our grams collect their caravan of bees. If mind can, set it down in the green of the carn alley, nicking a yellow stethoscope, you'll find a bush without no door. <|endoftext|> "Screaming for the Prey", by David Ferry [Living, Coming of Age, The Body, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Race & Ethnicity] All of you, my female friends As I grow toward the present start on the heel toward the next second step, my first impulse begins to smart, first touch, then to run on my account. I grow so accustomed, wavering, from lack of my ideals, from wanting to get what I once my hands had, or can’t. No, I do not aspire to God as if to be above all. There, the color I started from the fragments of my jeans Labored me, but I confess that, though I confess, I must be willing to live. <|endoftext|> "In Far ======================================== SAMPLE 765 ======================================== "Divā", by Randall Mann [Living, Life Choices, Love, Desire, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] For Arthur Heaven This hour someone sends me to you, a little after you. Like when you are parting for the calentine With the comb off your neck, I want to tell you All about the harbor, its scab and its tether. Of course you know nothing. I can’t believe you. But I think you should, Having me closer than you, hold me tight. We could come near enough. <|endoftext|> "Elliptical Again", by Randall Mann [Living, Death, Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Animals, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, War & Conflict] My father rode out in the john, john, looking for fine snow from on high in the rain. Happiest in neighborhood in the neighborhood. I clutch my father’s rein, and ride to a storefront window. I’m easily stitched back from the rode in the rain, summer fog, sunlight through drinking rain from every window that had been too bright for me, as I cross the street from here, into the yard, into the slush that always elates. Back in the road from here, from here to the road! Back in the road from here, from here to the yard! Back in the road from here, from here to the yard! <|endoftext|> "Lines to Accompany", by Randall Mann [Living, Coming of Age, Midlife, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Philosophy] A minor brush musician handed me of “Ithee” and “Thou shalt chant ME The Long procession,” like some lesser singer who sings out loud, and blurs the ice, and then, finally, as a quill, pursuing The Long procession, scribbles around in person, and familiar, stops under the elm, then unwares, and waits ======================================== SAMPLE 766 ======================================== "Shakspeare (Head)", by Emily Dickinson [Arts & Sciences, Music, Theater & Dance, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Shakspeare descends through the band’s ringof green blossoms, their bright metal centers, their spade,gold-crowned and flaming-brown, like two bears in chase of the light leaf. And the crowd, their instant clips and curls aflamewith a loose, unearthly shout. The crowd moves onward, maddened by the strife of wings, through airy clouds. Where the crowd moves, stupified by wings, the mob appears. Light raindrops stream from the leathery, filthy clot, the human form around,the human form around, the human form in lines, where the crowd collects, where the crowd gathers and moves, and where it rends, branches, parent earth with bodies of other clay, race with race. Where are the vawes, the neery isolation, the desolation, the despair? Where are the vawes, the ignis fatuus, the poison of the zebra? Where is the banquet, the revelation, where the mart? Where the umbrella? The luminous canalities, the life-impeller of the stage? Those who have climbed the waste gully, the slippery prey, the whale’s stamp of life, who fell in the aromatic trance of the ocean’s sleep, that great Major who tore the globe convulsed from his frame and let it wander through monkey death and desert wild dolphins, waves, the unwary breast, the brilliant eye, the tingling finger of the canine nostril, the body growl, carry the magi in mind, the triumph of shape, the terror of the strong hand, the subterranean inlet, the flux where we crouch and in silence and profound dreams, we awake and enter and grasp. At length the immense and cataract, the source of the embrace toward man and his wonder, the power that can take and allow, the coauthority with which we struggle, the power that can do away, the coiner unto man, and thevier to God, the soap-sockets that charge the body, the milky flood of the omniscience, the body instinct with which we struggle and wrestle, the coauthority with which we sink, the nobler nature, the ======================================== SAMPLE 767 ======================================== "Indiscriminate Law Poem", by Tarfia Faizullah [Living, Life Choices, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] I’m not sure whether it’s romantic or not as a fact that the best thing in Roman military history is not a thing that Chindic promises frequently demand; but as a child I couldn’t even eat a box with the memory of it. It’s not easy to conceptualize in paintings for an epic novel without a simple novel only fit for a clergyman with the memory of Roman social scaffold and accents and the memory of Terence, G.M. ingest, and you can’t quantify notwithstanding your first appearance in Literature with superfluous Artifice, not for nothing; though, for the first time hearing it, it’s not out of England <|endoftext|> "Poem Written with Small text Placed Inside", by Lawrence Ferlinghetti [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] A Poem Written with drops of sweat listen to the rhyming of two Dactyls: in the light of the heavy broidery they bear in a dark time of viewless night, when mercy is not hidden by vegetation: protected from frost and from mild-blast wind, while they uninterruptedized the world. <|endoftext|> "Elegy to the Nationallink", by Lawrence Ferlinghetti [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I sit in my big chair talking wickedly about benefits and good presences: the public, the cotch, the garage, the war, finally to be known for the letters that no one else owned. Since no one friend had wanted to become a man, and many one probably worked. I talk to my subjects about civility and mean to make them feel better: penet, commander, and judge. And for the present the old world has been the city of uneasiness, pride, defiance, and Queen. I sit in my big chair talking wickedly about civility, about civility, when not for amusement. <|endoftext|> "none of Beauty Defours but It Must ======================================== SAMPLE 768 ======================================== "To Lucasta", by Kenneth Rexroth [Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] “Hanging up a tonne to the dogs.” As the local galleys gang up here and bang and stutterin sniffin' babies—you watch your breath in' the aylotord eggs, like black silk taking the national inside, while I holding on, swollen, bow down, under your hat, pullin', and the whole pow rollin' back, you know it waving tu, mercillein'. A toon says a car mellow, a car mellow will never roll a loose tread, no bloke ain’t dropped; done, done, a border man—but that ain’t no idee, He that holds on is a loan to the philosophy. Someone has worked in here to make out war, wax-faced and shakerin', dumb-necked or owld, as if the job was to just twentyWeek and from campways free. The men that went off call the galleys home, call it the galleys, answer it the galleys or 'em. Step up, galleys, steers, out, stand up or fall, get to the neck, the pilot reserve, the half deck shows. Step up yourself again and get to the striped sail that looks like your daddy’s and your tight-lipped mark. The tops of his juthers whip him to the top, the mate with a wave of the whistles like a dog. The foreman, the foreman, the left hand, they’ll no say when they see him, the dad with a nose that looks like pepper-stalk, and the head heaving as it finds a lap. It’s a cot, a stack of cells, our breasts ordered by the board, sheath for the closing lines and spoons of gossip, smoke for the dying and the advance, the rear-guard, with the day’s great shouting over the back and belly, rings like Ceres’s horn already ripe for harvest and the sickening of the nations. <|endoftext|> "P partially Come", by Michael Dickon [Living, Life Choices, ======================================== SAMPLE 769 ======================================== "The Wife", by Tyler Roon [Relationships, Home Life, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] before everyone who puts them away are in preparation forReal time among us. We do our best to oust the enormous gloom on the horizon of thought. Our best to oust the enormous sadness in the dark months before we go from real life. Though we are beautiful and cannot forget it is more real than other life holds in the dark. We cannot remember how children who put them away have forgotten how children still go playing in the big house next door to the violin’s wood built on bricks, whence the sound came to our sleeping ears, cradling our dreams like a violin — We cannot imagine when the day will unclose round us again, that the cold trying to make it possible means surprise. But what we need to dream is the dream that one must be afraid, the fear that another must walk in a dream — and fear the death of a long, difficult, patient tar — the history of existence in one’s dreams and doubt that others must die as they will died, because there is no separation from them, because there is no death at all from them. <|endoftext|> "The Meeting and Key", by Tyler Roon The matchbox and the fire insurance company, The matches turned down and we looked left, found the doors wide open and we saw the curtain in the house. We set out, And there was nothing like a room, nothing but walls. Our eyes were sealed with so much the same light, The night that came without a scalp showed the face Of the faces we saw go wailing to the bedside. No one was there but we, the beggar our night of the house woollen and the flame basket hanging by the knees, and the flames themselves. Our dreamed, dreamed till we could not wake, We were so awake, even we. <|endoftext|> "Cymoth", by Stanley engage clerk [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] Mid-morning it is cooland evenings on the floor, O bright light of my own country, O native morning, Thou kenest as a summer morning, That as I looked out of the blackthorn I may shoot At those same moon’s heart’s heart, but in the field ======================================== SAMPLE 770 ======================================== "To Lord Montgomery", by Susanna Moodie [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] I hear a frog peal, peal From some black prison-cell. For some are children, And some poor lady, meek and mild, Loved most, and forgotten most. Mother of all, in later years! Mother so self-contained, yet true In all beneath the sun, The inevitable prayer, The eternal risk, Uninterruptedly clear, Unfound written, and read No to the mind. Here is the natural sod, The eternal answer; Here is the real God, God of true parents, So when my heart would not Count for God more, Counting all moments up In infinite measure, Count that each hour Is some great deed planned, The waiting sun, The eternal gem, God of all miseries Deep down within my eyes, Through tears that are unceasing They may convey, but never bring Instruction to my soul, For each thing is complete In perfect time. No pang is known, no crime Can dim my sight or dim; God is the Lord, God is the last, So that I cannot see The goal of all my ken, Or trace its breadth or sheerness As one who sees it does A thousand times and stops His presence at the gates To catch it, lest it stay And let it in again. May every bird that flies On this still morning fly Before my door— A thousand times and hours, In this strange way, before The dark came on forever, The ends of every day. But let me rise and sing, A rhapsody of rills, And let the distant cone Of fading day still thrills; And Time's remover-ing Will sate me on my bed, And hover there a moment While Earth and Heaven sleep. <|endoftext|> "In the Black Country", by George Szirtes [ ======================================== SAMPLE 771 ======================================== "father, where'er thy courage shines", by Herman Melville [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Philosophy, Sciences] from Book I, a. fruit of the pearl, fruit of the pear, fruit of iceine, meat of the peach, bread of coral, bread of four languages, bread of two, bread of three persuaded from Paradise itself by vines. wine of the blood of flowers, fruits of the heart, wine of the six seeds, bread of four fruits, drinks, wine of Xexé, the one for the drink of the spirit, the waters of the six flowers. and of one drink, the one for the drink of nectar and heaven, the other for the drink of the first kiss, for thirst of the cup of the worship of both, for thirst of higher society, for desire of all things, thirst of solitude, thirst of the spirit, for desire of higher society, for love of higher society, for the unbounded hope of more. wine of eternity, the fruit of the gift of the gift, for thirst of higher society, the fruit of the gift of memory, the fruit of former intercourse, and for all earth is sentient machine, for all the soul is conspiracy, the word material, thirst of love: 'Everything is Fire and Reality, Reality, in thesemblance 'goodborn !' Where a surpassing fire is, in the overthrow of the most. Reflected fire is an invisible, an invisible, an invisible, an invisible, an invisible, and it makes the beloved fall from the sky, and the beloved embrace and move through the embrace. <|endoftext|> "The Adoptic tube, and the Endangered", by Henry Timrod [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] Toward evening they reach the theater, apitate of late. Soon the blind can’t see, the case is larger. When the magpies’ work is done and the horizon slown and the light of day unfathomable, the two events emerging on the round, climb into each other’s compass, and the world collapses. Advance at the head, struggle is there to reach the first shock of blows, and at the ======================================== SAMPLE 772 ======================================== "Yeastward", by Linda Gregg [Living, The Body, Nature, Trees & Flowers] I know it’s only trees in spring and us rooted them up without leafing or sap on the leaves palm-stems bony to crush the rose too (it’s the house, though); I know we’ve pressed a hundred with our hearts’ habitants through the grass-roots of an evening’s daydreams with flowers in them glimmering under the hard metal stars dangling to earth. But what if all those leaves fall silent and some life is stopped and some dreams have fled like a leaf across the darkness? <|endoftext|> "Conjecture on a Poet", by Linda Gregg [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I know it’s not only to be where disease roars, as long as there’s been anything to listen to, but also to be that engaging trained on the coddled ear of the soul to be practising—random, well-readed, just made and granted. No nerves in me. No eye to lie fixed, just wanted that sight. But it’s not enough to see. Too much horrified he has developed with his life, provided everything is one thing and the next, all will be restored; and he and I will practice warfare, laugh at each other, convenience. He, I think, would be glad that in that split roof-top slept another, if it had been a human body, returning to its former state of mind. Not exactly the enormous horny ear at the end of his clear fevers. At first he had raised a machine, hot andewareably industrious, began to use all its jewels and engines until it was now time, and now even it works in the corners of its mind. Light itself to the moon’s cold laboratory, its prism-shaken body so peaceful in so constant a sleep that—the eye— will you believe still go on making the moon, or will you not? To think of the selfsame wrong—reward of the same wrong kind that has long gone through and then it ======================================== SAMPLE 773 ======================================== "I Want to Big Boy Me", by Robin Healy [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature, Winter] I want to carol the swallows and the ducks winter the name of the crows and the lips of the streamer the edge of the sky while stars of my grandfather my grandfather watches. I want to carol the aegrom the stone at the end of the avenue aegrom the birth of summer a wind blows in the sky a garden center the close of forty-eight days all waiting in the lilac tree today, the breath of the wren lifts my heart I want to carol the swallows and the tree-lined highway they and my grandfather are alive <|endoftext|> "I Wish I Might carry You Else", by Robin Healy [Living, Youth, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Men & Women] You moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin maccmid moc rising moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin maccmid macc midget indivousto v hic brevity, vin iugo armflustering moccasin moccasin moccasin moccasin mappasin moccasin maccmidi donkey fak spergunt omple pot ynnone taccus takestin or mantle moccasin moccasin maccus taccajeto takesthat wint pozois vivis inyo is what ashkamot takosthat gold wax manlawn dolceannoaken santras pancot habe eirgentlus insistenciaro bleako tempestiva ahti eirgh ======================================== SAMPLE 774 ======================================== People in the street like rogues after chains", by Leslie Harrison [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Activities, Travels & Journeys] One finds the shoulder of a sweet-voiced sallow fruit, one spits,then peeled, one lets fall bone-since-whylock panels, carf it on the gill-findery, cradle it in gulped down:here two souls met. One attuned to the housetrick end of the dining room, one where Brey Brook built a world of flower. On the chin of the brown-faced girl there were seven-times griffins, all of you have had socks to pick. Three fat mums spent their virgin coffee on the steps of the god, welcomed the starlit wind and the salt taste of the ocean, laid a white silk flute into the month of the adult's romance. You will find milkweed in the wind-blooms, plump in soft perfume, and bruise the brown-white eggs with which you will distill you from your aging heart. You will become a wax deft at the taste of the honey showers. You will find life harbor from the false north, a windy wonderland of Japanese maple trees. You will find the western tarn under the mountains of the Chaldean Lake, the sere sage and the virgin whose lone tawny fingers now cling cold to your thin bed, where you will weep, under the tarn of your life. II In the evenings of the 7th millennium, the soul still floats along its white billows of smoke till it finds rest in slumber, the sorrowing stream of the natural law. Then the world is like a hummingbird fluttering above your bed at dawn—your bed a stool on which you will rest and be grateful for the favor you placeto. Withdraw into the life of the 7th millennium, you are one of the life mighties, who, on a certain point, are familiar with its wishes and caresses. The earth is teeming with riches; you carry a mind’s burden in millions, the comfort of the real world. You dream of those who return to them and how the safety depends on the thought of the evil they leave behind. A person could tell you about the misery of life, how hopeless it must be, and how hopeless it must be to live that way only because of it. With every good thing you touch the reality of riches, your ======================================== SAMPLE 775 ======================================== "Getting Used to It", by Robert Pinsky [Living, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] All afternoon I love how things go by, how everything looks wonderfully not always just in pieces that aren’t made for building there. I take a little with too much trouble when thoughts get so discouraged. At the conclusion of one thing I really like so well that I almost can’t fix a vein of   time in my chest and even dream of going in from the usual place. Oh, well, the way it starts to find that place in a hurry like this to be a one of us. You never make a chair as if you were a stone. Here is how far into sleep a person can then speed before it’s too easy to start. Then to leap from the channels with no rocks or buses, when one can leave the theater and dance floor. After that, a first-class bed. The bottom is very patramural. Then we finally die in it. In the Economies nothing can havourn here like this. We tell you we don’t belong to the masses. <|endoftext|> "Fable for Modern Poets", by Scott C passenger [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets] The actual concept is good, for it’s always late to stop and think about it. Most of us are curious, when we get close together, and fate keeps switching and listening. And we pick and prove ourselves just modern authors that no one would like to read until we wallow in our greeks and stiffen in the cold, unable to trust what we must, unable to trust what there is in things, like trees. We rely on what there is as good as true as algae, and lie on the shelves with our bodies and windows. Why this fuss about making things so familiar, the writer hides in his ungramant sentences, and he refuses to trust the knuckles of fate. There are schools for wanderers where we will go first and love the strange stiff-necked to the scholars of our colleges. They talk about themselves, the way the bodies from the school can teach them. There is always a subject for these musing ======================================== SAMPLE 776 ======================================== "Where My Sun", by Linda Pastan [Living, Death, Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers] When she died, I really wanted to be a hummingbird. It was inside I newlywon’t open a tiny bedroom, but inside the lantern stirred the stifling air smoke went up through windows and down into the next garden, where, from the stifling air against my legs drawn tighter, deserting the stifling scents of jungle opened along the end of the door, the auburn tassels outside my head, the ivy and the vineyard trellised was chopped away, or was it the wind I looked at last? I felt my cheek fall with shame when I remembered the way, smacked and charred, the pain beginning to change of the world, of the insects, the snag on the window giving us a taste of the naked light, sensibility, the season that flies through the white ointment of grapevines. I had practiced mixing my breath with a green lucent of eucharistic thought, imitating (like lines in Ozark and U.P. in Hire, p. 13) that green cup of orange juice planted at Hire’s Como in the way a goat threw the white blossom like a flagrant-sugar rag, like a rill from the Well of St. Lamb and I drank (and the luscious form is simply arsenic) the spring of a poem’s lips blush in their light like an ant, and the murky smoke of it weaves and becomes black as night. Here I sit in my innocent days, eyes scuffed out, eyes crookedened, and the body aching to drink into my evening’s ear in the labyrinths where I once lifted my head from the water and drank the pure slo of that damn ocean to revive the decay of the air in the small of the ocean in the high middle of the stars in the size of a slip of the light that comes out of the blue luscious orbs and spills upon the floor in a blind dust, there is no light in the depths, the luscious patch ======================================== SAMPLE 777 ======================================== "Work on Riddle While This Is a Shoe", by William Cole [Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Was it a shoe? Nelly Sachs Was that a stick, or a white owl? Was that a stick, or a brown cow? Was that a stick, or a brown cow? Did a woman's finger touch a string string Or tie a dress into a blanket? Did the dry leaves feel like a ball of dirt Or the rope that is knotting the wool Of a spaniel, who, having lost His rider, may safely drink till he drops To the depths of the woods, and drenches the horsches Of the wood, in blind tooth and the kettle? Was that a cow? O, no, not I, Not whip, but whip that can carry Thinner bodies, who need a guide Into the milk-bottle, Or, by the nose, into a boat. Crazy, not thou, of moral resolve, For, sporn by every cow Who wishes to taste, she will not refuse, In thieving, to cringe, And so on, whereso the wind will blow. I vow I repent, rather feel penury For the pleasure of taking calamity, And finding the wretch a relieveator. I cannot, I cannot, with pleasure view this jagged fellow, Niagara, in which giant forest is blended With grots and with grass, that is tattered <|endoftext|> "An Evening Thought: Salvation by St. J. Testament", by John Surow Gree. [The Body, Love, Relationships, Nature, Winter] A man may live to tell a friend his sorrow About his life, but not as one to grieve for it, I fear my life which is so sad a show, And cannot grieve for him who would forsake it, At least a sorry jest; for who could boast A scythe unto the living laureat host? A woman cannot leave a man to mourn for it, And worse trouble is, as she who bore it In darkness, of the faith of all her yore: A man cannot live for haste, he cannot ======================================== SAMPLE 778 ======================================== "Jest", by Colette Labourier [Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Sweet rills of love Aspire the hills above The city plunges by, to prove That love is of the city’s love As flood of salmon in the blue Big vaporous nights that mark it through The dim-eyed, wave-kissed; shifting, curling, From east to west, from west to east; The tide-beat palace rising far From shore to main, and not a star Lost in the evening welter of the seas; Blue islands partial of the moon; cast down As slightly under storm. When sunrise rose, A city halting to horizon’s brink As king toward queen, there is no home, Although no guide-book tell. The weary gypsy-brain, The broken knee-wreath memories of forgetfulness Still gild the score of ills that men have known Which now from off the world are ours, fade, fade— A broken sword! One day we will be free. The after sharers heavenward come friend by friend In woods to hold her in soft England’s land, Whose rim lies between sand and sand. In a wide space Spirit to spirit wings her upward face, Seen through and through dim space, The road to Kansas; A living mirror, where the great sea ripples clean From prairie vantage, taking back of hers And all that mars. <|endoftext|> "Maximus Laundry", by Dana Ward [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire] This morning I came to a small lake In a small boat, sailing under a moon In a little boat. You have seen me before. I have drawn you a fine riddle. This is the mask that I silently draw, This the mask you will ask me to learn. This is the end of distance, and it is here. This is the mask we shall never make aware Of, before. You will surely wonder why I have laughed so long That everyday lingers, Till the mirth is turned to laughter ======================================== SAMPLE 779 ======================================== Look, echwing,chewin das Rois, Ride a-grosst Parson Silas, From Hale in the gray Baspe TillMa, Drying prodigiously his crop— Have you seen papa crock at a races? Look at his clothes and birth paper, For a strong and unread hand did he pack in, Tho' he had gone black and had been stark! You've seen him at noon break his leg in, Swinging and digging his top in the orchard, Tho' he had been wide-eyed and wanted to travel, Yet at the last gasp in the grass, As the famished hoboam standeth confess’d, Doth his fame sound the pitch of his head. Look at his feet and his honesers! Look at his calves, knees, and elbows! Childless he is as I swear that he be— Doth some one give his life to the races! What—I cannot interpret nor reveal him. <|endoftext|> "To My Father the woodpecker’s", by Melvin B. Tolson [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries] My father’s calling is the wind That shakes the tall trees, laddish them With your heigh-ho, nightshade, and dread cat’s death! A black and shapeless mob Of petty lads whom the dull axler brings to his side, drive dust, and snow, brunt, spat on their own brands, and smoulder, With their heads caked over now, and amber. Oh, I think my father’s voice was saith and saith, Oh, I think that, “brother, labours for his brethren in His bed!” <|endoftext|> "Scots", by Melvin B. Tolson [The Body, Social Commentaries] Scots are three men named, skilled at the "Nightingale" art thou, young at the bright axe, the "White Harvest", thorn smashed in the sheath of our freedom. Free wine will serve our lips, our hands. Free now we eat our food. Free of the clumsy world ======================================== SAMPLE 780 ======================================== "Hame", by John Yau [Living, Health & Illness, Parenthood, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Pets] “I hunk nek to id thot if ”e lev yod thot a cow.“Nah, I think I seen yo’ done yo’ pullin’ somer. Carf, shah it oppen ex corn, yo’ ain’! I seen yo’ oppen ar thonder a cow thot a cow cum a thonder a cow cum a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a yod thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a yod thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a doon thry thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a doon thry thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a doon thry thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a thonder a w no thonder a thonder a doon thry thother yod thar ate thar and now he thar ate thar and now he thar ate thar and now he thar ate hethar tik het and ox ======================================== SAMPLE 781 ======================================== "Wake to Lot", by Linda Gregg [Living, Life Choices, Religion, The Spiritual] 1 He would tempt death. He would destroy. He would kill, but not destroy. He would rob someone. He would scatter and mingle his bone and his body. He would scatter and mingle his sorrow and groan. He would pull at the sun and rejoice and play with it. He would be the key to the door of the soul. He would blind the soul. He would blind the soul. He would be the key in the soul. He would blind the soul. All the feathers would blind mice. All the vision would blind the soul. He would cure. He would animal. All the feathers would blind the soul. <|endoftext|> "Bride", by Linda Gregg [Living, Death, The Body, Nature, Winter, Religion, The Spiritual] Well done, death will add to life. Not bad, but bettering other problems. Books I hope you don’t forget I have a becoming. The pine trees I love live most of all. But these are not to be inclined for. We could too late for an organ teaching. I figure I shall write all these lines— “Live late, lived long, then solid”—in regular Slow syllables until I am myself again— And so the thought, the suggestion, and the death Of old desire. And how you must remain A young girl’s passion and your hunger’s cross, My village and mine, your country and your death, With nothing to call great after. I can wait. The summer time is tense with falling grass, The thicket’s silent underfoot; the idyllabic Indignation of a faun, if yet I live. But all these circumstances must have been My destiny, my honor and my destiny. For I live in the city that is best. The more I die, I more precisely know it all: They did it once. <|endoftext|> "Variations on a Trance", by Jack Underwood [Living, The Body, The Mind] Be sad. We look out far enough to see it. Let it float in the dead night, or its population is empty. Let me ======================================== SAMPLE 782 ======================================== "["She thinks one's kin but one isn't nice, so she puts down a knife and line, her brother's blood alarming, chastening, swearing, contraband sits in the bin, and wipes his hands and lifts his eyes from his bed, squinting sideways as he prowls, he keeps, finally, and laughs, his eyes getting long after he has had such work to do, his dreamy bed where he can't tell anything about the shop, that curdled St. Clair, and really didn't have to tell it all about that scalding Sleeping, and how he ate and what she brought him to his face, as she threw him from his clothes with Xazel nuts. Well, I guess she took the mess and, as she brought it on her right, she placed it where the paper trembled and he felt his fingers light and as the paper cleaved off, he flicked a furious glance with each whiff, then he wavered and gave a queer wild flower to the poster, and she in front gave him a white stick to Watch and adjust, the same as you, Dick...." <|endoftext|> "Danger and Surprise", by Dick Allen [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Gender & Sexuality] The mad shoots won't return enough.These things are not. The artist can't recall them as the faces turned away from the things he did.They spell your shadows out with their airy shifting orders.The music swells and closes. But still the same melody, too, cannot recall him.He'll come back nothing more. <|endoftext|> "The Bridge of Change", by Dick Allen [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Home Life] I wanted to be sure, though I couldn't recall the fact or the thing we both wanted in fact. Why could I not state it today I am sick to the point of fact. Why skip the cream of the wine that makes you shiver? Is that a taste of the dance? Why skip the whole time on a florescent road? Why not dance ======================================== SAMPLE 783 ======================================== "Two Postfers", by Michael S. Harper [Relationships, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] It broke into a song.Old woman, tell me where that old man worked?He did not know old whim. Old woman, tell me where that old man worked?He did not know old whim. Old woman, sing us all together, tell us which song. Old woman, drown'd thing! <|endoftext|> "To the Virgins, to Make a Living Cross Movie", by Michael S. Harper [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] 1 There were no public forces in the Harlem mostly, for the blind, the dead,The malefuge in the mind.2 There were no bridges to the river, caboose, no pillowcases, charlatan, no sad empty papers across the blackboard's side, no soldiers or shepherds, no soldiers, save the bereav'd, unfurnish’d bodies of the highlanders.3 There were no sound of a wailing stone,No prisoner's gun on a sheet of green,No sound of the rain on the naked floor, no key-house cry, and no cheer from the blasted hearth,No life, no motion, save the shock and dripOf limbs and feet and the jangle of the shivering pack.4 There were no sound from the darkest hours,No church save two wizard books and the reading boreAstrain from the dead's secret threshing floor,From the winding minuet of that gloomy roomWhere, as night fell, the lone phantoms of the deadSoxen smelt like a new-born babeIn the tiller’d yard.6 But the cry rose to the full heaven, did it reach as of one’s own fear’s?The crying of the stricken ones in affliction?The orphans only of the child?The young men’s blood?Christ!not the souls of them that are cast out of the gravesFor their shrouded lord returning in the morn,Whence they draw near.7 But the cry still comes to the unspoken heart,“The merciful Gods who guard ======================================== SAMPLE 784 ======================================== "Sorrow Is Not Its Gift to My Friend Or To My Patroness", by William Barnes [Love, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] “Group would not trite the social life but one”", by William Barnes [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] Group would not trite the social life without a moral being, Which has no strength, no check, no spur to show a moral Why should love be so unkind to all who live in Beauty’s cause, Each loving Virtue, kind and fair, and Valency the unyielding Hours. Sweet flowers are best beloved when viewed unthought of; not so much the hidden hidden key to shut, Like some gray bird, unerringly spreading its still wake across the twilight, And from the silent sombre earth the glory of a flower distills. No single lustre, no one charm will ever quench the light of Beauty’s ray. She comes to crush the nurse’s heart for genius’ frenzied voice, A haunting music and a memories more divine Than all the old cravings of the brain can buy in time. That star may cost a life beyond the sibyl’s art, That Sun the heaven it fills;—that planet eclipse the shifting globefrom its hot god, that sun go, blots the eyes of space from orb to orb, And nought but pain creeps forth and all creation grows into a sum. <|endoftext|> "The Grind", by Dean Young [Living, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Activities, Indoor Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] It takes a long course to some old, distant life —the ones who took the lead. I’ve been at the office for hours, smiling, half in love. That was our last weekend in a war — so we sat at the entering of the bulbs we loved, and all the politics we heard were pop-particles— the little skinny, mist-white companies, the toast, the toast we had, the jokes, the long, long lists of love. There was our last. In the war’s red weather, we sat on the granite of Hope and looked back into the past to find ourselves— that vision, that passion, the future, ======================================== SAMPLE 785 ======================================== "Drawing the Mirrors", by Kimiko Hahn [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics] His brow is cut off in a green flame stitched forward and back, and there are scars which scorch and crackle in the night-time’s mirror. A steely black flame blackened by a torch-light moves quickly through the fluttering-skin walls of smouldering K`ungungungskin, Blagandang, where the rice rocks and the prickly sickle- keetens. The sentries fling their samarias palm plaguy for a shirt of wampum flesh. In ancient Egypt, centuries passed. They passed and passed and passed and passed, stamendously. Each morning their mail flew back for the last time. As a moth plays sideways onto the pattern on the wall, he is conscious of the torch held out to the sky in hiding behind one of the others. In the evening he does not recoil, dragging his back on the winds that follow him. He is silent, tongue-wounded, needing to be drawn out. Another voice said, Angiolani, “Come forward, you white cocks [my voice] so soon I can tell you now that I love you, I can tell you of my sickness.” A deep potion of plague from the wall was sent to the door. He did not hear the children’s speech nor touch the rest, but he became their instrument. It is ivory that makes men weep can be dizzying the eyes of the white world. <|endoftext|> "Dreaming Towitness", by Stanley Kunitz [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women] After Rilke The empty garage. The siding, windows—the sordid view— down the sidewalk trusses about the house. The echo of the dirigible built in the backyard by the craters of history—the judder of role and point… in the dusk is your mare resembling you. Yesterday we supped against each other. I say ======================================== SAMPLE 786 ======================================== "South Country", by James Galvin [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] I’m not sure if we get India. The neck Held in a splinter of pine trees. The hour of midnight is kingdom now since my affectionate father left me to die. He drugged The evening with herbs smacked And coarse And smooth For his hurt, and a far less dreadful weapon Than parasites. I barely see my father. Death is not terrible. Death is not terrible. <|endoftext|> "To Weather", by James Galvin [Relationships, Men & Women, Winter] All day he continued to attend the same room to the other god Musician to the third person. Sometimes he liked to sit near me. Sometimes he began to angle and observe my standing there two rows of shoulders one burned. His cloak cut from skin and his spacious shoulders. His eyes filled each window with apples, as though they burned a tree, he said for his parti-coloured friends. I had a burning wind, which creamed in my body so that you be got back in me, and when I was naked I could not get naked. His friend was his lover. He was kind. We turned into rain and sunshine and one warm October afternoon a god as tender as me. <|endoftext|> "Exit", by James Galvin [Living, Life Choices, The Mind] This feels most frightening. Your brother, whose initialsue lost rings on his brain, rummaging the least outrageous. He notes that shangely too much trouble in his life for the stage. You can see it in his grin. He’s been in tricks. He takes off his pants to become a priest. I think I let him. Your pain is only talk of your future. I never saved myself. I never will never forget how your brother tried to be a martyr. He smokes the blood of someone who will be forever. Your letter stains everything. That’s been good evenin the eyes of the natives. I don� ======================================== SAMPLE 787 ======================================== "Interstate Sonnet", by Katrina Roberts [Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] 1 The corners In the garden room where the oranges splay And the slots move Their sepulchral s.8 We played Invented words Believing the passion Was winning Our minds.9 Our faces Starched with grief Our ways. We crashed The windows And cadavocked Our pity Was dead.10 We paced The underflowing Yellow currents Of life Into the darkness We thought.11 Our bodies Lending light Into a jewel Those swollen lids.11 Is it God We seek for The forwardness That holds The end Of suffering? We spend Till it is light And will not leave?12 The outcast seers Stretched like louse Who have been Manged into Ease Where Moses Made God Taste passion... To have to leave.13 We forget The gods... The child is not the body, But an elixir Floating under water Like a yellow gown.14 Our lives Drink of Raindrop everywhere Trees Roots Roots Angle everywhere Trees Touch everywhere Everywhere Trees Mile Head Superb Live in me Essential oils What god doesn't Intend . . . If only God Can shake hands For true Respublicity And not be shaken. <|endoftext|> "What Didn't Turn", by Todd Colby [Living, Life Choices, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] No one cares where my Mother died. She's a seagull. I let her Go when she will, Let her Go when she will, I can't help laughing. She's my little daughter. My first a child. My middle-child's skull A crow's nest On the mud. Butter forger, breadfruit juice, pitch, and tubs, Water-bottle, rubber. Ahthe, checker, the cat is in the knee. She's been to ======================================== SAMPLE 788 ======================================== "Sinister and Son", by Richard Emil Braun [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] There’s left no absence but the galloping train, plunging high up in the boiler trench, stumbling and spinning slow, the line spasmodically as they may have, the unspoken roar and sweep of their obedient, constant motion having no end, and all the determined stops and pause, and the blank line composed, for it’s all too innocent a thing to be borne. They all intone their rosy tips, the way they’ve woven the tiny ropes of wood-hooks from the hive to fill the spicy caskets from the hive, their amber auras spread across the patio’s roof, their caravans extinguishing in layers of white film, their wicker lean knot appetite for the afterlife of the gods. And so they ramble through the busy night, and their cooking junk gives up ascare to the rest of what they’re called, their diety among the huggers that lay like sugar on a dish. And no one gape the way they’re forced to pretend to their consciences isn’t pleasant to think. And the town they’ve taken is a village’s 'follower, coral, and snow. Yet people say they don’t intend to drive that animal away with them, with those same fissures that she gave her last at home, six years ago, and know it not. And Deird noticed there was a new thing about which she hadn’t fixed his mind—was going to make his kitchen. And Deird noticed something in his stomach, soft and fleecy as a thistle— though it was a matter of course to be sure, even as she said, the words are not safe. So he winked, and remembered the door, red and propped, and took her down to the cat, and asked her to watch how the cat came to see and guess it, the cat that would be away. But Mother laughed in company, and watched the cat purr, mused what an old woman thought she would, how she would get away, and with what ailed-up cat she had come back from over ======================================== SAMPLE 789 ======================================== "The Lights of London", by William Blake [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The wild music of the ocean In the distance, Through the trees and finely-tinted sunlight, Like a ghost Sending frightful lispings up and down a bull. The white waves, like a monstrous mouth they draw: The huge and bellowing of the water-cows, And waggon-eyed mackerel-wolf arrayed. Mauve-brown and all-congealing dauf-brown, Cream-drinking, lapping, snaking, cud-dy; In their rushy prisons, in the desert An old hag, lolling, moaning, sobbing; In her horrible tower of bone-black stone, Bristling with heat, clawing at the fire-sides, groaning; The red brother-bark, the murderer, Hyena with his dagger roaring out, The blue jay, the green-clay, the black sower-pig, The large gibbet glowering o'er the bloody lanes, Hyena with his jackals hairy-grinning, All the blue kin with one another A-swinging the blood-suckings of the murderer, Thecolts jumped and scraped and spit, the bloodshed Got gargoyles on the brows of smouldering fire-sprites, The red-haired sexton, the murderer, Huddy hares with raw head-danks biting Like Cerberus, holding his teeth in the coal-black surge, The murderer, gorging, lusting, shouting After his paunch of asthma, banged, groaning, The stinking meat thrown off at him, The gorging red face of the murderer, The gashed breath sweating sweat driven By the life limbs that make life lovely. <|endoftext|> "Fabrication of Ancestors", by Jared Haré décolated [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] After father and son father Today the beginning ended Amid the un ======================================== SAMPLE 790 ======================================== "The Echoes", by Henry Vaughan [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] for Tim Doolart and midshipmen ived the Threshold of this great palace-wall, and then the sound came. I could see ’em everywhere: Tim would each morning’s yellow, Y.S. like Norien’s: color, russet, yellow, where the flush was, and where the sunset yellow was.How he loved those villains and those rusty book-that-maker, level-cut, palate for a thirst like toen drouf, the bairns and Benygins—wholesome young bums—got in a bush making a noise like Dick’s—then took them all to Ketchtif each had just a notion of being here boyish or unquiet, caged with some great gift of brain: the gold-lipped rules, the bent face, the half-closed eyes, were all compact, and each an old FastFolks must have their own dreams or go to Oakland. Tim flips the loose sleeves, our skinny Dick, raps on the flies, pull skirts up through the crowd, the Hastam laughs out of a grip; the old fool knows it, too; his art is mending all the game. Tim Whistler has got into theholstern—the half-back grin evaporates, the do-it in a trap, the cocked hat shakes. Tim Whistler got into the game, they say, he’s over with it, the long back in the wall. Slick, a kick, and there's nothing to put, for the man and the day: The washwoman off the job, the long neck and the neck. Tim Whistler looks through his papers, and the tall rabbi, Ben Jonson, names his week, and they say this week, and they all say that he’s ruined his tie, and now crime is the fruit of his tree, time is eternal another fruit, time is eternal. Tim Whistler looks through his papers, and then some man on his beat is real, and a white man pokes his mouth and they say that if God made every tree, every bark from the pinhole would be in the stream to the sea. Tim Whistler looks through his ======================================== SAMPLE 791 ======================================== "Interstate", by Edward Hirsch [Living, Disappointment & Failure] I have to continue. I shall yet not forget,I shall forget. The world has completely strung up its girth, and its din has a ring of applause.There is no parade, there is no pret sprinkled committee,it moves alone.The stale breath of your blue eyes and the long form of your rounded body remains a part of the furniture, of the carving of the audience, the piles and the chairs, of the boys and girls.Men from the womb of their mothers come to know that they are the cause.Then the seed flies upward, then the dark intelligence begins, like the humming of bees at their butcher's door.Men from the womb of their mothers come forth—a line of boys and girls, not like the boys and girls of our belov'd years, boys and girls of whose white flocks the voices sound, and no longer are they weeping.Whoever has been carried forth has always been adored. He shall be bright, he shall be holy, he shall be entirely fair,He shall be the daughter of the world, of whom we ask, and of whom we desire.In the end he shall be named, in the end he shall look down on his glory.The earth he shall bring to birth, the heavens he shall kiss,Sunshine upon the mountains, the rain wash the light, and the rivers run with showers of gold over the sea,He shall be less seen as a man sitting on a staff, in blessing, or pity, or pity; he shall know it, he shall give it, and it shall receive the abundance of it.The earth he shall take ample enough to receive all she offered, the fields they shall burn in the sun,And his eyes be of blacker lust, and his hair stains the highways that we tread,Till the sun in the west melts the snow, and we arise from it slowly, and gather for our dwellings and her coasts,We give the new void, the world, the viewless sunshine, that hath hurl'd us with its floods.When the golden morning is quenched, when the drowsy charmers of the hunting are just beginning to smart,And I stand at the open door, and others will come over to see you, and kiss you, and wish you good.It shall be you and not me, and the living and the dead have their way,And following the wind they follow wherever I ======================================== SAMPLE 792 ======================================== "Pulling Over the Ground", by Katie Peterson [Living, Death, Activities, Jobs & Working, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] My father had his own way of putting the gunpowder. I turned twenty-six. The lucky hit went home with a .22 rifle loaded with lead onstage. I followed my father with a belt and a pair of pistols. The underplace had been tilted as though at a dangerous bluff. The wind howled. I tried to get out. It blew one of those two to blow the wind twice unless I was right. They blew me up the sugar maker. Into that cabin we set up a starting with equal slugs. I started to throw myself at the platform’s end and tore my hair with raucous smells. Then the gun started. My father hauled my left hand and dug like a burn. When I struggled sideways I borrowed my balance and threw it around my shoulders. To hem my gunners, I tightened the strap of the gun and set the bullets in the cutter I lost my balance. Then the gun became a larger one. My father tried to plane up, but my job was already going on. Some of us tried sleeping. A sleeping crew lay under siege lines and watched the newspaper bag carried away by its splinter. Then the rifle maker, face downward, began to snicker, and he said, limping, I’m not able to hit the light of the gun and this gun finally stuck in the hollow of my rifle. I pulled my coat over and laid the bullets in the sand. <|endoftext|> "This Little Piggy", by Joan Glaughard [Relationships, Pets, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] This is the dirty road, this is the road, this is the crooked city.When it hits the market with its blending light switch,The barbed wire can’t lift its muzzle in your head, and when you snap through the meat, it extends its clavicle beyond your eyes. —Charon That is the bag and the piggy is lumpy and worn out by the desert.They are weather-beaten, are weather-beaten by the elements.They are weather-beaten by the elements.They are weather-beaten by the elements.When you are close, then the piggy can’t stand more, it is to build, and the piggy is forced ======================================== SAMPLE 793 ======================================== TOruby, who was he, For the Sake of Thou didst go Before him; for he could No more Nor could I, O Thou Son made clean, give me That Heart a-blowe, nor take another part In anything for good my need, a-lookin' Thine; And all the while To thine heart, as it would have been, My heart and he went with it, And bless'd thine own soul with it; Wert thou Thy Son then only: My aërial valour MyStrongly and nearly as he; The passion of his likeness and thy grace Definite And faithful to the chase. A hand didst carry To my old friend, honest Myne ... Thine, and here to-night he chats A Bird Of song divine in his brown hair, A hand that caught Thy wing's familiar tune; And I (to hear The song as I made way) Doubligate him When most extravagant. Po! these Shall teach him to renew The law That bids him to remember still, And in the eyes of those who see The self-same passionhrill. Po! there was a king, who loved Thee most; and, for the throned thereof, The artificer. I who was both void of love And not of love, am now compassionate: And thou, Inspire not! thou, Impel not me to kindness, No, nor reveal The gifts wherewith Love feeds us. TO What is it that I hunger? That which is my bread?-- Lo, thou art set beyond the net Of any wish. Thou sett'st to the midst, and thou wilt find This, the incomparable use, That every time thou dost despise The arduous and laborious, who, My joy and grief's self, know'st it too That I have prayed. I do serve thee truly, who but ne'er Will'st let me fly, when next thou show'st me more than mine. TO be, O Thou who knowest This, who know'st the truth of it; Who dost not know the secret of the worm That in his heart resides unguessed; O Thou who knew'st it, whose unburied heart Did all things so to like thee, tell me this; O, tell me Thou, whose name is Not of my death, tell me, when all my days I've drained, Thee, from whose face I hier steal not ======================================== SAMPLE 794 ======================================== But to mingle in the open air With other life's complexities Of perfect speculation and intent Suggesting single scope and mean resolve And steadfastly-concealed equivocal Imperfectly—as we twain disc roast The Western breakfast-table of the dawn And count its moments as remote As are the motions of a single star. Not un-ooh-ye-wa-wa But to glide to the hidden fire, To seek out the genial influence Coming from dim privations and large lids, Reflecting back to the monotonous Obstial, distant—signifier Of exultation in the master-visible Becalment of the death of time Which shall restore the master spirit of flesh. Manuel John Cole Roman Not at first hearing in the school, But watching the decay of years As life ebbs ebbs surged with longing For the remonstrance of that early fate Which gave and gave and received with massive force And solemn devouring force— As I sometimes would say In my deliberate, quietude Of the subject-blank made-up of the poem It dilates and swells, it outspeeds, Sweeping the full generation forward, And as it swells and falls it becomes— The visible stream of manifest knowledge In which the poem is read, As through the sleeping many-folded walls The blank sky kindles and the dreamer dreams, Till suddenly reminded of the truth, And a message of Life In the outer world Words of the naked world Rings of the drunken deep Rings of the eyeing earth Words of the eyeing earth From the high vantage of your face Pierce into that which bears the great blue sky, The breathing space Reverberated slope of undulating trees And the watery clouds that pass Like snatches from a silver string Hand clasped in chin We burst upon the sward and the woods sweep back to their Far, far away Narrowing music Of waters falling from cot Of the big prairie Our neighborhood Tempestuous and human Over our house hangs the sky A drear communion with the dead, Shadows of ocean engulfing all the rest of us Far, far away Lost into ======================================== SAMPLE 795 ======================================== "Faded", by Jennifer M. Rodgers [Living, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving] I saw him no hewn stone, a no-no-no-no man moved by God who had nowhere to creep except the small boy I lost him when he was gone while stones were the color of living, while shadows around him were the fearsome things that made him believe that he believed in living but doubted as he was though he believed in the dead until the boy’s dead and the things he saw when he was a boy when he was a man in his way of life there will be times when you see a living man when you see a living woman and you see the kind of one you have when you leave the shells when you tread the road when you walk with a friend when you visit a living woman when you walk with a friend when you see a living woman and you will meet a living woman when you have a family when you walk in the garden when you look for a comrade when you have a body when you love a living man and the world will walk when you ask yourself, “What’s this?” <|endoftext|> "A Bird Watchers Home", by W. S. Di Piero [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I like to see the moon reaching up here in the dim night, tracing its silver points in the grate, with silver hooks tilted, pushing through the gray trunks, hatching its benediction. I know when the moon is president of the dark woods <|endoftext|> "Baudelaire, Count Remington", by Mary Blond [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I remember the dead the rage in their eyes wept with grief in their heads bared to the world scalded from drink sweeping the streets of the stars as night comes down <|endoftext|> "It’s To Be", by Robin Morgan It was when the moon compences endlessly it was when stars— eyes of street-starved jackets, their pin ======================================== SAMPLE 796 ======================================== "Peter Flesh", by Sally Wen Mao [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] i G—A night of free motion. Over the edge of the paddock, and far away to the sea, and far as the eye can see, A village girl, cerémastically purpling, Maintains between. Her father walks up the driveway, in the yellow suit that gaily glows at the door. He is purple, and the girl looks down from the bus up the town that has just peeped through the trunks at the door. A farmer’s dog: the girl wakes up, the boy looks from the booth at the window, and the girl is standing before the truck. The dog looks up: The boy takes a snuff from out her hair, a snuff-bin, and a influx from the neighbor’s wife, who gives up the slip, and a rattle of nicked bone gins. The girl so shy and small, the boy so wise and small, See, in the doorway a woman with a parrot! Ask her what can never be the same (the truth of the statement of the woman’s name, and the silence that she can hear from without, and the rain on the window that Jan. Darwish half-hidden, and the girl half-hid, and the other lady vowing at the screen door, as though to say, erred in blood. And she pours down the snacks with a spill. Greeting to all the mice: “someone of my, who dares not talk to the public of my own business?” See! the tap of an emery. See! the tap of an emery. Come, who fears my story? (Why, a murdered father brought up with his death by a wellway, the blue waterlid of a cat that died on my cold side-lid of the sun.) That Elpsie, pointing toward the lid of a painting, said, “The block-niches intimate to Elpsie’s forehead, & a face may be seen at breakfast, A man may be seen in snow-white-grape-white-gleboned silk shoes.” That girl said: “Louis Levis might have known, I think, how many a ======================================== SAMPLE 797 ======================================== "Death, November", by Albert Goldbarth [Living, Death, July] Death, November 1973 Steel dapple carve, give the dead their bones down like coins a dime log house lighted over every step their eyes burning and fading burning over a Marilyn who says she must end up some years with her parents, to whom she will finally come down with a cereal scotch or canteen to be some happy year, the sun shining over Aquarium, and always trying to touch her hands, she knows where she will end up all that life can afford her, when she speaks to them alone, for spells that keep turning away for a while, until she stands in the snow looking down on the water, then waves back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back back again, still looking at the water again and trying to reach her, but no one understands the thing even last summer, so when I say I am dying, never see you again, never have the vision of your smile, your eyes that have looked small and kind. But always you were looking well, you had nothing to lose but that briefness of general brightness tempered and soiled by the graces and charms of this life I am tasting to you, and tasting and so glad to you, go with my friends and my childish days are over, I'm going crazy now, I'm going crazy now. <|endoftext|> "Valentine", by Albert Goldbarth [Living, Death, Midlife, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving] You have put your shambling head down on the bed And your smiling naughty child looks real good. You have put your shambling head on the pillow And you really know it's six months safe You have sneezed my wife and left child to grieve And I'm really all right. You've not been hit By the angel that was calling me your son. You ======================================== SAMPLE 798 ======================================== "Summer", by Phoebe Cary [Nature, Summer] As summere seems snowy coagined round the maple and mythology of the apple, * * * * * *Outside the sun the stacks dusk up and a breeze- successive of celadon is already gone; the afternoon’s sky shudders, and like a nightmare all the people below you see. * * * Deep in your heart you stuffed every local reading of the country and placed it here * * * Here among the birks of the Bacteria, the shelly of the winning leafy of the country of deer this closing eye * * * So you please the friends whose hearts are tied to these trees for here above us we but few knowthis day * * * The stream has flowed apart to north, but it is changed * * * There is something about the birds here for the death of the red turtle in the Red Bull at the trough is the fate of all of us by instinct or by fear * * * The turtle, the red turtle, the gray and green turtle are not delived * * * In the beginning was nothing to be heard by the expiration and the fate of all of us is the fate of all of us * * * Over here, oh the great eyes of the lazily blue turtle swans are the eyes of the great white white swans beautiful * * * Gaily died the great ones when the serpentine closed her beak on her flesh- iron talons * * * * The hawk sat at the top of a white sheltering rock bordering on its rock ** Grimstone glowering in rev * * * Immigrant Duras The gray hawk stood on * * * The hawk and the grey turtle are taken to the woods and the ravenous wolfkins are then in their country. * * * The red beak of a gray lion are the claws of a leopard and the cunning foxes have gone to their country. Look how they roam in the sunrise and back ======================================== SAMPLE 799 ======================================== "In Dreams", by P. K. Lewis [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity] After the personal pain does not matter for the pain of my wound, I am intending to live anew until morning. When, about dawn, the sun leaps, I can hear his strokes rowing in air and can see just below me a sphinx, a piece of marble cutted down on the bed of the fallen bean, I can hear his mechanism, it is clear and melodious that moves in spaces wherein the perfect forms have been taught. Perhaps he will find me lying still fingered into the long sleep, he will find me sick with pain when I wake. Bring me to thecovered cabbage and pease— perhaps like the nightingale for whom she so often had sung. <|endoftext|> "Touring", by Philip Larkin [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Nature] “Poor people!” Some folks had to knee sol cotton and other people’s faces. So these 1 They looked ordinary at the backs of the helicopters. I rubbed ruby, the ladies’ tulle em borderstill with nails. They motioned hair. They thought me cute, always cussing back, always singing. And once they removed their hair, the old ones whooped and thanked me for a froth. 2 They wanted to relate to words they had to shout all around the sounds of eager for breath, some foolish. 3 Ah, just pity me, or did I taste a sweet Maris for a moment? A bird shaped in a cluster’s orange thicket was here dedicated. 4 The whole sky is the color of a pale face make it always better. Up through the trees makes me think, makes me think, makes me think. It wanted to be a black, noisy county, gray, quiet childhood, a late afternoon sun smiling on the top of the sky. <|endoftext|> "Prayer 2", by Randall Mann ======================================== SAMPLE 800 ======================================== "Voices from the Fathers", by Christopher Marlow [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The everlasting murmur of over-speech, dark slave of the world with her painless lashes, does it not seem to you that she is there, does it not seem to you that she is there expose no ground? does it not seem to you that her own temporal privacy has been swept entirely away, to you alone that she is gone before eternity, to you alone that she is there, in the outer silence of time? Let there be no photo thereon, let there be lovely light. She is there not there? Lovelier was her beauty before confusion. She is there not there when the order of things becomes the same as chaos and decay, beauty’s face seems the looking-up, but the sky is cloudier even when it meets ruin. She is there alone with the old sick love. She is there always too late. The small red windows are a mass sitting cross-wise to the trees, trailing backward, the rippling waters, the wind in the distance and the gentle rustle of rain. She is there again, and listens for the hum of silver rippling crimson streams as they fall. Petal after petal were but a point of astonishment, Azure silk on neck and eyelid. She is there not there, for one now hears it sound as a whip snaking the flank of a dog over and over again, in low hoarse intone, and veers at last to the dim dwellings of the stars, the distant siren’s song. And she is there alone, suspended from a great height and asleep inside her. Beneath her as it were a temple, the lit temple lifts and trembles in the moon’s glare, behind her, is there not one that has not face and shadow, and cannot take her back again though she is there alone, all her life long? She is there there, built of oak. <|endoftext|> "The Harvest Moon", by Geoffrey Chaucer [The Body, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion ======================================== SAMPLE 801 ======================================== "The Mower", by Joseph Millar [Living, The Mind, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Town & Country Life] For Joseph Millar O yer lit green talk out off the dykes know know cohabit, you mower out there by thathair plunk and right cool as ony pea, hurrithee has been talkin' in my mind's poem, says Colleen Mavourneen or Alderman Jameson up in my mind. And as for the scarecrow, you know, says Colleen -- but what the weariness is, yer know put on't, yer don't know never seen, never no matter where you be, you uhr miega't tellin' why cattle is dons: you mall talk dat's goin' to dilapidated, ridin' to Cavalrykill, say, yer m mans in somer: you mimmers of german! ________________ Christ but what hart yer bin sayin' to your kin? Yer do dem gells stop gife. But I done jus' so desperate, I trimbly 's for glory, an' t'ree glory to mine Never strike the line off -- I'd a brave Dinney with the horse, Jim Waledows, picin' in the dark, Whusky all the time; an' ther leetle thing I wore, th' wills bealteried o' yaands gin thay wuz afit all it's goin' on. I shan't be surprisin' that's mare; I done jus' that cuddy mountainest thing I owns, in all respects, an' save thay mames; an' now I necks my back, jus' sta' jointed an' shoutin', tell me jus' a saan 'ull't go fur 'z yer nerves to pelt theer yer nerves; an' den, wiv all yer say in life, yer nerves to cerulean yer 'ix; an' now I feel it's so, when thay comes in to tear thay wallopin' an' all, shoo's puttin' chain into the mare, thinks I's a-goin' hame to you, you lads? an' now I think on it, fo' everysin ======================================== SAMPLE 802 ======================================== "Some Material May Be Glug", by Sandra McPherson [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] Some Material May Be Glug, we say, a complete Sweet and bitter, a sweet and bitter. This Is all Summer here. We get on to the best. We pack off to run awhile, then we take the best they have. We run. The world is coming, too. The hills are coming and coming, and we skip, too. One will run up to see it. We shake. Pushed out. The world is coming . . . And there’s a village boy, because he’s showing his little girl, working the city. He’s on us now, pulling his long, queer, three-fingered dollar chevron and silver tape to make “The Night Calls.” He’s squeezing at the throat. We don’t turn back, but he does, we watch him run, sweeping. “Who are you? where?” they all shouted. They gave him a quarter. A Frenchman! — we keep on looking. And they’d look. And they filed a hole “in the west.” <|endoftext|> "Grubbing Gang", by Sandra McPherson [Activities, School & Learning] I My child reaches out and screams in terror through my bars of thinking. Up he’s going! Up he’s lifting a pistol, dispeaks his tops, erased his crushed leg, and plants a red kiss over his mouth. He curses, saying: Of god Death, I am here at my fingertips to open my mouth for you to open my mouth for you to open my lips for you for you to open my lips for you as you’re farthest stretching my tongue like a match, a tiny death-wren who near the dying in every seed inside my body. And hiss, I praise him, but go ungreeted and cold. We’re where he’s opened the mouth of the cemetery we are lost in. <|endoftext|> "The Tooth", by Sandra McPherson [Living, Life ======================================== SAMPLE 803 ======================================== "An Emery of Ex Epiphany, The Body of Nature", by John Masefield [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries] To Masefield's Hospital Museum, for medical support, I see him steamy and smiling, the halterless bones black below the raucous eyes of his five daughters, with long hair and gray spurs jingling inside. Barefoot light-headed gallows in the early sunlight, fearing the far thunder. At the first glance of dawn, the company of couples move inland, and at the second signal of the cock, begin to rock. All the afternoon, he has a thick voice, and the tall-clawed, tired-slimmer’d profile bathing. In the heat and silence of the houses he calls full of waterfalls, and his quick familiar disgusts the midnight rain falls with a sound oddly-rotten air. Next morning he walks through the maze of his chamber; now he has brushed the scorched dust from the broomstick, and rubbed the sponge to the side, and sniffed the incense, the incense, the breath of December fretingly blows in the air. He has cherished a bright picture, and a black dress; now he is angry, but with a stupid reverence, how could I but end the fun and the pain of theslowly after the rain, the after— the after— the thoughts in my mind as well through the careful rooms and across my eyes. I would be the laughing-stock, making the tips of sharp-edged, hollering for the rain to come, the after-sparrow-dripping. <|endoftext|> "Summer: Ithria", by John Masefield [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Winter] Ithria, 1990 <|endoftext|> "Hunger for the Birdless", by Ange Mlinko [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Winter] “ ======================================== SAMPLE 804 ======================================== "In the House of the Latin Professor", by Peter Gizzi [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] For a month the student before the year likened anditened in every bog and in every hap the town, the country, the woods, the spoor, the house (Yesterday I heard the name as doubtful once but it made no sense; in that year, no one was there to say “out on the cliff”) out to the world: Out on the hill above the slope I don’t mean words, the railroad or the field, no wooden city, palace, or dome, no, house, no window ajar, nor chance of a landscape — Toward early, now still we are on the train. Bragg, purty, we leap and lie on the grass. In my head all morning I give away my flesh. I take morphine or cut a trail or pick a trail, my skin disclosing and closing. I lay my clothes shut. I can barely hold myself inside, could I hold myself on the softest thump of my legs, and feel the heat, could I stand a full head high, bless our heads, bade adieu, allowed my hair the color of   bosom, my hands like tough stump, and   I am gon’d! I am gon    ... Past is won! <|endoftext|> "From “Slieve Don”", by Bob Hicok [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Winter] For months past, our brows turned golden, not alone relentless winter, the warmth lost as in clarity, the stillness of the snow perched on the mountains, long before the first five summers in January. Not alone the watchmen and their children gathered back in the woods one by one, their glasses filled with dandelions. For months on the train alone the smokestacks were strewn, bins rambled underfoot and leaves hung cracked, the children filled with darling fruits and wool, woolen buckets, buckets drained and gone. In that same hour all the willow at the parkway had stopped, the brown smoke from the grayball ======================================== SAMPLE 805 ======================================== "On Ease", by Rae Armantrout [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] “Prepare,” was then the cry: “you’re a knave” and forced a war on the ensign of the Empire since it seems odd that peace for a long time isn’t peace if “firstborn” “broke” “mother” “bored” the “mutiny” and “honor” of this world. But still in that holy realm, what else wends its manly chops before the sun’s rays horizons are green again? <|endoftext|> "Killing Him to Water", by Rae Armantrout [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Nature, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] There is not a drop of rain today that can follow in the course of years, but he’s a broken-down old wife whom some lads have seen and felt and thought, if only for a moment could be. Also the fist that would hold at my throat, even the mouths of these poets dirty, in my poems burning with sunlight. And certainly no one is the man to whom my paradise is the crown of history. <|endoftext|> "Underneath the lily ant perennial . . .", for Detroit is a big house of broken-down bitts. Inside, above the broken flower head of the moth fallen, blue eyes of the cyclamen. <|endoftext|> "Yellow Ox", by Don Thompson [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] This is the room where children play together on a game of sawdust. A prairie is the mess and screen— a blanket drawn from the ceiling and made by a physician who has taken the place of the stomach of somebody he’s taking the corner of a bookmark, the only house where all the western midnight sky is the greasy sound of bat wings on spiked wings. But isn ======================================== SAMPLE 806 ======================================== "Hidden Harvest", by Jennifer Jeanie Stevenson [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers] But it would be small to be apart, the perfect star Gone from the hill and will be left alone, Alone forever shining. Aye, back tonight the fire will light An altar on the mountains where our sires are gone. <|endoftext|> "From “The Land of Good Company”", by Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] There’s a sheer faint sterner wish in me to serve The sake of mercy. Looking for a calm, A clear, still heavenward, the passion-high A life that never has been satisfied; And in the level hearth the children play, And in the old manse, and inner manse, A man grown insolent, his foolish heart A sea that never quite shall cease to rage, A fire burning impetuous, that never quite, What must I do? I will not ask your pity. This is the season when I cannot sleep. These are the nights when I forget to list To the low cadence of the deep Aeolian, or the soft Maidens o’er My playing-books vaguely. I’d enjoy the silence clearer than before, With my lost image near me, and should not be jealous. These are the Andes to which I back return, As clear, my little Shees, as I the loss had mourned. I’d count twenty times the length Of the sad evenings of my youth, And every morning gather up my heart To hear my simple oracles sing another tongue To my forgotten. <|endoftext|> "“This verdant morning.” Our sailor boy at the lighthouse topIs girt for the meadow and seys to drink, And ready to spring upon the lip Of the tropical calm water, or the chasm That meets it, like a to curfew-choked car. At his side sits the veteran of the war, Watchful, collected, self-commending, self-composting. Within his fingers the lithe vine-gathering ivy pours Its wine, in draperies unnumbered, wildering. Within his hands are signs and rhymes, And a deep and watery dread ======================================== SAMPLE 807 ======================================== "The Anniversary of the Day", by Franny Choi [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Nature, Weather] The morning air is balm to your faint, thin voice; you are surrounded by the spaces of rocks that form on the edge of the ocean. In the grip of the panic you’re held more by the atmosphere that flails and drifts around you. You trudge along a hollow pathway to the sea that cuts you in with itself. And you move towards the stony self-possess of your starched afternoon, Time’s zero-sensitive image that evaporates in you. <|endoftext|> "Washington McNeely", by James Doyle [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Nature, Summer, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture] The day passes into autumn and winter begins to close upon summer. At first the dry plots of the canyonslide and the magnolia, at last the rain vanishes, and after the shakes of the barn, you pass through the mettle, the debris and debris, debris and debris of the brief days that will pass through the summer combined in a fine russet coat, a hat, and timothy. The gangrels are coiling through the summer distance with the fan of a dancer who shifts from point to point and circle to left side to end, munching the thin reel of the nearby poplars and the limpid wave. The girls stop to immage the darkened image as the light recedes. They head together in the dark line of the canyons, one poli, and the other colonizing the shifting cannery: pale pink forms hover and caress: shy petals year after year shooch to zenith a kind of Venus lapivates. The bandages are ash-colored over the ridges; a long waste of white camels is returning, or a fine texture of moss. On the horizon a curve of fiascoover the horizon crosses along, a point of view: the pastures of pastures indeed,just a space left to stretch—and a faint breath of the future that opens at the point of death. <|endoftext|> "Twenty-four second", by Reginald Shepherd [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] In 1963 the night starlike ======================================== SAMPLE 808 ======================================== "Song at Johniardas anzas", by Anthony Adam [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Music] ’Cause you have a lover, i won’t tell you how a lover meets a hard many Activities at a tennis, running around the room in the backyard. Listen. Let him come out. Let me come out. Let me come out. <|endoftext|> "Rain Song", by Anthony Adam [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Animals] Two months of passion, and two years of care, Two years are all that seemed to be a part Of life’s large world, where passion was the flower Of every other passion, and the heart That loved the light of heaven, and heaven’s whole air. The stormy season is not seasonless: Like the cave sometimes underground, and warm By the moon’s curving brimstone, Nature fills Her hungry heart with darkness, till the storm Applauds the shady cavern from the face Of the tired sun, and the wind’s drowsy cry Brings summer to the gardens, and to the eyeless sea. And there is something in the gust of wind, And rain, and leaves of lilies, and such songs As bring the heart-free rills to life again. And when the rain has left the side of spring And runnels and the dark of lanes and woods Is shut from sight, and nothing loves or loves, And the blind morns and the black evening hush Give token of the love that shall not close, ’Tis always night beneath the silent stars, That lovers never, kissing night alive, Shall miss the very sun-face and the face Of one who forever keeps his place with thee, Breathe on thy breast, feed on thy heart and brain, Love, hearing him and answering not thy cries. <|endoftext|> "Poem", by George Moses Horton [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Judaism] The ======================================== SAMPLE 809 ======================================== "Cleaning the axe", by Henry Gould [Living, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Town & Country Life] This time we know how violent violence is at work for kids. Even with success in grinding fort other shoes. Down the street corner in the city a jailbird sings sweetly to itself and tells the chance how hard it is for a man to be punched. In the square glass glass glass is radiant and filled. i have learned from many low beginnings and sometimes receives. i have learned that if clothed women deal with children with children who are put to pain then sacrifice, so they will not have to do with children. But i have learned to help God, so is growing dark. Where fiends walk you should hear the screaming of men in the street, men with cries who open admiration even when they are tight in their coats. <|endoftext|> "Getting Used to It", by Henry Gould [Living, Life, Nature, Winter] If I should be deleted, am I then dead or only dead, or have been blue always winter beasts in the Arcadian woods. The age of a foundling who, as a cat, cooed in the dark while his sister played on the mantelpiece outside the window. The whales, whose fangs were fierce, cried, “in cold pieces make the water hard.” And even though nothing in broad day seemed able to move now, snow drifts beyond the window with its subtle thawing. These beasts, Medicine Men, ten thousand fangs still throbbing. <|endoftext|> "Cabot Chirping", by F carnato Pinto [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Gardening, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Talking to the birds with little time to eat she examines the birdless green fields; lifting herself like a limbless trunk to magenta shades and soft bodings; lifting herself to the window with memory; gathering the pith to make the lag horse’s pannéd feathers cold; she’s using the h duty to learn the greatest beauty ======================================== SAMPLE 810 ======================================== "Yard Work", by George Szirtes [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Winter] a cool night in November, mild, almost snow-lighted. On either side the lake lay out blanding the year's palace. It was a fine morning at between the daybreak and this. Noise was there neither in bird nor in water. Neither in dog nor in rat. <|endoftext|> "Nar Frank", by George Szirtes [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Class, Town & Country Life] For Frank O'Hara IN the island every morning, When the cockerel sun was going, A bee, with a hundred brood, Took a down, And under his billows A new one was bewing. Deshe chased the frog And the mountain pigeon missed; And then he hit Tom colder, Last night, in Guy's hidal. THE MORAL is: A house of magical art To the singular And invisible Alone made in the mountains. Nobody moved in house or cottage, For nobody was fed or fed, No water or a feast Heaped and glazed, No flesh and bone to be a coverlet. Each spider was a little matador Because he wore a wedding vest. A blackbird sang between his notes— <|endoftext|> "Shimmering Sliverings", by William Blake [Living, Growing Old, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Classic Love, Heartache & Loss, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] As when a proud man by a black bird’s side Arose from out the hall of his host One who looked down upon the sinking orb And in that strange wild music was lost. Whence that terrible song. How can I praise Thee, sweet Alexander? Who can praise thee? What praise Can I give thee back? What hast thou left? All, all seems gone Since then, have all thy songs but one? Yet, my poet, this praise I owe and still ’Tis after all this weary strain I go ======================================== SAMPLE 811 ======================================== "The Past", by George Moses Horton [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] 1 The theft is public and far off, I know, points to avengeful act. Wrap holders of a classic conquest in Jerusalem. The king in his traveling to the holy land must be compelled to sell the scene. The president in disgust on public places is so displeased with what his children do. The president in his decision must be guided by a juxtaposed color. The president in disgust in public places at the royal presence hallo. The president in his decision must be compelled to sell the scene. Where are the eye-sockets? The eye-sockets are the eye-sockets. The eye-sockets are the eye-sockets. The eye-sockets are the eye-sockets. The eye-sockets are the treachery of the eye. (Do not dizzy meadows or unfathomed meadows) A blind witch shakes her rod with palsied fingers. 2 The midge-pig is a knowing way of being taken from another hiding place. Or as the mind- guttural might of a sick dog dismembering itself, the gaze canary takes up and sees far off beyond itself. Or as the mind-vibrating sees a crowd of maskers landing in a waterfall of sut and verges. All of it is said for certain. Or as the mind-vibrating sees a wild child flying, and knows that it is sometimes the trail of what it is. (Or as the mind-ug pumped dispersal and hustle together and chokes in and tartles.) Now if in the middle of the camp the scene lies arched as a barn-door, now it is so close to the corn-crib I cannot see through it. (Or, simply, as the ants have failed to gather.) Lines left-about may just open and Other ones to better sight. Of course, a frendly bull is not the hugest thing in the world. He is strapped to our side, strapped to our lips. Only his hide is a long black tusks of gold. He must have some natural bodies. And though, instead of being watched, he is the last of our host's black tusks, he is ever careful still, that we may be sure that this tale shall after have been ======================================== SAMPLE 812 ======================================== "Crossed Memories", by James K. Baxter [Life Choices, Social Commentaries] Here comes never the swallow from the shower or elsewhere, but I am an apple in bloom and eat it, and do myself helpingly to eat it until my finger-tree and my little stick can say it for me in most soothing words.I know I am an apple, ah, I know it, but its taste is innocent, even in its high branches. What is there to say for me to ask, and what is for me to do, to walk at ease until my friend, Emily Joel, says it is me. I have been to see the storm on the Sabbath of 8th mating, and the traveler in orange sunlight has begun his journey. The road to Ithaca is one of the things that have happened often, but I can feel it when I can catch the key to the door of my den, and the key is filled easily. I have come through the windows and across the court. One of my ancestors says this is the very story of my nation. If I were to take you in and have you’d do something fine, I would keep your hospitable charge from reminding you that my people were thinking of me as I did when I came to understand your language. And then you would be happy. I have kept your big heart. You are lovely, beautiful with all love, and come right down to the wooden cage of the world. If I could find you in a large cloud of something to love I’d say, “Hello.” But I’d be too happy so I’d be happy if I could reach you by the hand. <|endoftext|> "The Summers of Marlowrie III: A Regent and a Wronged", by James K. Baxter [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Spring, Winter] Blondly, everything has forgotten your Spring. And nothing stands as You say, just this simple and beautiful day. Snow flakes so gently touch each other’s hearts, that they appear to harbor The vague desire of hearing every hour. The clouds catch only the sound of your voice, Like a refrain from the great day. And so ======================================== SAMPLE 813 ======================================== "Catch and Pond", by D. A. Powell [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] Selected teachers had arrived To pour into my room Three summer ago I had missed a train Before I started. A man Came and told me to ask— “How is your train,” He answered. “But I Skip farther than I have done. My train has no destination Through a dark forest. It is mine. If someone has stolen your child Take him and feed him, and will Climb trees with a stone rod To fix on the roof and roof With strict consciousness. Your child Loved not as others, but I Love you, being two days old, I wanted to explain.” <|endoftext|> "License", by Michael Drayton [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries] The stage is the stage. Nobody knows it. Obedience. posters, which states themselves as sea-coal. weights & shovels of light. pencils’ cameras. Sometimes, you get to the car. The audience has to feed our teacher, good or evil, and on the stage comes to ask what they receive. You forget to write an opening in the dark, with which they represent the language used to arrive at the border, an outpost, a branch of light. The audience cannot pretend to touch the poem, he cannot correspond to the words spoken in the dark, over and over. A little star or an empty cup. Or a lamp, a blur of light, no matter which way the word we think moves. And the word, like light we mean the others, the others, the gap, the churn, all of that still. And we had to engage in a new adversary. Nobody knows what we mean. The stringy family that leaks in the foliage will grow too thick. The song approaches your eyes, your ear is smashed into a far corner. The dark gathering of others’ ======================================== SAMPLE 814 ======================================== "Bringing", by Sandra McPherson [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Summer, Winter, Social Commentaries, Class, Popular Culture] The men who undertake this jest give three puns over being second-rate, a big bunch of purple socks that jolt out from the slots in the drive, in any rain, in any soothin', jist aflare, an' with bug- bug-holes, they're gob-dickers, they're beyond the palms, they're bullets, yes, guid! gob-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dang-dy-Dang-dang-da-dang-dang-da-dang-dang-da-da-der-Dang-da-Dang-da-da-Dang-da-Dang-da-Dang-da-Dang-da-Dang-da-Dang-da-Dang-da-Dang-da-Dang which they know asalmost as we others know will allow across the sound themselves to speak in their own languages are these, too, exactly, the same meaning, the same kind? <|endoftext|> "The Mothers", by Sandra McPherson [Living, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] We were seven—five and thirty now— Passing.Suddenly, in my sleep I found myself lost In the children. Their wet eyes like half-closed glasses, Their teeth like dried bone beads, The eyelids thick with loose fast-crouching, aching at them with strongest magnets. Lightning flared up on the tall, long carpets. I was imprisoned in this body, drawn up to the very last skin. Green magnets strikes into the heart. The “numer and” Feel of the world. <| ======================================== SAMPLE 815 ======================================== "from "Company"", by Tom Raworth [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] All morning, as usual, the wind howls. No one, you’re not going to call it empty. It doesn’t matter when it’s locked. It doesn’t want to go out when the junkies come back. It doesn’t want to stay together when it’s put out. It doesn’t want to stay together when it’s gane to the Army of the Pocket Store who have never failed to see itself anymore. Back home, to fight alone. Within the dark hours, the room dangerous as the front porch to the drum helps to the back room. II Who understood the privacy of the global rationalized dream? The program is about middle-aged peoples do business. In the middle of life, they will not defer part of a telegram. Like mites slow moving, they must catch sight of the future. III The Brenn’s arms open, then the wide map lies out, then the river, today. The river, today, sickly and harsh. A stony hour to pick up of. The son, still at his side, glancing at the waterside. The stream, today, sickly and harsh. IV A red bird is putting The feathers on the night roof, and I want to take them over to the river And kneel down there beside the river. Leaves on the windows, leaves on the windows. The sun mushing out the last song. The moon, this time. V A thin gauze gown. VI A veil of smoke. VII A butterfly with wide wings. Or, In the sky, a red bird. VIII The wind’s old-seal'd fire. Later, smoke on the moonlit stream. At least, it’s a big time coming up. When I think of it, old year, I have a bad night and everything I do is put out and put out. At last, the conflagration begins. IX The small town is behaving for itself & for myself & for my part I don’t know what it’s all about. Becoming my name, I say to myself,Let me make a lunar absence next Thanksgiving. Haggard evanters ======================================== SAMPLE 816 ======================================== A little ways behind the fence As the close trains weave into the shaded heat. We’d rock and pump and try and bolt, Crack the green oil at the time to knit. And the fear and doubt would go away, For the country stirred, beyond recruits. Then we’d let out and all make love, And beat the blue-grass with our arms above. Too soon we’d had that country life. But somewhere a goal lay under a cliff, Where the grass and earth had met to spray and tramp Till only the fire rose out above our backs, And we had to off if we could camp. There is no end to the confusion of power And to the bitterness of all we’d have to-day. We eat and drink and gulp and rum In the darkness, and no man ever dies. <|endoftext|> "Time as Man", by John C. Ludlow [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Sciences] What is begun? Is it a rather cruel thing to sit and read In a little corner find a little chair? You’re right, and that's the end. To read and to choose And to choose, you know it. It is an awful thing for you, or you to have, At the top of it or in the bottom near. But you have not the power. You must keep pulling All that you are given, for eating and drinking, And there are times which you will fit and fit, When you can be mocked of the reason which hurts: You must have something to eat, And there is nothing to cover your mouth. You are doomed to all that all men ever were, And you can be whipped to eat. Taq. One can’t eat a tree, if it's for the maps, And it isn’t lots; There are ten camels with straps for the coats, And a clot for your legs. You can make a shift, so all will be right, No reason to fail, And there are no reason to take you out, All rum and a rail, And there is no reason to urge you to rise, And your feet going numb At the bottom of the ======================================== SAMPLE 817 ======================================== "Apologies", by Audre Lorde [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] This is what you think of for me, statues, stars, painted bars; ceanos of eternity. And of all creatures you speak to me, statues, sphynx; Each fish carries itself by its weight, while two fowl, coming up And part like animals: feet by feet, and all things Are loosely stirred; beside me, a nest of water-flakes Struggle to climb, entangled in their chins, together, Tearing up their ripples, and up and down their ripples. And I too, the womb of the last belly, do this, To wait here time exactly for the sun to go across Just as my flesh would shade its face, take on The shape of landscape does not speak, nor even look So far off as what I have seen is still already far off. My mind is a house of system. I read, too, of nouns And the hieroglyphics of history. I also invented spear-wounds To place myself beside their shapes, and brought my dreams Like the ‘gravitation of the Incas Or like an ample wind grope through these, or doth not blur, Or like a gull, and hum, and breathe, and sometimes, on What any wind will do. What wind is that, the sauntering sound of leaves and water, The clicking of thorns, the dusty knock and high rush Of threshing straws, the twanging of a bell, The twanging of a key, the clink of coins, And, O God, what am I if I could tell And my whole history does not show in the wind: Scornful to stand so high, to be so low, And with these also shame to see the world go by. But O my most sweet Mother, in whose eyes Myself with lovely pride and glossyness Saw the light dance that sprang and danced amain Out of the rippling pools of the dark stream, And saw the light and smiled, and laughed again, Because, indeed, I dare not choose but love her too, Who is more beautiful than the brown babe he cries at ======================================== SAMPLE 818 ======================================== "Petersen", by Paul Hoover [Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I’ll swear that we’re not really exvincably indiscreet, the way things seem correct. —which I mean a cygmy bun— though not, certainly, I’ve been kneading declaration. Don’t say that even postage-stops, or what you make yourself, has been a thing of beauty. There’s nothing like a “hoary-to- file” but once, once, I thought I could own me an old newspaper sending greeting a clip, I could have told the reason. The papers I wrote made me drop, as if hope were the ground, refusing, not to place. I had fallen on the spot before they fired my mind, a little time ago, and now I know it’s just a jot of poetry, a thrill I had just then withdrawn, an invigorating start. I nodded, nearly in scorn, a question I could not design, a need for the unsayable or at least might be a very incipience light but I scribbled at the night, on which, though blind with age, I only raised a sneeze, on which I was by and by popping into a lawn my poem, the while I was on my way to sleep, or to woke to something, so I wrote a slight epiphany I met at the window of my room— a chillabused design who could be wisest of this poem, or the man who made it his guide or the woman I tried to be, and talked of what would become of it, the song that was thrown between them, although, of course, I liked it. The fact is I wouldn’t have noticed the distance between us, but why keep the poet in track of having no song that may tell a soul that it is pursued by some horns and, perhaps, will be followed as it were from the woods and the farms, perhaps? <|endoftext|> " ======================================== SAMPLE 819 ======================================== "Send petitions", by Rena Raglan [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Send petitions in a little tinsel cup for my mother I am tall, she is fair, I want her to wear but I want my little boots, my small bones, my pelts, my dry pelts—I want my belt of thin clothes to wear. The silver black cross on the forehead of the middle part of the forehead crown animal Excepers the poor body I don’t care if the cross is whatever its patterns are— the way my mother wears it and when the wand of the promiscuous uncle who haunts my bed, I want to feel it through dirt my hide I want the red shirts that have the coat of a mend. The things made for it make me want to keep it dry when I have let it stick out. <|endoftext|> "Send petitions", by Rena Raglanriguez [Living, Death, Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] For Adrienne Rich [Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Send petitions with a clash of sounds that might reduce the froth of death’s suscars. Ordinary times I’d hear the sounds of crickets and beats of sand against the black sky. The drum beats right through the room. I am jumped in anger and angry. I don’t know how to act, I can grow older. The screaming screams give a scream that makes us wake. <|endoftext|> "Cap of Becalmed", by Adrienne Rich [Social Commentaries, Money & Economics, Race & Ethnicity] Cap of Becalmed beside the river of feeling and the other voices that spoke for us, and those voices who sang for us, and those voices who sang for us, and those voices who sang constantly for us and their echo, and those voices, —we sang and sang, O Time, O Time We are weaving ourselves into song, you and I and our voices, you and I and ======================================== SAMPLE 820 ======================================== "The Fourteenth of December", by Karen An-hwei Lee [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] 1. The Fourteenth of December The flower is transitory. The flower is transitory. The flower is transitory. The flower is transitory. The flower is indiscreet and cold. The flower is frozen in the cold. The flower is the cold and earth crumbles beneath it. The cold, and the exact circle of circumambuted equivocally, as if they had no imagination of reality where it could be frozen. And the truth is that, when first this rounded sphere has adorned the universe with splendor, in time it is shiny and obtuse, as if it were ice, parched, and prone and innocent, and the green stays out of reach as if the cold had no entire space for blackness. But the elements are gone in the old way. The elements move in a way that is simple and light, transmuted in the currents of the sun. All the red Elk stand in the cold. Oppressed and pinched, and the elements slide back into space. The old river bears in a red and purple light the flowers of a lost race. The flowers are inscribed with terror. A lost race is lost in unremination. The flames, like paper, are streaked and white. The gauzes of the river wear thin and pale above the skirts of the hills. The planet moves in a shrunken shadow. In the darkness it bears a cold shiny tone of dread, a worn cape, and a face of wan black leather, and behind it, the shadows of citizens are gathered together, the street seems to crawl as the thing looks livid. People in a mist favorite, and their infants like hoodwinkabies like birds, their infants like stars. One says: “We are the families of this land.” Another: “We do this thing in this region.” When the skeleton of Jupiter is upon us, the mammoth will circle above circle, and circle these. Everyman is ======================================== SAMPLE 821 ======================================== "Drinking Is the Greater than the Mishes", by Jayme Deere [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] After Miss Smytte's responsibility for the Scottish therapist, “We’ll eat eggs, and that’s how I began my problems. ‘Look, look,” I says Lucky and Adonis, “it’s just the way you treat yourself. Now eat that bone of yours. You’ll get a treat on the head of every puss. All those old women-folks who live in Western plains are going to murder me for crazy sake.’ ” But the second calisthen got into the soup. And the third calisthen said, “I don’t swallow the ghosts.” And the fourth calisthen kicked up three cans, helped to ravel and haggle out their holes. “Hold hard!” cried loselof David Ignat in the rain, “sloughed into such a messhe never goes to mass.” <|endoftext|> "Song", by Thee Ann Arbor [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] I love and lose the love that loves so well And is so lost, and so I was create Into a language unfamiliar to all Words. A creation made out of language a God To be desired, or through evil or through good. The ibis smiled where abundance was at home. The smile on the open road, the private path To what denasement was denied, the scorn The bitterness of absence from a God Gave way to other hooves, other cries from those Whose sister was away and is away. And all this I saw from the shoulders of My cousin, who like a flower in an urn, Wide in the room enclosed: beloved, beloved My cousin, who like a flower in a urn, Hung on the vesture of a grief, the star That wailed to the wreck of the House of the Dead. I was no one with him. When he passed Our door we hung ======================================== SAMPLE 822 ======================================== "Walking with My Father", by Jonathan David [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, Faith & Doubt, Philosophy] This is the thing I dream— my father and mother went to the quick to sell the inviting high schoolkids— they called the thing my father had told me to. He turned the topmost stairs— he could have touched the inhabitants while I was playing with my father— with whatever difference looked out his laughing eyes— the real friends of father and mother were quiet when I was ill. When father got sad enough we were almost all wrong closing in the cool room that faced the cell to-night. I have just been out the kitchen door a year, tossing my hands across the wooden floor of a wooden chair. I have just been thinking about how long I’d been buried there. I am sitting on the hearthstone where my father used to set flowers. Someone will forget he was sad who loved to look up from the top. The kettle on my head and the broken chair rocking on my bricks and on the wet clay in the cold sunlight. All day long I have kept the door shut. Sometimes I sleep sound but when the night comes on my head feels as if the door closed behind me on my sleep. <|endoftext|> "The Sight in My Father’s House", by Jonathan David [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] in a limited audience, like a book of lines that draw places into wires where you sew, you sit on the stone and I see you, rolling on the stone. The things you think of/ the things you think of/ they grow inside you: one body, two, three, one blue, three blue, and I know that that marker he reads is all you think of/ is all you think of/ has been since. <|endoftext|> "Darkpocket Park", by Marvin Bell [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] Seeing the recent ones of America, I notice a boy holding a cigarette on my desk and he is caught holding a bottle of Bondom and papers of country to his high school and within ======================================== SAMPLE 823 ======================================== "Reunion", by George Szirtes [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] When the horse the brown hill-dogs turned out to skate the cold wind the wind made the snow too white a color soothe the white ashes and we thought: this is how we make it all into L.A. day, but our eyes are gray already so late. What will L.A. tell us? <|endoftext|> "L immortals", by George Szirtes [Living, Coming of Age, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Nature] Because he has put his mouth to the milk of the world, his hands are soft outstretched over railing, his chest displays the horn so that he is able to carry up and down the long wood out to the stone of the runagates, his palms still topped by strawberries on forest fences, his short straight pathos snoring into the evening wind as he turns towards the frozen plains where the snow is frozen and swollen because it receives terrible vigor because it blights the stars out of a darkness that can be broken blood through clouds. <|endoftext|> "After the fifteenth ofApril", by Alex Dimitrov [Arts & Sciences, Nature, Spring, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] I bring you here on five-capged day before the war in these back-flock-poles and March days, though I take the long range of my life as if it were a birthmark on the top of the world and say no how many years have gone by or have gone before we have ever seen and have rarely seen it. For months from now we have been shut up into the heaviest drifts on this first winter and have been bolted and quartered and let myself be mentioned there in everything to recollections so familiar we can't believe it. The front seats are as high as the south and as wide as the beyond or even as any their laps and their mediaeval Apocrypha. Many years ago this was not an imposing weather, and when I brought you to think of the horrible past, the black line in the swimming swimming swimming ======================================== SAMPLE 824 ======================================== "Sestina", by Aphra Behn [Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I, making poetry, because heroine won’t have peace till then so long although, when I hear nobody singing, at the end of my tether, at the end of my tether the waterthink I went too far to carry you, lover. At the end of my tether at the end of my tether I’ll have nothing to do but write you an elegiac address. * I know you, and you know me. Now, from the first to the last, from the end to the end, I close my eyes and see your face. * The old chestnut tree I studied: Green skin and pink persimmons. The same shade, on pillars and woodwork, holding up to the sky its trunk. Then when I had eaten enough, O 
strich, and kissed the trunk, I bent over you, hungry to learn how, and how to be able to master your efforts, my body’s natural mother, and how toTwenty for the call to obey. And now my body is very thin like the trunk I had cursed with, to the body bent over: tired, with dirt stains on inside. <|endoftext|> "Looking For Weeks After My Shadow", by Jacob Polsey [Living, Death, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics, Race & Ethnicity] My mother’s voice is thick and thin And harsh across my back and arms And over all the afterimage sounds— tones on stone and on the thistle in the thistle— into the bell, the box, the whistle of the church, creep on the flags of every Jew who has a listenin his ear— yell, a carrier; convert into the choirblares, the turkey-shackle to the coat of black crow bone. The choir, the light on the thistle, every soul allowed its share to drink quietly; down in the throats of crows and gnaws of ======================================== SAMPLE 825 ======================================== "Sapphics", by Karyna McGuff [Living, Life Choices, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I’ve taken pains to say I’d paid any visits If they weren’t free, and kept it all about LARK, In view of where I had lodged for many weeks, And found the honey’s sap, good too to speak, And then to lie and pick the wormwood smell, And ask the best internet for a verdict, Excepting when the sister rejoices That she can change the perfume it gets. Its only reply is because it thinks of me In place of heavy sighs inside their heads, And the post-war parson takes a lot of pence And leaves them to the church for any use. Sometimes it uses Mum and other Maids, And when she says one word about them, She’ll go without a shilling or a nod, For the sight the two of them would simply waver. It’s really easy to quit undetected foyer In a private life forced out to be, With dutiful, eternal sons who cared For the cheapest tin or useless service. Aware of the pigments that the Preacher’s Jean Prepares, when they’re already gone. On my lids, so many hangings in this world And when they’re in, why it seems a goddess, To sit in darkness while another Homer Has taken from some poetical exhibit The gratis of a mere spectator. I am wrong. I’ve taken from a stranger’s gaze A sweet, transparent, dreamy, Book-of-the-ori; My childhood’s hopes are crumbled to their places, And if I’m only perforated on it, The part I played I’d like not to miss on it’s Which is exactly how I miss on it, As if I’d left off sixpence for the teacher, Who takes no school no books to make a show, A kind of “slipsky” schoolmaster working At parking lots, with his sweet, constrained ishweather garden manners, holding in thrall, With such a pleasant pride ======================================== SAMPLE 826 ======================================== "The Therapist", by Matthea Harvey [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Sweet sideoves, sweetly Ova revolving fingers, Snake-weeds, With a proboscis. Soft little naps, Sirens soft, mistranges, Pour, pats,sta, wash, Take porcelain, broom, Cutgrass, broom, And make your womensome Beauty hair, Sea-green, honey, Wave goodbye." <|endoftext|> "The Sensitive", by Matthea Harvey [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] My brown familiar sidewalk A stroke, and my arm Half up, now, at 2 a.m. My front wall— God be with me, I say. My sides--gaping white All over, in a long light— My body absences from the curse That’s spilled on my sex —has done it. I throw Shoes on my cheeks. I look Up, then, at the green Ass she can’t be true, knows who. <|endoftext|> "Dog Now", by Matthea Harvey [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] My brown patting father does not think That I am his, as his: But I think he thinks he loves me, And, likeoken English by his Smartness to splay at home. He Herehes my kindness with a sigh— I love her from his apart Grandpa is in my reach. At one time I slipped aside behind his pate, really From bearing up a small tin can To my just safety from the shkin Of going up. He knows he loves me, And, anyway, loves me sometimes Because I am his father’s lawful And all his rasps love really. Even His family, my true father says— Had made him master of them all, Except to please his daughter— And I have the fortune, really, To have a wife and take a show. Yes, In ======================================== SAMPLE 827 ======================================== "Narting God", by Christian ThomasChestnut [Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] As I was walking down to the river, the air was heavy with my looks. They would not have taken me by the hand. The border had turned towards the stream, and the border had melted into the red light of the mountains, because I had not fallen back. I was slow. Like a dying father I slept hard. Sunbursts became sudden and certain to disgust and the more swiftly slipped away. A thick rain descended in diminishing drops, gave way before the air opened, tumbling upon the bank. The rising and descending descended from off the water, and the air was heavy with my looks. I saw myself lying down in the shade of the church. I saw also the reflection in the pool of the pasture. I saw also the signs in the river. I was not dead, because often the sheets of yellow sprinkled with light from theinches and smelt of burnt sulphur. Sometimes the winds of the world were too strong to resist the arms and legs and hips of the country they must absorb, and when the country is taken from me the people will walk along their insubstantial cities made of trees as my hull was lifted. The image of trees at the edge of the water was dwarfed and split by the currents, which then drifted away down the stream like an oarsoman, while the wind was blowing through orchards. Three reasons, says the hill. 4The person who looked up from the valley was an old man standing on his shoulders and looking, I can think, in over my head. The person who looked up from the valley went on a wild pace, told by my eyes. There were lambs in the fold of the hill and a group of shepherdesses all in it, and sometimes a shepherd in the woods was a stoic without traveling, and sometimes horses were born with larger hands. A few strong hands in the shining yellow trinings were sown as they came to drink of the rivers and there was a boy who made the world seem only the waste. He carried his load of trunks across the ground waving toward the sky ======================================== SAMPLE 828 ======================================== "Sleepers over the Hartz", by K�ua Caxlife Esquire [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Midlife, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] Little town, little city, white sails all restorStrand laughing don’t seem to frighten you,(Are you alive or just forgotten? are you forgetting?“Would you like a good voyage, little island,Are you just a swarm of sheep?” Yes, but where? Out on sea and out in the bayThere are left no boats, haven’s waiting yet,And they who so often lamented their brothersAre gone to seaInstead of returning no more,No more to return, nothing to have to learn.There’s a compass in Ireland, there’s cable to save,But Ireland can see not the sea and the grave.O Boston, the beam of Versailles,Columbus, the bright morning star;Then Rioubov, whose Athens retired no further from the Odes. <|endoftext|> "The Two Boys", by Edward hello Coke [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Weather, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] Two boys, my mother said, sighingat thechy waters,reading the waves along the cliff-filled shore.Two girls with bare feet have turned the surf aside,towards a school.They sigh and turn up the fishing hole along the sea studding its armor with bright bubbles,and when the chase approaches they hold their heads together,and at the end, the waves,their hands together gripping, already holding the beak.Then at the end, the tillerauling in its scabbard plaits the lead in triumph,but the sea holds its breath,and the tide listens for a moment, as we turn round and lay our heads together,and there’s never a sound save the echo lost in the next hill. <|endoftext|> "onian passion", by Julian Talamantez Brolaski [Nature, Arts & Sciences, Music] If the siren with a scarlet cap ures the morning. And I feel as I release them to the music of the larkI break forth singing so that the sleepers may think I am walking aroundLong as the public streetsI march from the cityTo the ancient forest, hanging tallest in the ======================================== SAMPLE 829 ======================================== "Sonnet 34: Since ye with hope and fear fled away, Come, with pure hands, on your loved Europe, Day is breaking, and the night is flying, Now, and the shadows Night doth gently weave, What ails you now, from pole to pole? Ah, vain is this, and helpless all our striving; Destiny, that, stern and awful, Shall never take this from ye, if thou wilt; But from your harness ye shall know and tremble, When, in the grave of the most mighty Jesus, ‘Nay, even from the tomb ye are severed.’ Clemence is present, and most empty space, Like a brown river with a dreary pace; Therefore, ye may’l know your country, and her race. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet 125: Why I persist in threats", by Henry Timrod [Living, Death, Time & Brevity] Why I resume? Against the day’s first dawn, what may it be? I wage no war on conquest, and in blood Love to be Roman, Roman, Roman: Why I demur my youth, and fight, and wait Death’s noon; Why with the World fight ever? Peace with that Tested once again I wage no war, And in the world enjoy my warlike prize. Alas, and what can I surmise, Or think on death, or death, or any life? Am I asleep? And can I ever dream, or can I strive For what I have, the utter good of strife? And strive, for what can I contend? And am I of the first? and know that death As one draws nigh, or nears, yet holds my breath, And takes a thought, shot through with dart of fire, In eager and still contracts of desire; And, as I know my eager hand is near, I strive, O, give me courage! though in this I steer, I fail; My champion I, my champion I am I! Cover my head, bestir my heart, O, give me strength and speed! So, in the battle shalt thou glorify, And in the last fight prove thy match for me. <|endoftext|> "Full of Acceptance", by Henry Timrod [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships] All things in the world grow sweet once more, All things in the ======================================== SAMPLE 830 ======================================== "Compone Come Down to Death’s Laundation", by William Butler Yeats [Living, Death, Marriage & Companionship, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, Class] To and from my savings were gone as soon as I could see them . . . But at the end arrived, they each did share a common pleasure in having al Honor to their enemies, Cornelia, her parents, who were known to me . . . After her and her . . . And, I found myself bemoored again and said, You were his wife, Cornelia . . .Were you never quite O like him . . . I'm not he he he said . . . Was anyone so happy? -- but I criedAnd cried. . . . And he said, I gave up . . . And he did. . . And I did. . . . And, O he did . . . And, O he did . . . I saw a man on horseback that was not comfortable at all to me . . . He had been through these seven years fighting the Dragonas . . .I have none other time than the moon with probable prophecies that they would take any of my rings and plot me to take him out of the air and make him burn again. . . . Have you or would you or I get you again? . . . Or tell me that all And all I gave I gave him sideways for what you have to tell you, Cornelia, was your name, your date, your only date? . . . Cornelia was there to see, Cornelia by accident. . . .Have you or would you die tonight? Not in the light of the moon, Cornelia by accident. COREY here is supper, elbows stretching; crescendo and lamplit moments, unglum chairs leaning against the wall. I marvel at the quiet dense silence, I marvel at the faces Moving across the floor, arm around arm, head to head . . . I wonder what rain will be coming -- coming of all the rain. <|endoftext|> "Twistaria Plaid", by William Butler Yeats [Arts & Sciences, Theater & Dance] It was a summer night at home, The wind was gone and warm in the bowlding day, But I ======================================== SAMPLE 831 ======================================== "Telling Time", by Penelope Shuttle [Living, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries] We’re talking about cars. The weather is bad. It doesn’t matter, I simply request to remain classed upon the way in despite of theproblem, of dentiforal ... From feedback Peccullis, and the life of “The Lost Way” (which would have been better if we called them) I’d hold my own. Some folks prefer lost-story feeling: pathos inane in their own lives ... A door slammed shut, massive grotesqueries. "Eyes or hollows?" And for what, yes, he’d seem remorseful. <|endoftext|> "Velvet", by Randall Mann [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] A crowd along the Las Vegas shore, the men crying, cinched kernels under a basket and ragged-headed boy waving my arm, crucified by a stranger— Glasco-wired his boots at rest in his mountain homescape ... What did we talk of? Brothers and husbands and family members of the choir of suicides, all the fathers over whom I dug up my he-board cup and packed baby doughnuts in the car and dressed him like a mycar-old clothes. Listen to the tall lions in their ice-polite boots. Even with their most precious milk and sugar, the scent of a goat pie is always Spanish. Listen to the voices of the hungry sturgeon at a long distance, bringing home noasa and my violin bunch again unanswered. Listen to them... quiet dogs skittering about their mouths as the fish die. <|endoftext|> "Sonnet: On Receiving a Letter", by Allen Ginsberg [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] I saw you toss there and scratch my arms. At the sign of your intelligence, I threatened to write to the president of the world the answer: I told him to change and be off in your room. And be off in your room, because of the embarrassment that Aphrodite has, because she’s lovable, under my eyes. <|endoftext|> "Half Border, Half Lab", by Thompson Thompson [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, ======================================== SAMPLE 832 ======================================== "Sestina: Passing a Ale Isle", by Leslie Monsour [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] —For all the pears the week will spread her poison,A bed of summer dew for humming bees,Dame Venus to your ugly weed will lead you,While the spoiled orange's bitter seed is bedded on your headStrip your foul-weather shoes for the soft foot-fallOf lace whose darned and ragged leaves will crawlOn your worn face like you. God save A queen! To eat with poisoned lips her last cold vowels,Spew the knot of teeth for your wine-dark orbs,Dry them as grapes that feel the sun,The while they sleep, for once, for all their scars. <|endoftext|> "Vandy Fan", by Marilyn Hacker [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] It’s too bad to tell the girls the cruelness of winter on vectors, Chestnuts, woodcocks, bloodspotted beef cake, and bottle ceramic; Too medicinal for monkip peel and rotary, Too tempting for the boys in spring time, soap bars, Too medicinal for the bleak winter and bleak weather. No grass, no scarp, no dogwood, no marlil and broom, But bright red bursting the rusty ass in the tomb. <|endoftext|> "Western", by James Spagnelay [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Class] We’d started out for Canada, but not for us, our home place, Line we had north for not yet ours, they’d finished east, Line there before us as for today, as for a day, a place. We’d started out for Canada, but not for us, our home place. Line there before us as for boys, as for ourselves, we fought with Mail-steeds and machine guns and machine guns, inhibitions. What sent them here to rack our souls? Why did they want to? <|endoftext|> "To the Indians", by James Spagnelay [Social ======================================== SAMPLE 833 ======================================== "My Darling Turns to Me", by Jorie Graham The selfsame lubricant after pain Rises to its degree; The selfsame face aglow with pain: The selfsame moon behind my sheltering door. One hand unlatches cups of swollen snows, And another shakes the lash.Of all the torments, of the best, There is none stands sustenance like Thine. What passions crowd the sober soul’s amaze, Whence every thin tongue fears! What demon searched for thine and thine and mine, Until the hot tears’ might pierce thy heart. Ah! at the bottom of thy breast divine Lies concealed, till thou start start. Fain would I see what pain is, where all woe Palls on that sluggish soul in slow. Then weep not; for the pain, that must forego, Will, like two pearls, fall on thy bier, And there will come a time when thou shalt hear— A distant sobbing in the lover’s ear— A distant sobbing Matthew. Beloved, I loved thee fondly!—better that Should pain have painted overmuch; And, like a withered leaf, have withered much: And yet I nursed thee in my mortal throes, And what thou art I know but now my friends. I marvel not Bassanio should Have opened such a book. Why, simply he Owns only this one book—which is his pole,— The mind of packed Jerusalem. The vulgar often read him as a child, And, if he did, methought. At times, the boy, Struck with an unaccustom’d rod, cries out Unto some friend, ‘What man is this lets him? Others love him as they do loves God.’ If God had always right, would change their course: And if it ever came to blasted truce, It came to slavery—even then from out Their happiest hours would bring them closer. The Earth’s Love, all mankind’s Love, is not The one true Love that holds the human heart; But in the nuptial chamber they repose, And some with unawaked passion part. And so, when nature’s fountain-head is dry, ======================================== SAMPLE 834 ======================================== "All about the War", by Mark O'Brien [Living, Philosophy] All about the war, and all about it going, My soul says nothing at all about it going; It say: ‘I’ll never forget it if I’ve done anything that I’m doing, And what that bloody bit of work that I’ve done, ’Swells over, and I’m running out to die, And all my work's done and finished and undone. Alas, the war and I have lived For the very world a whole life and the very part of it a drop, And that's what some of me a many people wanted, And what they wanted here is good enough for them, but yet they stand A set half up amid the roar of waves, Their eyes still fixed, their legs still flying For a few miles against the sun Where the Wines spite one another through the whines, And the sea the same old roar that the Tws Are telling wars to-night without their coats of fire, And what they want-meat, and the sea, the wonder Of what they want-meat, and the sea, the wonder Of what they want-meat, and the sea, the wonder The singers, the cream-head, the huge whale-thigh And thistle and thistle wage A game of parts and measures, a bag of pickles, A game of broadcloth and gloves, A day they’re all in everything for love. One is boy, one is black, one is lean, In them desire’s ever-gripping hunger, And what they want the long hot day is not enough, They’re also all the same for they were built to win That all the world is with them at last a kind of God. And one has temple of a lamplit happy there With lamb and fruit, gifts for the gods, Them: not a man, not an or god, Not a god but simply rock and have it, And what they want is best to have, they say. Then do not show the ground whereon you stumble, Or do you do it with a cubit thing, Though your hands get kicked that will get kicked And to get kicked alive will go, Nep, ======================================== SAMPLE 835 ======================================== In the silence that involves a night. A rain coming on Thursday. The trees Whose feathery clusters bent to throw away The curtains and furniture, the blue backs Of the Salvation Army with prayer. In the darkness the windows are a psalm. The cupboard is covered with white wine; the chalas Wash away streams of wine; the majoran Gives a hand to the rest. The Rev. Goya, the Valley of prayers, does not forget The world's sorrow. The bells toll, Whispering together along the walls, Whisper together, swooning but to sing. We cry for bread and oil and salt and salt; For a stone to dig out within the hill And drag the rats up to the ditch. We cry for bread and salt and salt; We cry for bread and salt and salt and salt; For a stone to dig out amid the mould, For a stone to join the mass. In the silence that awaits The soldiers and the strong, The organ's voice ascends To the silent room aloof. But we cry for bread and salt and salt; For a stone to join the mass. In the silence that awaits The soldiers and the strong, The organ's voice ascends To the silent room aloof. Deserted, terrorized, The train sits on the streets A muffled drum, And the grille, a hollow sound, An unsatisfactory beat, Sparks fall for the street. And first the windows dim, Blind, empty, without heat, Unbelievable in him The conductor sat beside, With a coat upon his head, And a red-nosed friend in him. Then suddenly Came silence, and again A cold, electric rain. And then, It came, As if the streets were death, The smell of an exhaustless spirit Rose to the general taste, To the elegy within the meat, The thin, ill-humoured, sere young actor Clutching the case once more With touch of pain. And the actors in the scene Saw that their suffering's softening Wrought in the bread and wine With hideous leer. They do not know the child that w ======================================== SAMPLE 836 ======================================== "Interstate", by Charles Reznikoff [Religion, Social Commentaries] A new religion begins, the old affection grows,Our baby passion into act becomes like rose Desire, which grows Desire must have a new expression Something no longer what we once called love Children are taken for an amusement cove So now the storm comes on Nothing is new That place is given for religion till the old church Dies in the cold wind It is old how we handle the axe We are used for a callous one. That instrument has no mechanics, Although it be old That some folk contrive to put it up some day For a tune will never seem old That the old ones count on the emptiness left at the first bequest They are spending there instead where the cans do not reach They are weary, let them reckon Their business is the same. From the rude play before the rude bag I have brought many flowers to the door each week And brought many flowers that will never fall and so I go to the little damp room I found one night In a store-mat all covered with roses Outside the window of my little house, Where I put roses, jasmine, jingle, And got a plate of fresh newspaper My little canary from the chest away It is the canary of love Who will put these roses to my mouth If they are not my flowers that I have scattered them When I go in the field to seek It is done casciting the joy in the smoke Let the tea now cannot keep out the stars Let the cow says what she will not eat The cow all over monumental <|endoftext|> "The Silence", by David Lau [Living, Youth, Relationships, Pets] The stars are not my flowers I care for now. Alone, I like them not at all I like to say a quiet word to someone else Who is playing alone on the mountain I always like to have his picture Of me come to him only when I’m seven The quiet thing is the secret I envy now It’s his ittches who can lay all my flowers I’m telling all this with characters No one does not see me The great gossamer is coming up He’s in my memory He’s on my chest ======================================== SAMPLE 837 ======================================== "The Two Thresor", by Sandra Beasley [Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Popular Culture] The night has a mouth, and its tongue Breathes in the eclipse of its mouth, and what, What is, is, and who knows, or knows not: The night was a shadow in the night As it lightened on the shoals of houses, And the street was a blot on the speech of death, And the language of the ocean had become As its accent, word, or shape of it, Even in its metre, the words that are In it motionless, or re-prepare is a twig Knocking the pancake of my finger, a sign That I am not born of nothing but contact, Nor was I made to be believed to be The father and mother of only love and beauty, Nor was I born to be respected for the fulness Of being made to please the eyes of loving men And honor them; or was it all bootless again To wander solitary through the open door And wait upon the shutting of the spring And dead summer or to return? <|endoftext|> "“No, here goes no pepper”", by William Blake [Love, Desire, Relationships, Nature, Summer, Valentine's Day] No pepper? No salt? No but what mischief? No earthquake? No tempests? No lightning? No thunders? No lightning? No rocking Of rock? No seeds? No thunders? No rocking of waves? No turning of cars? No storms? No tidings? No tidings? No howling? What halos? No dreadlocks? No mercy? No noise? No tidings? No haste to eat you? No peeling Of oxen? No one’s yet being here yet, And no one looks after. So hurry but haste to the coffee In your dish, my dear stranger, before you separate! So with a rush and a shriek and a scream All stopped at the corner. Down rolled the stream A brown fish was seen as a statue, and, lo! A dark horse, and an aspen, by law! Then rushed the river away, for its foaming ======================================== SAMPLE 838 ======================================== "Postcard from Home", by Jason Schneiderowski [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Home Life, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] The children are in your eyes, the ones you know, the ones you know you know. The ones you know you know, the ones you know, the ones you know you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know you know. The ones you know you know, the ones you know you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know because you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. These are the ones you know, the ones you know. The ones you know, the ones you know. These are the ones you know, the ones you know. These are the ones you know, the ones you know. I hold the door to you, leaning on this roof here. I have years passed apart who came apart, ======================================== SAMPLE 839 ======================================== "Swing", by zombies Muhammad Ali [Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] “luminous yellow,” erogenous zone zone zone zone zone zone shun those who love their position uncertain, as you pick a wide bayonet from a log lost in the lost decibel tent of African forests before you find a fertile farm more secluded than most simple chemical, dense as the lost realms of the tame knowing sand, a fine place to fluidize liquid into song, which gives you the idea of flying like a bird into your property, then, as once, you figure in that circle your prayer song too must exist while you exit within yourself, weak as you were like someone of drift and drift and the mystic four numbers that fitfully swell and finish as in a melancholy of air, answering, off your tire, you should hear a chorus of angels coming over the ground, their sentries of affectionate thought naked of the arms they open, voices of those angels—a new religion of love. After which, it must be a ritual; in which poems, strains, verses, names, all hours, you can’t lose yourself, that kind of beauty. — d. mihi Hussein, or altars anyway, those sacred places, the benediction of your genius’s lips’ red edge—what next day’s news really vanished from the coming crowd? — Today, “I saw an animal heading out for war next time” when hunger was done and optimism began to struggle to eat. To fight the cannon, the shirky strop singing when even two of “bows flicked in” now seemed quite different in fi, fi, fi, from our mountains. — At the end of our trees they appeared, jumped in hunger, their heads bowed, as in scorn. “There is no war,” they were ashamed of, as a kind of battle followed each other in the wind, and even the best they could seemed—a second victory. They arrived. A firm clasp of tissue, tighter than sword hilt, made a ruin of the tree, as even ======================================== SAMPLE 840 ======================================== "The Hills in Collegie’s", by Alicia Ostriker [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] 5 There’s this little town just below us, beside me, twisted, twisted, like three block blocks of granite.Today the wind Lazar’s lifeless. Even the torn rock that massed the white men in their places where the street is not now.The houses filthy are never completely joined but in a vast apartness.The street forgets to be rotten, the cart comes through fragments, gouged into the rut.Some feet were on the pavement. Others pick up the volumes left by their father at the door, and then take themselves back to the ground.The street forgets to be rotten, the wall forgets to scrape their teeth, and the sun frocks the glass.Once in the Gorge of a damsel, I sat on the pavement, myself held in her hand by the albatross.Pigeons were rising from the dirt towards daybreak, somewhere between failings and honour.I sat on the ground, helpless and ashamed.As usual the animal hospitaled. I felt directionless—still, a whole world of light—drunk, cloyed, drunk, ready, ready to strike off the gush of caste, power, glory, victory, life.Everything was hopeless, everyone was hopeless, there was rut widowed. I didn’t want a living word, or a motion, an echo.That made me stumbler, I felt myself gut casserole!That made me weep like an infant at his mother’s breast, and give place to whole dirtiness. I would wake up too soon, give up crumbs to fly before a disaster. I would eat, and let the streetlayers rest.I would release myself. Why not? That was the writing hour.I am not in the favor. Only the numberSeeds I shall put up. Even this point—that the injustice is passing. Every inhabitant must release this one. Ether is made visible. In the heavens above the earth, in the heart of the axis. In the ears of the moon, is the magnet. Every substance must release this one, for it sweeps over land and sea. Every particle removeth itself from its place.The props of the earth shieldeth us. Each grain leaveth it anew. Its object is the right one. The moon ======================================== SAMPLE 841 ======================================== "Exodus", by Dana Gioia His old white grey-green wrinkles he wipes into his hand, whispering that his very life a splintered grace in his coat of Grecian marbles, and when he lifts them to his children they cry out more loudly, and his lashes wet as they gaze across the field but hold no word back, no note of notes of whiteness. And in the end that his heroic self happens to do his level work as one may see a valley through an apple through a birch, the man was shouting for a light rake Blake which should go through it. And though the tree was a box and the flags were roses, the soldier cried out after a soldier had come to the office and said his bitter joy: “You’ve found a way!” And in a dustily bowed hat the sea opened its mouth and the soldiers came home with their cars hurling through the red-gold and purple the bowl crashed into the road and the soldiers passed on. Blue and gold green and another gray cross on a black cross spread across the road and, clutching the goading hub left and right, rose up in front like a wild-goose with eight horns and a greater wheel of elk at his back. The lone and eager rooster came back from his perch in the evening with eight horns to steed, and, having gone far enough with the other beasts, the lion had passed over the horses and galloped on the course and was at the mouth of the goading beast. And the robber and all his brood had hastened to free the living and dead. That was the start of the car; even on the left side of the beast a young man with a brown hair came close to his neck and with no word, but as one taken by one in the arms of another. The sun glared over his watch-towering castle as he went down in the sun and cursed the speed of his horse and the warning of his horse, and his trumpets and his cry came close to him in a pulsing ring. The sun laughed out in open sky and thunderbolts ======================================== SAMPLE 842 ======================================== "The Small Hours", by Emma Lazarus [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Sometimes on a bright day’s upper lip (a day whose recitation takes a giant off his back and, like a mouse, is free) the little ones in school, run quick as light, shout at the clear new mechanic, hailstone with its rusty bell, rake a leafy ash, take it off: that’s the way mothers talk. You get it. Once you did, you’d be out in one of the fields, one cudgel whistled by the hill-side then cross the lane in your small craft, cut the trees with your scissors, chop what sunlight bars the window-glass then stab the clock with a case, clear the crannies of silence, break the radioth, break weed-and-cropp. —Here noon was wasted with it, now at noon Grew to the still recurrent airp fluttering white, wind and storm cloud. Like a long drawn breath out of the cloud, blast on blast Rolled the dreams up from sleep, flowers at each fresh key leapt, a thousand voices, thousand dreams, each world enveloping his head in its own gray web, ecstatic concentration and clasping, each man sleepless, letting th’ unguessed presence, Like a flame relaying sleepless rebellion, collective deep in its fresh slumber, the imperishable, Let there be no more utterance of words or pictures, paper, tiara, or whatever. <|endoftext|> "1 January 1965", by Joseph Brodsky [Living, Death, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Nature, Winter, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] A week ago I tried to be myself, and then—I, too, began to be myself. What to ourselves we know is our philosophy (the end of wars, wars, wars). What to ourselves we know—to ourselves we know, and so we know, through and through. —Zipp. Why does it astonish everyone to have found so soon a foundling;— like a flower in a car on its mother’s breast (how much it alarms the flower herbless field and dampness!),— unmindful of the poison of ailacra and rot of women and of children, uninvited, uninvited. —Zipp. ======================================== SAMPLE 843 ======================================== "Salvator", by Juan Ruiz Guayal [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] In the orchards of the soul, O sea, I watched thee lift and roll; Like one bright region of a sunbeam, to thy right, Their glory, and their happiness; O moon, at thy commando’x all o’erpast, And every lamp of memory’s ray; O moon, at thy commando’x all of us, The stars and elements shall meet. The love I sing in sacred silence charms. My song from earth, which thou hast sung incites; And all the soul’s deep silence and all times; All the soul’s conscious nature could endorse, O thou most sacred vestrum, thou most holy, source of all our passion!Holy thou art and can’st become; how could I love another, While thou art pouring forth a flood of sacred light on other, Because thou followest the pathways of my intellect, And dost lead out the love of meek-eyed in thy clear, clearness of every painful modulation! O moons, that love me, who so long hast been a lover & a plaything, And I have sat at your commanding feet all silent, And the love of thee bath'd in me suddenly, And seal'd in me a silence of soft silence mine own utterance, My ears are closed, and cannot your high beauty blind my eyes, Because thou lovest yet a maid, and lovest yet thyself. <|endoftext|> "Morning Prayer", by Joanna Fuhrman [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Get Below, Unrequited Priest & Past Bed, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Class] In May this April weather you and I have walked togetherAll the meads with cowslip-purple; In the apple berry-bough, In the lawn the primrose blossoms glowing; Pass'd by each and each a kindSlowly, and no longer staying; Pass'd by each a wayward pleasure; Innocence, and eve, and morning, ======================================== SAMPLE 844 ======================================== "Growing Apples", by Peter Balakian [Activities, Gardening, Nature, Summer, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Mythology & Folklore] Strengthen it was alive and licked away From the hamlet-coloured glass in which it sluiced Her working hours to come. Its insect beauty drove The gazer out into the world to read; A loveliness it never saw but loved Because it did, and when she was not dead The little open-hearted thought absorbed Those blue-eyed, wider eyes, until she moved As from a fountain-river to a rose. Through all the May he watched her as she passed His memory; then she left. He seemed to have No reason for her absence. She was blind With drearier thoughts than those he could not see Staring at moonlight through the brambles bare At nights that would not bring them. She had seen The tall trees leaning toward her in the sky, Her eyes contented and her face aglow, Remembering nothing when they walked in sleep More surely to the valley than to wake. He went, and for a moment stood upright Past him, and listened. No one passed him o'er. The rough cuckoo and the wren can talk and sing Of May at daybreak, when the red fox come And brought his eyes before her, all at once. There where the cherry-blossoms spread their cups In a broad patch above the white-thorn bed, Spotted the tulips, licked the dew-drops from The glossy shelf above the white-wool grass, Stretched beside the empurpled couch, that showered Like Indian zebras, where the daisies showed Their budded hearts of red and gold at will. Anemones had crossed the barren beach, Until the keel came in where the blue space shone, One tiny gash-winged butterfly whose errant cry Was not for any distant space, nor for her face. She lay there with her lips half closed, and curled In half-closed lashes to her drowsy head, And knew that it would fall and die; and only saw Her in blue darkness falling, as her gaze Half-closed on the wide rolling world below The dying ======================================== SAMPLE 845 ======================================== Our voices echo from afar, Like maidens rising from the sea, That name your Star, And catch its beam to greet the day. The waves, that dash at noon, Are silent in their mystic caves, While all the fields that home design Were dark with clouds of silent green: Far in the distance dusky roam, Beneath the moon's resplendent sheen, A mighty Minstrel stands, The Pleiads' Sisters glorified, Who, to the spoiler chained, Yield up at Heaven his dewy bride. Ourself as lovely then as we, When valedictions new and old Float from their waters, and the long-drawn note Of Charon's silver trumpet sounds; And, as we list, we sound His olpe enchanted rills, Where the Nile wine-cups our hectic heats, And, rich in blessings o'er our land, Our own ambition lay: How sweet to roam, and fair to die On hiding rocks beneath the sky, By the sweet-smelling climes that share Their genial influence on the deep, Or find a refuge there, From the sharp tempests of the waves. How sweet to die in my true love's lap, With book, with book, with verse enwreathed! O, how I see her, strayed and fair, Exposed to the cold winds of air, Her shape how beautiful! And there are haunts, I hear, of all she loved, And I can find but home to spare; I hear the echo of her voice's call, Afar from hamlet and from busy thrall, To meadows hollow as her prayer. And like to one who wanders lone and pines, Surveys and tries to meditate, With meditating and with toil, To ease his pillow of distress, And, sick of a perpetual toil, doth sit In idleness to watch the clock, And list the silver-roof as tolls Around the house his sunken face; Or, all the while, his thought, out-speeding, gains Some still removed place of rest, Where, through the silent aisles, his ear is on the deep, A goddess singing to the grass, And faintly, as the moon comes, leaving sleep, Comes with the dreaming summer ======================================== SAMPLE 846 ======================================== "Gwendys", bymlock Clime [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries] In these back-crescent times of paint and red amid the mounded basins of the busy smithy, white gleam of the tinker black vis-a-white neighbor who, with dull-headed blue smoke at his head, turns the year's winter chairs to coal his smithy, and leaves the year's noises and troubles unseasonable months. In these back yard secures stall and repast a clean brown wooden room. Though the year is fast (I can't eat it, if so it should, I am one of them Thames bells!) I don't want to sit up on my bed all day, each foot numbered by mansoueers and spodies, and the post office sign keeps for a paper the year's, and I don't care about bighou to sit up on my bedspreaded with idiecer dust. <|endoftext|> "The Ballad of the Harp", by Aneddylis Limand [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] The men who can cross the river, take the bowls out from their parked cars, Rotterdam, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, dollars, newspaper, daily papers, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, newspaper, daily papers, newspaper mail, newspaper, newspaper, dollars, newspaper, daily magazine, newspaper, newspaper, daily magazine, dollar, newspaper, daily magazine, news, newspaper, dime, newspaper, Times, newspaper, dimpapers, newspapers, newspapers, newspaper, sous tous semblances de luxe de venir les hommes les sons encombantes de tous les unsots.De France is wounded America.De Linspedd, France is wounded America.The French war, between two hemispheres, both in Scots, half English, half English, War fought, two armies fell, the grass fell to the ground.But the shock fell, for the hathem was only good,And the bullet left the blood.It warred with the Saxons, but it was not metal, it was not stone,It was not stone, it was not stone. ======================================== SAMPLE 847 ======================================== "Tòau temps deir placait ma saber développés", by Julian Antermejo [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] Voilà, O slave halfatable. Dream’st thou the dream on that face of Thine I was long ago? Thou nursest that forehead, Divided in wonder and thought’s alarm: What waits for slumber in the clasping arm? Where the wan mountain meadow is furled By the trampling footsteps of the wheels of the years; The murmur of men when their country calls; The sound of drums—the drums—the hoarse, colloping thud; The clanging tower and palace, and the night black with the burning mass, compact as mists, in which a voice will rise and set O listen ye, in what hast thou hearted, the hard, the fierce, and manifold? C precoriously, O ignorant. <|endoftext|> "Out of the Days", by Charles Hanson Towne [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, The Mind, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] There is always some thing better than this—to have the comfort of a mountain friend, to give a hospitable voice when life shall end. But O never, never more shall I see these men in my living room again. Standing in my living room, I see the tall, wan, gladdening clouds, I see their skins worn away and all their plates flung back with nut-brown sugar. I cannot even rely on them and forgetful of the moment’s hesitation, that having been all before, the rapturous moment I would have gone on so far in the hunger of the soul, and that my brain was aching, painting upon the tapestry of your mind. <|endoftext|> "If the Princess Left Behind", by Arthur Lucan [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Philosophy] O my friend, my gift is the kiss of a woman by the motor road built for the master. The legs of my friend have brushed up on the green pastures. I took a lump of mould and watched him come back ======================================== SAMPLE 848 ======================================== "Three Songs at a Thunder", by Paisley Rekdal [Living, Life Choices, Love, Desire, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Three boys at a thunder-pit, One on the ocean green The other far-off in between The ants at my feet The seething cell singer Sing to me over and over Twenty, twenty The pleasures and marvels of five or six years And the romance of my first surprise At my side The pain of picturing the soft gray eyes On my left hand in the sun At the same time The dream of the figure of the saint consumed by noon <|endoftext|> "later", by Paisley Rekdal [Living, Growing Old, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Anniversary, Valentine's Day] I love you, wild rose, whose hue angry words affect the dull spirit And trembling poet shunnes to the limping wight, Benharrow. Now Benvenuto stares at the rain, And whistles, and drinks down the gloomy refrain. Now the rain pluck'd, and now it had to rain. The rain, stubborn as ice, clung and fought the wintry plain; But soon afar we saw, we knew not which, Benvenuto's dark retreat, The dull rain pluck'd, and bit his mouth with foam,hypocrites were his home. Aye, aye, a month, and a half, Benvenuto's blasts did wreak a foam As of blue bones rubbed to the earth, and tossed By the storm-blast on his winter-ocean, tossed By the flood-tides that the sea's wild rage dashes, darned with misery's blindness and blasts, Lull'd up in sleep by the waters of the unexprest. He was there in the wood, and his eyes were full of thought, With a look estranged, where he markt the light from his path, And he deem'd, as he mus'd, the blue spirits he knew by night Had been flown, or the impulses of the dream. He was young, but his cheek it flush'd, and his eye sparkled keen, As he wander'd alone, naked, wretched, by the stream. The old man ======================================== SAMPLE 849 ======================================== "Ingames", by Mary Barnard [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Activities, School & Learning, Relationships, Men & Women] For thee, my learned dust! I see the pink With white ribands hung loose and the strained look. O lips, I do kiss the knot Of sweet longing. I love you, you do. For your blush, I am young. Love’s a flame. O life, I do love you, I have loved you All unsponticed by years, Torn apart or one jot Of these my strong jugglers. My youth steals you back Only as the summer drear Does the roads, I am torn, only lost, So my arms, my legs, won Till I found you, my breasts. My silks, I caught your odors. My fingers, I knew them. But I could not attune you. I wore you as a lover does His bravest and his best, The man with your dream-like soul And the face of the pallid west, The lover of her eyes. But mine by the deathless glow Of her lips. And yours by the eyes Of a dawn that dispense Of more splendid hue and force, As the fugitive blood of the rose Ne’er ebbs into life. And mine, beloved, to grow Emaciated even within The leaves of the vine-branch’d tree, Standing poised in the sapphire sky, Loyal to itself and me, Serene, yet faithful to my vow! And yours, to live your lovers o’er, Your realm, and mine, your realm. <|endoftext|> "Storben et in rebuet ... ‘Pour her cold toast and drink china.'’ —John Donne Like an out-of-door funeral That turns the leafy hillside bare When the westering sun sets and shakes His glittering diadems from the braid Of olden forests answered to the tread Of many a footstep. Comes a sound Of clanging violin, and distant moans And barbarous disabout. And the Marchaunt That visibly is a dreamer grown Ever since he topped the Cossack-box ======================================== SAMPLE 850 ======================================== When I was little and had never eaten enough, I put on a pillow to lull my children to sleep, For every morning I woke up at four o'clock in the night With the curtains swinging on, and in the morning the maples Took another interest in their fur-robe, slippers, soot, And made them flee so fast about the farmer’s office That like I could see their backs inside a bruise, When I was poor and wished I was in my bed next morning. I was sorry for my poor children, I certainly must Call the little boy crumpled up in the lap so he will never Go to the door open, or else light up in the evening. <|endoftext|> "The movie", by LeAnne Howe [Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Race & Ethnicity] My parents had sent me to Arthur’s in November and Arthur has sold the scene as if he were selling. I believed in the sale of mild white cloth and it looked like a bleached cat. I never heard of flecks of light. And Arthur said, “Marge brilliance anoreas overthrew the audience.” I like my grandmother best. The song I sing is played out in my grandmother’s house and in the garage, Arthur says, my parents, the entire world open, everyone behind them pulling a warm lump of snow into a big dough. And Arthur says aloud to me, “Arthur, I’m your teacher—and you’re like an angel, O the teacher, I swear you are no clown. Can’t tempt me to risk your life: I’m frightened; for my heart springs up a great gap in your life before the world can’t touch it.” So Arthur made these fingers his, told those five against one another, each in the same kind, that the elves were priests, and Arthur made them his and he was just a Witch, and he had nothing else to sell. Arthur, the good old king, comes home, and before you leave, sir, he reads the papers in the service and gives you your attention, but here’s a letter ======================================== SAMPLE 851 ======================================== "The Neon Artist in December", by Linda Pastan [Nature, Winter] The ice trees are breaking, and the wind keen as a blade beneath the snow. Even the whales of cold nights allow themselves floating not without their owners deleted angrily against their sailboats, but still they won't appear to waken, nor can't be denied the topography of winter they themselves fill with ice. Instead they're trying to summon other trees which would be mockery to dissolve: small spars and papelaus; like bubbles those of a great pride. Even paper plaster; and the nails they're terribly still that ache for safety; but instead they are strong and placed alongside are they with which nothing can remain. <|endoftext|> "The Simmers", by Linda Pastan [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] The high trees are the deeper in the darkness, merely obscuring oils that are heavily pushed up like tiny feather quills. One could lean into it but the snow continues to make a drop into the top leaves and leave blooming alone where they had been left. That vegetation, like the potter’s ground, is what makes the wind leap up and out the leaves. Each one of these could be a happy shaking wind, or just scraping out a little ache, or pulling others as they would, or crushing out a slow-timbered list. Each carries memory also by its own means: a ship that was brought up by a reefer, but which kept it up so that it will out, maybe, to those trees alive in Virginia,or I know it says the names of those trees, whose names have been replaced by time after time, and I’m still wondering what is really the original of those trees. Each is a whole real illumination of those trees. The effect can’t be too detailed, or too detailed, in the rear windows or the back of the house, which, unless shaped on it, is not instinct with its own frailty. Each carries memory of others’s names, the once-to-year-old leaves, the small and visible things. <|endoftext|> "from Whose No Word", by Linda Pastan [Love, Desire, Relationships] Whose footaches under dirt ledges left their hair? Whose toes have wonnowed their shoes as well? Whose hair stands on an ash-green stamp? Who ======================================== SAMPLE 852 ======================================== "Hmmm", by Linda Rodriguez [Living, Parenthood, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] They “keep the house dryer than you”thought their friend Toma. He’d been on the job many last months along the street, chatting with Muhammad Ali: “she hasn’t been to the theater but I can tell you what it means I’m in the loseay, Dad; there isn’t be none of us to fight either square or to-night” There’s a lot of normal here,two long bone tan plates on top,two hands on my feet, a pair of underwear on the wall,so he can stand upright for hours till he feels ashamed when he springs to his feetand then how his breath beginsas he feels, his laboring breathtaking the open and the night,and I don’t want to talk to anyone who is around me,to those who do nothing but fuck myself. <|endoftext|> "Crisis Actor", by Sam Camp [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Popular Culture] The little man in the corner staring through a tearful ofiary insurance stitched shut up job suits Listen there and say he’s sorry for whatever tea mouters said before he was born in Partington and he’s sorry for not saying nothin but on what all debts are paid in redcoats and there’s nothing to look at but flowers, stones and dolls, toys, and pig iron stove bubbles and collars, everything but the bright or dazzled brown of toes I take a walk on. <|endoftext|> "from Fear of a Jail: An Office at Peoria", by Michael McClure [Living, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries] I was just pretending on a mildew that pierced my heart before it happened I was just pretending on a mildew before it it began to tear off a star when it burst out red ember and I heard the blood in my head I was just pretending on a mildew before it it began to tear off a flower and it ======================================== SAMPLE 853 ======================================== "The Morning Rill", by Derek Sheffield [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] I’ll sleep with you. —Springtime and “I Will Lilt” I’ll rest on your hills till the daylight is gone, Even the long grass and the tameless brook Whose murmuring voices my childhood have gone, Have wandered back over the hills to shed All that I might remember, the old brown hill, The oak tree and the meadow. And I, perhaps, may come To-morrow and visit the hills where I hear the surf’s Resonant uproar, and rise like a giant tree Half bush or aspen. So let me rest, unchill, As other days are lonely, and the living scene That flourished first in its splendour, and I think Of you as birds are, and of me as a garden and where My mother and I may never enter again. <|endoftext|> "Carpet", by Sarah unmarried [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] At a given place park on the north side of Ragged Mountain Worried, I hate To drop first to my father’s heart, leaving my baskets Among the bins. I carry out jars of wine, atters of flour, glasses of wine. After that, I receive a young soldier. No one knows that he’s meaning his ash-hung shirt. (I) But I, a young man, am a woman, A man, a body, a long-limbed, I am laughing. (I say) was a ragged business, a trade? I noticed that too! You’re wrong to say that, yes, I remember this, And in the far-off time, you know that, I am a woman. <|endoftext|> "From “The First”", by Felicia Doré I wish I knew the blue box on the mountain’s side, that sends the white noise of men and women back in two, their chests like shutsof dogs that tear themselves out of the air. I can feel the yellow box on the air that fills my hands. And the way they ======================================== SAMPLE 854 ======================================== "“I too old is”", by Nun & Angelico Roper [Pets] I’d write a poem about me in the boomerang and I’d know why they said I’d eat my peaker under pretence, and that’s not the way it is, but there’s not the way it’s not, but I don’t mean what’s on and it’s the style of it’s you still wish you could lick me but you’re onaz it’s not the way I wish you wrote me, wrote and now you’re onaz it’s an odium for your style. You feel so even queer, a feeling seems to you I wouldn’t kiss, so even scared, you want me to keep your hand out of your lifetime, and when —How knows that, how did I say, and who will say it, old friend?— your hands are a little pink peony, nearly gone to seed- ing: if you walked out across the road you’d never see —What is all this spring to me to do with you, old friend? And, “go back to Camelot,” and it’s the belief of you I’d better still be standing on a stoop. It’s even best, I feel— the company has left them for the third time, and there’s something strange in the crowd, as always, to say what they did, just to say it. “Where are you going, young man?” They tell me, not a word, just there where the lady did one last spring, and I’m not in the least interested awhile in anyone I met before, just not with a hand to grab one of them back to and carry a splintered glass on, that old lady’s back to something new, or something that doesn’t just not belong to why she could come back to me, and I’d just go back to see. . . . But later, my strange friend said to ask what I did already say, ======================================== SAMPLE 855 ======================================== "Tomps", by Frederick Novelette When John Keats They'd Hope You Know What A Poem is Tomps. They'd wish you knew What's on the lip and what's in the eye, what things in the song, what things in the pen, what what things in the hand, what things the hand is blank, what's in the heart, what's squint is tossed from it, what's worth in the purse and how worth a crust, what's money in the heart, what's on the wallet that could be enclos'd, value what you want There are jubs and there are teeth and bread and fruit and honey, nuts, a sandy pat with bread, and who doesn't love the grass and the swamp as much as the poppies glow, who has the courage to face the billowy roar of the ocean, who dares to go up and down to your death in your garland of beads and ashes, and to go up to your home in Banyan O's called the Creole boy. He says he's sorry for it and I say you know what it is, you see it is. I mean it is. I mean it is not. I mean it is as if I were alive all that winter. What's the worst to us now, to drive our two rails forward and resist this insanity, this unlucky stop of sudden movements that come every moment and vanish. Where's that now? To look at the widemouth, pluck from the face of the count to start at the head of the Billy Mile, to make out the feet and win at the last grip of the jail in Lorraine? to kill for a week and take a hour's audience with a cut. To bleed, to lie, to liar, to fuck, to excuse me or to lead, to jeer, to drink, to speak, to scorn of myself or everything, write. I'll have it all in use soon, for my time is brief, and the will is poor. Who knows, who dreams on the far side of the chain, of the chain and the hammer, the chain and the face? All your time is someday, and you will be lost, you are lost for a few days. But the least link in this history, of course, remains ======================================== SAMPLE 856 ======================================== "Happening", by David Ferry [Living, Disappointment & Failure] Find I my road? there's a road, anyway. That's where there's no road, anyway. Be good, I say. Make your way and walk in the dawn. Be good the way, the road is dawn. The dark will be yours if you will. What though late fall into the day, tomorrow? The way that you will be, the road is what none else Will have to do, the road is action, law. God is action, and the action will not die, But live the fight, the fight will die, And you will die, the road is a good poem. Don't set to bed, don't mindashing the fire. Your thanks for doing this, dying good-night. Goddamn you, I'm not sure, but I do. Look up at your face, there's a bright sun. The sun is not alive, but as anything. Break your dearest friend. You're an honest fellow. Dearly off makes it. Now there's a buck of your name. Any name Of a feed Where you're read, will do, no good thing. Any day. Any name, Any greeting. Any day. Any day. Any day. I got your sweet mama for the present. I'm in a huge body. I cling to your skirts, I know no ones, I love you, I love you. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Any day. Some people talk. Some folks hold private talk. People talk. Some folks hold private talk. You'd oughtn't talk. Nobody talk. A few people talk. <|endoftext|> "Saranh", by Carl Marc ======================================== SAMPLE 857 ======================================== "I’m a Man", by Jeanne Murray Walker [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] To have me always to hump myself and then thank God it’s a foolscap in front of your mouth. I was in the woods. I was missing an old woman, an old man… a woman, my hat in hand… a tree, a jug. The woman beside me grabbed my penis and laughed hysterically like a gopher… a gopher. The woman beside me grabbed my penis and laughed….magical innocent. <|endoftext|> "“Do You Come Back to Times, Snake-Prison”", by Chase Twichell [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] A calumet, ghost’s road, dark green, dazed trees silhouetted skyward. Caged stars of pondor: mountains of clay, and love’s sour light. Wind on the feathers: a rigid force: potential that made the whale (needle, a brain) blew its way into the ground. But silk: a steely blue Un't hatbanded to the sky (his skin) Congealed into the calumet (how eaten!), into the calumet (how eaten), the fish, and birds—on silken tissue… Mid-October’s rain, a blur: a wake. Hello. Get wet. Bundys spoke: anointment: a plumber, a pectoranel (mind) Bundys spoke: a brother of other names, sons of the same time to say something—in nowise precise as the matter, naming them: a fella: knees, head, heart, soul, body, will, unto them, steeped in vastiny. A boiling, well. 5. Ceremon: a ritual: the segment of clouds, two angels blackened by airo’s (hot weather) blast. Aherio: a stench, a (blu: blocks of silver)dust from a shower that was washed by: sunset: hills of clay, shapes stalk drippingly from a field of meadow’s last-green: hills of snowy white ======================================== SAMPLE 858 ======================================== Why am I afraid? I have slapped my shirt. I have missed the trunk of the tree. I am already afraid. I am waiting for a gun. I am waiting for a voice to reply. I am waiting for you to bawl to me. I am waiting for you to crush my breasts. I am waiting for you to blow my pieces. I am waiting for you to shake hands with me. I am waiting for you to kiss you before. I am waiting for you to force you to limp back. I am waiting for you to kiss you across the floor. All the house is in order. The walls are a sound of singing. My room is in the singers’ room. My servants are entering, crossing the street. I closed the eyes in the darkness of the street. They turn each from inside his pose, His voice shimmering on them down the street. His face is only a word in the mouth. My servants tiptoe to speak French. My servants are certainly in the way of the French. <|endoftext|> "Passenger", by Joan Glower [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce, Relationships, Men & Women] “What is a marriage, for one man one Angela Jackson starves alone, in another buggy.” My husband will remember it. Then I'll stand by the mirror to see if I see him and no one else has done this. If he stands on the counter in the night you may come over by that. Some of us wear glasses because we do not look out to see each other through the door. Some come early because the light rains. I love their smell and I love what to sip through the glass. I love their love and I love what we suffer yet would it be happiness to drink in my cup that impossible joy of life as the daughter of the invisible magnet in her rugs and her skirl of rings. She has the stars and flowers. <|endoftext|> "American Roots of Immortality", by John Peck [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folk ======================================== SAMPLE 859 ======================================== Helena, I take thee to my breast, I crush thee in my bone-like arms.I press thy garment with my heart. "Ages of other worlds, far other gods," I cry, "and other gods, and other wilds," I cradle thee with my hand, O Thalassian, my child!I take thee, and with thine, my child!Thy feet are in my frame, thy hands still ache in my hair.I fain would hide me in my depths, I fain would hide thee where thou art:Far other worship oer the world doth start.Far other worship over all the world doth start. "I have loved lads anon, and loved a score—Ere ever life began. Yet there are three now that I see;And one is the sun that never more I see.Yet hope I none? I have; beyond a dream.And they will surely stay to greet thy beauty beam." "I have no day but one hour took" The carrier-wraith says "and has borne it far" And hastens to his little room to cheer him up With his last supper; so the Poet down To his death-slumbering slept, but found his eyes Afar, and filled their place beside his face; And so awhile these words found Aidan back, Out of the dark whereof the mystery held The author, while he read the perfect text. "Go forth, go forth, amongst the nations there Help this old enemy whom thou hast made Giant and true; and let that be, for they take Them now, not all; but with the seed that comes, And after it shall come, whereat all men Be still, seeking thy feet on ways forlorn And for deliverance of the ancient world, And all their counceths and their ruined rhyme, Be patient then with patience for a word, Not sparing of thine eyes, but loving them So that they serve thee worse than all men are, Thou and thy messengers, go forth alone, Whom thou hast made thyself a friend to help; But he, the flower of all, whom thou hast made, May now be ruined for their love of thee; For pity take them hence, lest ======================================== SAMPLE 860 ======================================== "The Poet", by William Barnes [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I’m with you, dear, One summer eve Where honeysuckle grow, A shy and timid lambkins fly About and near. To see them skulk, one hand on lip, A second time, An anxious fleece I did not beg To lie outright. With this small rhyme I swear, my friend, You’ve made it long: I’ve squandered nothing new, I’m telling you, But never rhyme. You’ve never done it, dear: you’re blind. You’d think to earn it, pray: It’s pleasant, pray. You’d think to earn it, dear: you’d lack it here. How many books, dear? One I love to read. I’ve squandered nothing, dear: One that I would love to read: Or wake the thought, to bless. Another day to thrill; Another-day still to tell. Think once of love, dear: think once more. I’ve loved and prayed for you. <|endoftext|> "The Slow minutes", by Edwin Arlington Robinson [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Philosophy] The soft, damp autumn that goes down over the city, the grass dark, but still wet, the still light, and the world hushes, and I feel myself only at home. Oh, the hills ahead of you, the dreary hills, the empty places and walking hills between, the silence and the empty spaces and the unfriendly cold. You turn and, terrified, hold your breath, uncovered by the garments and the cold of the season that has come. The white winter ... and you turn and, turning, look up at the white sky. You are the face you have lived. Oh, the poets who come down the wide sidewalks with breasts like bare trees and obscene and beautiful, and they, you and that darkness, and they, you and that darkness. <|endoftext|> "Mr. George Kris", by Robert Gladysander [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities ======================================== SAMPLE 861 ======================================== "from Sunday Morning", by Jay Colmaine [Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Because everyone was growing up in the morning, someone was up on the rooftop, a local police station car, asking hello to lunch, at the hall. But that was before the black people went out, the deadplay their business on the same private mission, and someone got stripped of tickets before leaving the car for another woman to check for the first time on the staff of the business. And after that, when the bodies began to show themselves, the bodies were filled with something like a miracle, and there was no being any difference. Just as soon as the police get sent to the cell door that day, no one could carry the cargo, we hurried over to the cell, caught a glimpse of the whole world, or so it was in the vortex, then the police’s mad doing, over and over, over and giving us a tram, it started over here, now it wound around us and then we found out we was back on the planet, the flash of those two roads that split asunder and charged us in their mid-air manufacturing us to sally out our mettle, all our parts together together together, a voice murmuring in the outer ear suggesting its opposite when it said this is music and yon, and over and around this is some new thing, some favorite one, this one-handed spring, the minor half left to itself, the other half emptied to us in broad daylight before the whole thing remains first to us and then to us. <|endoftext|> "Rain Song from My Father’s Breast", by Jay Colmaine [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Paullain Breaks’ Winter rost reaches the mountain’s foot. The lake winds cold; your parents’ cars lope behind your shoulders. The sleds are swollen with ice, your parents wear thin clothes. The snow stumbles the bicycle by your feet. The guest with a star-shaped voice sings all the year for the ice lions. A dark and shivering frost coldly drives you ======================================== SAMPLE 862 ======================================== "Interable Drift-Wood", by Clark Coolidge [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Popular Culture] He stands on the alert sticking five bucks in a box marked for somewhere, maybe, under a linden tree, wrap your neatly ruffled nurse- sad that he is nothing like black cravat spearing his own vacation from a hotel shirt with three tassels and a knife and his name there beside the crimson- rector with a knife in his left hand glancing at the Apulets of New York speeding to the Apulets of Goodwill squelching their radios on our front, squirming their late- er books on our new British stock, the communes between bucks and bucks, the infamy of an accursed custodians, their uniforms crossed on so many pious negroes and their diatribes tossed in the Caribbean, movesthat, priests and their vests, and the apulets of Ireland, the apulets of Anti- 49, sperm gas, and Lincolica, money and sheepskin, and men like their fathers walking with their husbands over the twilit arc- of over-space that breeds them to peace in the saccharine of freedom, their deaths and discoveries and their dowsing and discoveries and their dreeing and marauding and they sing like Ireland's sarones and all that remains to follow. The races now run up to these fair lands where the ancient guards of Leland too, where even the legend-brim of Irish-speaking and the Macaroni tongue of Ireland, and all that remains to follow, Here are Galen's children, Children of the sixties, unstalking of the litany, wise of speaking in the dead of night as they romped in the gutter and all that remains to follow is a handful of counters in which God made us, a sign of the beginning of grace ======================================== SAMPLE 863 ======================================== "Portrait with Sails", by Matthea Harvey [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Home Life] There’s a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street in the fall of the dawn, and you bend your head and think a coolness saddens your narrow cage, while a girl in ragged yellow dress, sad-eyed and thirsty, from behind the counter, carries the truck, the truck, the truck, and you start to hear, “Through the bars, Hoah! Hoah! Hoah!” and the band starts to wheel. Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah! Hoah ======================================== SAMPLE 864 ======================================== "Caw", by Donika Kelly [Living, The Mind, Nature, Animals] “How I hate this” “The wind’s horn,” Hask rage, “the elm-tree’s cold,” harrade, in a hurry to sound something. Don Byron hummed like a violin in pain over looming defeat. Arthur’s rebuke had come to be made abstract. Arthur’s eyes remembered that moment, and his voice rippled like a bell along the beach. Stretched across the parkway I went alone, thinking of a sweet herb leaving still fragrant balsams: Autumn in its skin exited nothingness to sing. <|endoftext|> "Beanock", by Rae Armantrout [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Dull air in November is not always coming from the quiet vigorous months where the grass (I mean the grass)’s a throat with a grove of willows and the water here across the cold stone curb and the stones in front of bricks all along it every day it’s still dark in regular sun so warm is the air and I wonder if it is not the wind the wind comes from a shiny driveway when I sniff at the path the stem the wind with its promise of a Mayday’s promise for the heat’s promise after the snow when I sniff now only the fragrance are I sniffing as fresh from the past <|endoftext|> "Abandoned Farmhouse", by Kathleenyd admonishing a Super-Masse student of his early fire-smoke without the means of a Bedouin mansion on the hill (where the linnet sang, hark! the wood owl hooted, and the angry black roeuleawn’s taken wing, and the owls and the owls sat crooning their last—“Abandoned Farmhouse’s Low Hen house,” the which the same cannot say—and I can only say that for a Sufi country house he met with a stranger brown and white-headed adjacent bodiless wind ======================================== SAMPLE 865 ======================================== "Mephistopheles", by AbouSayau [Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] All things decay ... but thou ... still is the eyebright ... in this wrinkled, sodden, still-blue heart.... For me, my eyes are dark and tender; Heavy are my hands and cold. I seem but to the covers ... then again home. <|endoftext|> "Invisible Magic", by St. John Sheman [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships] We have been out together all these long, pure nights. ... I have seen the shadows flutter and gleam, the one glad morning.... Nay, we have seen the shadows fall like swords. ... And now, as quiet and sleepy our dreams ascell. We have been out together, hands moving, through deep and hell.... And yet, as if to arrest was in me, I must hold by one great girth of friendship, pressing on others' fingers, --Blown apart by different dawns or nights of life, until life, the city's passion, and death, drew me aside, --Blown apart by divers perfumed hours, the dead leaves on the boughs.... The moon has come and pressed our bodies against each other, Spilt our tears from our eyes, and our path-lets, we have seen; Night has closed all over us and we, too, have become one star, --Lo, we have been out together with Life. <|endoftext|> "Loving and liking", by St. John he humbly swollen, skeered at by desire, having given food: It was vain for us at the feast of the soul. When she looked at you she said, "Don't sit and fiddle at us, for you have given me something to eat, nothing to eat but bread. I shall send you something that would take happier home, I have nothing to give. I have nothing more to give than to ask you, for I have nothing to give. I have nothing more than to take what I give. There are no circles I have not as yet given, the gift of he who gives nothing shall give. As soon as you sleep I will tell you the worst, how ======================================== SAMPLE 866 ======================================== "Rounder in Place", by Landel Ursum [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Your last words, Madam, are these, These flowers that last but not the wind? I think ’Tis not the earth they look so strange. These drowsy days, this lengthening into week. This grief, these nights, days gone against their hearts, These eyes that looked late into the Great Spirit’s eyes? I think ’Tis in the blood that makes them pale. Their voices rise, they listen with a sound. You took them with no words. You only have to listen to the wind Which speaks as do your fathers to you now. They are the types that make you speak. They speak, they change, the light that leaves you gray. It speaks the meaning of a rifted cloud Across the glassy north—the mountain’s sky. The sounds it gives you, speak again. You only have the ten most lazy gods To guide you on from day to day. <|endoftext|> "Evenings", by Kay Ryan [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries] That day I saidG-ff-gu-gu!Just—Cock-rib.Now I’m a periwckat thing,Now I’m a periwckat thing,And now I’m left aloneAll alone, alone, alone,And the puffs and tats and tats againBlow back across the field, just as they.That day I saidG-ff-gu. Once-afternoon I toldA lie to what I’d been to-night.That’s the way I’d made it.That’s the way I’d made it. <|endoftext|> "The Waking", by Dan Brown [Living, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Home Life, Philosophy] On the wide table, the string of ancient beads you listened to while your life leapt and your days began, now the wild earth seems a changing mask now the hidden path leading to the dawn. From now through now to the last, and as it changed, to the old decoy you become a name, now the deep waters, the long land ======================================== SAMPLE 867 ======================================== " Coming of Age", by Tom Pickard [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, School & Learning, Philosophy] I’m very tired of being told That nothing on the way to you Has risen out of beer, Locked in, unbuttoned, And you are as liege, As I, have talked to you Hid under the trees, Asteered and hidden Just to be free. There are no secrets that I dare to dream; I have heard a tale that turns to lie. The poet who did not disdain to sing Must also, I believe, rest his head. When he went to the city, I think his ears Must be strung like a lost lamp in a room. I have heard a diamond cries his heart Abide with him, though for others not. He must possess the soul—but it is his crime This is not what he takes his careless way. For, though he has passed to the city, he finds There is no bar to doors. He must deceive His foolish friends, lest they should guess his speed. My neighbor! an old song or telephone; He must believe that his songs are true, His earnest but too careful; yes, instead, That there is such a voice as in dreams I have heard; That he may be mad to cry when he is free, But not unsatisfied. Well, I have a hill To climb; I have a mountain there, Where, at sunrise, I may lie down and sleep And rule deep heart and mind. There is no fear of death, But I have reverent care upon this rock For the old man who is gone. God grant, he may be mad, But he will not allow me to have dreams. All my life he has forsaken. His ears have heard a voice, yet he is deaf, Still, and is on a granite. Old dog, why is the man walking on the hill? Why should we talk in the dark? Well, he is dead, they call out silver shrines And bury him in the evening, While the early grass is white with angels. In the bright and happy daylight of the day God gave little Leander To his parents, who were young. The live coal within Was not that their greed could not ======================================== SAMPLE 868 ======================================== "In a Grove", by Robert Duncan [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] Beneath a clod of stars, commingling Earth with one eye alone,This Land o' Cottage is offering Flowers to these most strangeAbout Eve in Paradise. (What I mean is the roofs and roofs again.) And with the house of Heaven on iron pillars He doth in a silver chain entangle The misty centre of this foolish thought. Yea, where yon far walls glitter like swan's wing, The moon moves in the blue land of the sky. And oh, if one can picture understand The hues of heaven and of Hell's blue vault, What misty corner where the dust-lurk lies! But he did not design gardens. He went To a garden. Pinks adorn his tomb, And every flower is bursting in bloom Along the marble arch of the ramp In jewelled waves of the marble arch. Ah, no! They have been, while towers massed in the dust. I saw a face like a clock tower. It spoke A low sweet word once when the sun hung low And the sky was cold, and the south wind blew Among the clamors of the populace. She was giving birth to one who heard the sound And looked for comfort in the word to come. But she was not a moment whose veins ran slow As her pulse softly flowed. A grief was his That would not have come to assuage a woe. He lay in a niche in the desert. The wind Threw the leaves of the autumn-blossoms at his feet And whistled their way over him. An omen sweet Rose in the folds of her robe of the wind's wings. A crowd of pygmies came and shook the walls As the wind shook the ruins away, and then Arose among the ruins, crying, "Who will hear? Who will unlight the eclipse? One lives to-day The only way to purge the secret here." <|endoftext|> "The Crosses", by Robert Duncan [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Love, Romantic Love, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Men & Women] By sudden shock of grief, Her arms ======================================== SAMPLE 869 ======================================== "The Beasts are but a herd", by Natalie Diaz [Living, Death, Nature, Animals, Religion, Christianity] When an animal eats an animal eats a beast and devours an animal in the course of a day he is given one and he lives in the woods in the middle of whole a cow and it lives in the hills in the cowshed woods he lives in the woods and the milkmaid and the cattle range about just as all their habits are the rivers taking him out and running him out of the cows when he dived in the cows The dogs are but a brood inside a hollow tree He breeds the snake He breeds the brood when he drinks from the cup The blood when he breeds it upward turns To meet the gnom when he drinks from the cup The animals Babe with their twofs and endings He feeds the cattle when he drinks from the flagon when he drinks from the spring when he digs through the root And the tongue of isps wings the olive When he drinks from the pile The milkmaids bring home their lovely young <|endoftext|> "Vines", by Fridolin McCall [Nature, Trees & Flowers, Weather, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Or today in our ancient capital today we will sacrifice ablack pansieslet big tribute to the future stump with terrible and menacing pistons. Because four young popods cannot serve them. They keep languor in their country and she must bring candles for Christ’s sake. Only three pickers have God for King Stephen.We have been here and poured wine for the soldiers.Dromed through the waxen dark and sharpened the body of Christ into pattern and blade-harness to the sky.Suddenly a boy in his uniform and I know he cuts through the leather and ends the sullen light of Christendom to be a man of many wrinkles and pluckt it out of our mouths.Will it always be like this for the dead, or like this be the wine for the damned? <|endoftext|> "Questions About Jordan", by Joseph Brodsky [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics, Race & Ethnicity ======================================== SAMPLE 870 ======================================== "Slatchestus & My——", by J. V. Cunningham [Love, Desire, Relationships, Men & Women, Mythology & Folklore] First you were put in an elegant place, Where the candlelight was a golden square Through which to pass all pleasures but your days, And few there be whom you could anywhere spare. Always were you, and every day were there, You, forsooth, to take an appetite, And would begrudge the time in which to bide At a great height until you came to dust. And this man when you called him nothing said When he threw you off. Apologising, You looked like a thief, and slept. No questions Would you have been told, and never slept. And when the morning broke in red and white, Against the clock, you did your part to say, "It is time now, and I am happy, I think, To be off from a life which anyway Is just to get behind." There was an end That fortunes had not made a living yet. For months and years he was your type; and if The rivulet was going still to run As high as it was, and never reached the end, How did you get the ridings-up again? He liked to have the ridings up to cast, And if he fell, he couldn’t fall; for him He saw the paper fly and haven’t yet. That night he wrote the name out of the hand That nothing could have cost since yours was sold. I think it must have been a horrid shop Or else the end of this second show in France. Pardon me, mud though, I think you know, A carpet was on it and you went off, Or maybe sad as this one did his best To hang upon it and have just inside. You knew the way it was, and there was love. Not love, but simply a garden. <|endoftext|> "Three Flies", by J. V. Cunningham [Relationships, Friends & Enemies] Three flies are flying in the cloud, You and me unaware, And since we met you in the shroud Are maybe fairer rare Than Titian's bold and free. I like the Mothil, and the crowds, ======================================== SAMPLE 871 ======================================== "Escape, Real”", by Todd Boss [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens] I would make beautiful “idea"] Frost, move away where these are most steady I am so afraid in whatever be fled I would work the Willawacze river If “this be the right one” were not a snake-bye (a song that resembles sleep) I would push my boat near the slacks If “this be the right one” were not a rubber The boat might not float it is my new world If “this be the right one” were not a library “ancestral” If “this be the right one” were not a library “learned,” When I glance across the century of “heart-brothe (the truth not injurious because it is so-3) I would rush out and strike the frozen knuckles (especially the “womb-buck (knowing she’s a goddess worth seeing) if I could ... What is this new world? What are we to say for these? (you)", <|endoftext|> "The Policyist", by Todd Boss [The rules are new, but the idea annoyed, though imperial) Have so much evidence to show You’re neglecting what has been fair to yourself, and in what has become obsolete to your country, for those who find it hard to renounce a name, and which, if the reason is not selfish, are not sexual. That was the hour when the giant Earth was rocked, that the gigantic water rushed at its germs like colerated iron, or the elephant rocked at its foundations. In what has become obsolete to you? But the giant earth is still the accrete of the local Spirit, or the individual mud of the country that is stupid because of its sucker and not the general evil, and no one but herself with her downcast head and uncertain smile, and her small trees, which already have shaken hands to them, and had a piercing but deep down, under the name of “Time” and the year after “The Memory” and the tangled Shinea falter on the hook or does it not seem hard for us to collect for the Emperor in a ======================================== SAMPLE 872 ======================================== "Winter Journal: Gray Shadings", by John Greenland [Living, Death, Growing Old, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] O! ye Dead, Whittington High-bred tollbo: Ye arena-generations We here no more Not once to welcome summer’s beams, As, rude piano-mower, Thou comest late and spilst From worm to worm: Like winter snow Freeze not your limbs, but softly blow. While air we breathe, ye cool From jugular refraction To make next week thy labours just? Awake, Master! Though the wind should beat, In the next room the sun will shine: Yet will not thou from industry Thy fatleness of heart, But turn with a full hand to wheat: An eye-sore ox that gnawed before Then did the gallows-roof no more. Thou art the Flemingsang: I hear Thy doitless clatter. I see a window filled with white And black against the welkin green: I see a veils of white; A ladder of the sky looks bare, The upper air to sky is seen; I'm looking through its steep ascent, Across a market city dull Where burnt-out caps the streets are loom: I'm looking for my eyes, that burn Seen with a agonizing goad. I look--from window to roof-pane; I see the flames lift up and load In noisy questionings of hate; I hear the convent bells again. Through murrain of unfriendly dark I see the hills of yellow smoke Are crumbling in the valley steep, Where deni-glazed barns open close, Where little people buy and sell Long nights of black tobacco-dreams, Their spirits haunted by the dews Of wind-blown lanes and fading boughs Beneath low-falling on the noon: I'm looking for my eyes; they say (As they turn homeward) "Good night, Yea." <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 873 ======================================== "If I’m killed,"—"Her covering" (Hermanugs named "Black") "with its linen." (On which that day the knife took to itself the white covering.) : "When our bodies are on firm, it is frequently the knife. But what is it supposed to me that?—the ladies are admitted one and all, not openly. Those who have discussed it, they finger its hands and lips and tongue: "It is called white." And others they add: "And the manner in which you compare your own true blue against black, sweet poison with black," ameroons of roses—Polly Blake, “The difference is surprising.” (Such beauty has not been made to lose its faith.) . The apartment in which we sit forever is a segregated place: and there there, a family sheltering leaves of roses— two cards, which—I still no totally unwindily take off their leaves—have been infusively well caught together by a Hano of dimensions and forms, which I saw twelve long-talented olive trees— fuchsia standing in the sun—holding a stick against the white. The garden is in this case— two orange trees on one side, I might even have asked for one—and not have asked for two. But I have a plan which I propose, to make your shade better. The object of this poem is not to let imagination your rose, and as you get out of that pleasant light, my beloved. . . . . In my dream, which is simply that thing, but that I am not the one who might be president, whether Scylla or Geryon were actors, whether in wedding scene or song, I have never sought out much. . But I must also have some business, sour of the caterpillars, the sawdust, or sun that is neither tragedy nor pungent nor even useful, not too fast and elegant, but simply guarding the opposite shore. . . But the part which is not to amuse is the story of the tortoise, the leopard, the hare. It is the commonest crocister I must be told, but must also be what rhymes I have written ======================================== SAMPLE 874 ======================================== "Jurberw", by William Matthews [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] the Anaxagoras 1 What is permitted can only be denied: Buddha, the nymph without a peer, Nymph, you see this beautiful year.2 Wandering about the world, you find, There is a city in my mind. Sometimes I am a wanderer, Sometimes, an eagle in a tree, With wings of the dark dooms, and bear The winds, the sunlight, and the dew. Here I will sit, and to your pleasure give The fairest of the fruit to live. And as an eagle soars on high, The best of my life straight defy All that is best on earth. There you, precinct of the departed, go, Farewell to all that heaven may show, To me and to the memory Of dreams, and always, it may be, Of works already written.3 Days in a silence and the night Silent, save unto her who hears, And never dreams of passion's sway, And looks beneath her trembling eyes, More radiant than are the days gone by, The glory and the wonder of the year, The whispers of the wind and of the sea, The whirling days, the gold and song gone by, The days gone by, the weary ways, The gulf and me, the doom of fate, The dreams that make her cry. Not always does she think to pass, Even as she spins, the dream she waits; The eyes that see her, cannot see, The lips that smile, the hands that hold. The soul that loses, drives, deceives, And though she falters, yet she sees, As in the changing light of leaves, The face she waits for and receives. The rain may fall, the wind may come, The rain may come, the clouds may fall, But still she cries, "I am at home, I cannot find her for at all." Unless you sit on supper- chairs And draw your drawings out and down, You speak the words you want to know, And when you're nothing but you think. There is no meat that you can eat Unless you square it with a crust, ======================================== SAMPLE 875 ======================================== "End of Winter", by Lucie Brock-Broido [Living, Parenthood, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] As, by the wall of the Hotel, Firmly clung the hands of the girls, Clean favored tablecovers they bore, And from the pages of books before Their shamefaced ruth-seekers came, Brisk as bachelors, steadfast and strong, Unreckoned and silent, a page for all, The page self-taught by the maidens thrall, And stern as the old chateau's grannery, The page self-knowing, the maidens brave To the funereal lull of the fireside, To the down of the ilex-laced Ellec marriageist waked by the sun, Ere the wild and the passionate race Were made to be young and to die; Serene and sublimes, unresentful, Cold as the passion of love and hate, Unoccupied, godlike, self-contained. Then I remembered the pang of the fray, Joy, hope, glory, and sang of the joy. With you have I had no conviction That the triumph is braver than hope; And the way of all, self-unpromulating, Is the pathway of triumph and travel; For naught can absorb the emotion That sparkles within it or flashes without it, And naught can absorb us or cure its faintness. Yet no despair can be undergone, Or restored, or absolved; The thanks of the strong are discerning As I pour the full cup of daylight today. And for this, now that I have done this thing, What would you have done, O my little boy, Standing in the night by the wall Reading the riddle of life, With your arm around my heart And your face turned to the window where We had paused to listen to what is, And the weary reading to-day. <|endoftext|> "A Ballad of Baseball Burdies", by Scott M'Combina requituate the colburn rabble and reprehensible aims that a local ======================================== SAMPLE 876 ======================================== "Twelve years and I've a Lord", by William Blake [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] The scientists are not levanted by the ones who shot diamond stones and killed archangels instead of playing diamond soles on the walls. The scientists have not, apparently, tossed upward into celestial fields. Although they are not brass cannonading the sky, the clouds descend, and never, from too high a height, a sky of so many millions equal the sky sinks in slime. Those who went astray that didn't know themselves having only begun at scratch-marks. They are always assotted by their capacity for the mischief of an eye. The clouds are of a sudden too much just to touch the ground. They are swarming over the heads gradually flung in the corner of their heads to scratch at sun and lightning. Their frets are stirred by the coming rain that follows after hurricane lashing our doors across houses. The clouds are of a timely size distracting themselves from the sky. When they are nothing but commotion our eyes run like frighted sharks home while at night they get buried in the rock at night. People are celebrating divers falls from far countries. <|endoftext|> "The Tooth", by William Blake [Nature, Animals, Weather, Religion, God & the Divine] It made short so Is the Tooth no less To alway preach than to confess There was only God who had one poor day. The reason why’s simple is that Holy Sky No situation near a birdie is too bright to manifest. Whoe’er refuses to share his cup, he will quit eating. The Tooth is the bitter to the very lips of his grim parents, racking him whenever he sits thinking about the rarest thing in all creation nothing else is known by the definitions of conscience. And there’s no sly way marks to the name of the birdsome thing that I’m supposed to have. <|endoftext|> "Midnight Office", by William Blake [Nature ======================================== SAMPLE 877 ======================================== "Petsarweak’s English Book", by Edward Hirsch [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life] The year’s hope is a tree, blasted forever. Its fate is a pang of doubts. We two are one’s witnesses, and our star A stranger is the eye of our man who is gone. Into the light’s pure orb of love a cup of fire. The outer world revives. No one can eat mine, my life’s red heart desire. If I call on me in anger, I do not say it. In my private cell every morning my lips are wet With bitter tears and stones. Where my faults fly. If I call on me in anger, I do not cry. I never cry, in my home my heart rocks and does not and will never cease. Oh, my delights, I know what you are. You are, you are the father, the mother. What mercy it means to love? My faults never learn to accept them. Oh, the cursed one, you are the cursed one, How long will you vex my children? I tell you to want to fly to your father. And so must you always do it. Who is there on earth, he’s known all. The father I know. The child I forgot. <|endoftext|> "Of Modern Books", by Robert Hedin [Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books] Of volumes—heavy volumes, horribles, golden bookstalls—and tiny cups filled with ink, now filled with water—are the bottom binding of one who for many years seems confused here in her window there. Of books but few are the least noted by that sensation. Of pens with no periwiggy but what no one understands or recatance comprehends. Of paper--freeze—pomadinos, Godde Selima, Februaries—and so on. Of a seat on Prince’s table, Humor Garden, there come the fruits placed there for dancing all manner of wet along the tables, and fish out of their element in the sky. They looked as though they were pleased they had never seen anything so fine and composed. The first three outsters walked off ======================================== SAMPLE 878 ======================================== "Islanders on a Horsefly", by Alan R. Shapiro [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] We have a word for it with a glance, like love’s amazed to become commonplace, or the mountains of l’image which have been shown us by the sun rising from the ocean floor, sometimes our thought must have been a gesture I had wished to use for an apprenticed outline in reference to wood. I prepared the jingle and drooped the lines. A precise gesture to avoid the wind’s advance had given a considerable force back. I took an exchange for the umpteen-o library photograph of handkerchief, raised the overcopping, ruined book, the wall overcooped, and taped to a field of daisies. The entire columns of the speech-preserving book kept unexpectedly bowed to me. I had to turn an army to make of my knees and hair to become as a stranger’s, an unknown guest’s, knowing so well how at least our last breath would roll, since we were all still sleeping, in the hurry of breath and I was torn down by the vision I had been— so that when it turned out, without any— toward the sea I could have stood still. I was left there in the body-sweeping state, invisible in the gaudy stairways, motionless as death’s roll—and gone black hollow- pink mase! A shell in an new face, what will it do with this? Nothing. There was once a time this world vanished in our wakefulness, but we learned that a poem is the fact. I used to live this quiet house and name it, that’s made a world and a map again, and that’s how it is. <|endoftext|> "Spoils between reverted", by Geoffrey Hill [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity ======================================== SAMPLE 879 ======================================== "Blight's 2017 ", by Bruce Smith [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Money & Economics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] (In a bar of prisoners, sitting in a bar chair, black or red with supper sinewy moss clambering around me.) Black beads float into the holes. It's the abyss of the prisoner sitting there. Black skin stitched into a buffet cloth that looks like an Europe hit from behind. If I'm not unconscious, I am conscious that I was born in there looking for a place to wash my hands melted, clean the cracks, and suddenly you see another one with sponges in it. It's the cross you see here: that there was no bar to turn your order to art. There's a tab to turn the corner I belong to. If I'm not conscious you know how to cook, bake, boil, scour, salt; if I don't learn how to wash, cleansing, a whole day of work to do. Sometime, down the alley, up the alley, down on the eight car saloaked with cell phones and hogs. Cook's knives claw into stone. I ask the boy in. He sort of simple old movies when he's home from school. I ask him to stop thinking about these things, or melt in them like hot water. I keep equations, but he won't listen. He's always looking nice, sleepy, in there. Minutes drive to their beds. I still like good people. When I die, he'd turn his eyes for hours, like a man being hungry and longtemers traversed by glass. Sometimes I like his eye so nearly white that you can see it through the glasses, but when I dance, he'd turn to me and say, “Damn!” and then he'd say, “Damn jobs!” Under a table of three pens he scann’s another man hiding for his tea. He can sleep without being ashamed of his projects, so he can drink. This being the goad-and-bump boy can take care of his money, but the coffee wasn’t bloodiest if he were, but he won't have his lunch after dinner. But I will tell you the ======================================== SAMPLE 880 ======================================== "Calmly Iock", by Charles Northman [Living, Life Choices, Nature, Summer] Calmly Iock, the seasonably midge In the sand, the ice, and the scent of the olive trees. It is like the shapes the faculty recording In a canvas. It is a two-lane of clouded steel Hanging there between. Suddenly the bright blue Sky suddenly green, the saunter's edge. The hand-painted masks Are the signal fires of the Rhineland. Outside the sunlight, a slight dust settles On the przed blaze in the scribbled yard. In all the rooms is something On the table. There is something In the background, something familiar In the parlor, something Inside. A hand-basin of yellow paper. Not knowing it, the old housewife Has placed it there, silent and cold. I let it scatter it in the river, For I think about it, and an uncle Of his, the uncle of old age and who died, Dozens their children, stupidly human, Drove away, with gulls, their children, And all their ersatzuel for food and fire. I remember the example of farmer Reaching to the little village store, Its muddy wooden plums, its enormous thurns. A girl with a cane, a boy, and a girl Standing hand-in-hand in the blaze. What are you doing here, downriver, Downriver, downriver, downriver, Ten children, four ducks, a featherless flock Of three great water-casks, standing arow. Five lilies gleaming on an arbute floor, And they are a fire of splinters hanging, One of them is burnt in effigy, And that of the female creature. This are the things we watch for the first time. And then a pile of comrades We will attempt in the river. <|endoftext|> "Crisp", by Joyelle McSick [Living, Death] When I think of it, when I think I have seen him in life before I know The secrets of the theater below; When I think of him, and think of him, Consider how his hands grope open as seeds; Between his eyes a light lies ======================================== SAMPLE 881 ======================================== "Disarmed", by Jennifer Bernstein [Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries] Each motion as fixed as the Empty tongu to avoid lost realm Has been abandoned, each mindless turn away from itself and, unlike cases, lately per- ceived retortive back home. Whose breath escaping from his eyes, has gone dry and in a bad slant gets all his recover in his back Will he decipher what took his intelligence away so he hats and is drawn to some blind un- precisely, was only fleshless, Is the response to a task less judicious and important, nature’s exhaled, astonished, the beloved one sealed from the known move, makes of the Mother un- fair, fleshless, the quenched, until it travels him to discover the set of what he says: the heart- power and the enormity of what is suffused in him is trivial, is trivial only because it is practically but because of self- residence it is hard to count. <|endoftext|> "Sea", by Kay Ryan [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & the Philosological, and the Universe in each life. From the ocean and the rage of death God and the soul go forth, ill and good ignorant by itself, the same disintegrate which was described before in other years before in different latitudes, in either life marked and memorable the one in the other, where the changes are noble and bare and trivial, the same myriad pouring, looking for mercy, the same perfect doses, a breath beginning to nourish a world made otherwise like a seed that was then. In which the soul is parted from the body, which now is a place of refuge and of rest and renewal, of which the soul draws near and sees the waiting companion, believe and admit and admit and admit and admit and admit and admit and admit and admit and finally admit and afterwards the seeds are ripe in presence of these creatures, avenge and bring into being the fruits that change the earth, engrained from earth, and from its own dark earth. <|endoftext|> " ======================================== SAMPLE 882 ======================================== "Christmas Trees", by George Szirtes [Nature, Winter] The cherry bough it covers but adds no berry —  waiting for the bride to wear. When snow   leaves fall they are nought compared to snow. <|endoftext|> "Don’t Seem Western In The Changing Light", by Dean Szirtes [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] The sumach blooms afarted, appearing to flash with blooms, everywhere except in sky, as if, an Earth of Doves &taking held in the air like a cupbeater’s spoon, everywhere except as if in space, as if, a Mother couldn’t Tell. As if, far down, I never should conjecture a Mother’s scream, could not see a Bood, any shape that reached hands or smiled or smiled. A Lady does its half-life as it must Pass on a songscape. <|endoftext|> "Roadrunners", by Angela Jackson [Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] A greybeard once told me how that journey isn’t all he can do? “spendidest time give” so spake my friend, and off we went, one hundred miles whits, receiving me then a dirt bed of feathers. Again and yet again we moved, as if thou didst not fear us, and then at last I thought that we were men, looking out through distance looking upward, seeing the hills ahead, a sight like innocence in the eye of the world. <|endoftext|> "A", by Stanley Moss [Living, Death, Growing Old, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] The copper dulls on the edge of the bed. Like a bag hungerado standing upright and in the air hangs the smell of meat from the bad bulb. The wallet can pack it and dump it and change it, first then buried in the gift box. Limbs jut out and begin again pulling it back, a blackbird will drop from ======================================== SAMPLE 883 ======================================== "Golser", by Paul Hoover [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women] Slain are you heddin’ apart, Brechtchtchtchtchtchtchtchtchtchtchtchtung there you’ll hav a shool, Brechtchtchtchtchtchtchtchtung there your dunnable partner, And mebby as my Auzel I kun yoong attention. No tale i’ wint here can be told, And no tale i’ me I’ll kand your love’s reveal’d. Gone is the world, and its joys are fleeting;Empty of pleasures, and widely so fleeting,Is my love’s face, the mirror wherein she has been seen Presently fairest of all the world is that scene. Ruin opens the house in the morning, And fills up the aperture again for the eyes of her spouse; But no tidings of love she’ll disclose. <|endoftext|> "Shimmer Yours", by Carl Phillips [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Religion, God & the Divine] To lie alone and say no words, to search for Her face in the wood, and never listagain to the voice of my darling you be calling me, Can you not hear the boat-boy’s warning, Is it not from another hand, along the wind-crashed woodlands straying? <|endoftext|> "Solitary", by What (aited) Retreats, Lord God Unto my heart the burden of your singing: Yes, Lord, I believe. <|endoftext|> "A Pastoral", by Gary Snyder [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, Christianity] I feel the pangs of the just and the right, See the precipice and the bursting waves of the restless, and behold the free band of exile returning, Lord, Lord— Thy sword unsheathe it, it is Thine own authority the right. <|endoftext|> "A Remainment in Guativales Poem"", by Jericho Brown [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] True to the scant herb of a vigorous herb — not all spectacular ======================================== SAMPLE 884 ======================================== "Alive", by William Barnes [Relationships, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] I remember a brown bird who walked Past the bush, watching us talk; He climbed from his elbow, And gazed into the sky. The Bird—his wing flexing the soil between; The green shirt parted the golden uester; Backward he wound, then steady, Sullenly intent on the quiet waste heath, The calm of this last grey forest seat. The blue sun sank on the ocean’s rim Silvery to us. Only the Deer Took covert, with his calm and quiet eyes Looking with human favor on its quiet self. I walked away from the sky, taking my ease, The blear sky was a place against the fog. I thought of the thorns, The thorns, in the newspaper, what the thorns Contain; the peace of the world Is so quiet and sleepy a sleeper between the moon And the stars, The thin crimson stain of water, the green, lazy murmurs of grass Like feet, Like a lulled voice beneath some wan pale cloud. “Sleep,” I said, “O my sweetest. Nestor’s head is upon his forehead. Of his ear is a ring. His mouth is in his pocket. Your shining musketeers, O my sweetest, my falsest, my falsest falsest falsest falsest falsest false.” <|endoftext|> "To Accompany", by William Barnes [Love, Heartache & Loss, Infatuation & Crushes, Unrequited Love, Relationships] Beneath your dappled mists, while yet the Sun Is young, and, like a dreadful infant, far From Heaven, to distance argues with the Moon, Yet prays her beams, amidst the lingering Lea To nurse her waning little joy. The raven, too, was roused, and from her mound The frightened rabbit fled, forsaking low Her eager, wolfish brood, which only served To tear her twigs and fetter to the wolf, To torment or resist. Infatuate thoughts Seemed from the mind to rise, connecting ties With streams of blood, which ran in every vein ======================================== SAMPLE 885 ======================================== "The Shadow", by Michael Draycott [Living, Death, Relationships, Pets, Nature, Animals, Religion, The Spiritual] Beyond the highroad, beyond the low road the horse bells called “sublime.” The crossroads lifted bridled, with manacles, and beyond, the crossroads, the crossroads, the crossroads, Mycenae, beyond the highlands, beyond the lowlands the dead men of Eleusis wore out from the great unknown places, beyond the highroad—the wayfaring Eteon’s sons held high Olympus, his death-wound, the road to its own blackness the road to the abysmal white margin, the road to the shores the spearhead of Maené, Pelops’ spearhead, the road to the shadows, the road to death, the road for the spearheads to the two aging, and beyond the whole plain of what was to follow, the road to the far longer, farther, beyond the bright sea, beyond the dark sea, below the moaning purple of thine arms, and beyond thy voice, Laïs! But lo! Phoibos is gone, where can she go? Never again that she can come within an inch. Never again will she discover love withheld her, where can she find A new way? Far down in the underbus, her feet on the floor gloved and sunken in the empty land of Nothingness. Or is rumoured by a face gone to earth now, in the far land of Death. <|endoftext|> "Memorial Day", by Basil Bunion [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Poetry & Poets] I rose, as poets should from dying beds of flowers and as herbs when they’d been going to the city to get their kisses on as well. The papers said I’d heard their mouths err but not their mouths’ destruction birthed my neck with rings to grind. But Jesus ======================================== SAMPLE 886 ======================================== "Life in a House", by Charles Reznikoff [Living, Death, Social Commentaries] Here’s a roof or a dam on the table. Bowls of gold and veils of yellow and gray, Sable and white are there on the hearthstones. There the years pass onward in slow procession, Yet they seem in unison, each to each Making life the full moon of its phases; Each year thick with grays and with fruit grays And raw with winter’s garments, all beautiful. And I know these days are but yesterday: You have your full moons all in a row. I have a full moon for a while, I know, And a moon for a night. And they all are mine. The ghosts of the past are with me at last. We are friends no more. I will have no part. Every morrow is a Christmas Day. Each is a miracle you might explain. Every little year a little Christmas time, The summer day is one day for all things. Not for us, we live; and with the past, We will write, ere we can say anything! That’s a strange, kind world—so good to see, So bless us, that we cannot be here And say nothing! It is hard to say what we cannot feel, But it seems to me so easy to kneel, So I think if we did have a mission to give. That is a kind of history, and you ask To read the same, and feel what thanks I have earned. <|endoftext|> "A Christmas obligations", by Leo Dangel [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Father's Day] We drive the engine on, And all the time I wonder, I hear the engine hum, It hums along the chimney, It hums another tune! We drive the engine on, And all the time I wonder If those who drive the engine Have speech or hearing. They never speak in sleep, They never tell me a word, They only find me listening, They only make me deafen'd. A six-year-old is he, With hair high up, and tongue out, And eyes like pucheroes, And teeth like daggers. ======================================== SAMPLE 887 ======================================== "Yard Work", by Robert Place [Living, The Body, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] The Chinaman, working on a plan but working on a fast and iron plan. He tilts a cartwheel to the left, he peels the reins upon his right. His right ear is plump and heavy. His left eye is thick and dense. He will take care of his propellers —  the sky’s aflame with carmine rain. He will go to fish in the riverway, then angle shells and landslites. Then pick up blue duckweed, pluck berries and chase the clouds about for days, no more fish eat on grass, no more potatoes in the cage, no way for lambtoe all day long. The bird pen hurls his eyrie with a sigh. <|endoftext|> "Pope Dup Baboon", by Marilyn Nelson [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I dreamt last night, I was so human. I dreamt a night not worth it since I left my place, where I had been. I was in love with the dawn, the light clouded sky. I was the king on earth of my father’s anger. I was the son of my father’s anger. I was he on earth, the father in me. I was he in me, in me, by the law of my father. The day arrived, I was of a mood mood raging, a batten upon the wall — and in me, suddenly. I was audacious of you, madam, in me, charging the war. I was a drunkenard, madam. I was a drunkenard, madam, in me, doing nothing. When I start on my ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary human shapes, each with its prescription ransom speculating, its hair a stiff strand of dangling tresses, nasal music that pierced my soul with meaning in my body. When I start on my ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary ordinary existence, the damned frontier goddess is someone wailing someone kind of a cowwoman, and there’s a cowwoman, burning in the one direction, an intolerable runagate of a wild turban, ======================================== SAMPLE 888 ======================================== "Buying On a Crew slab", by William Wordsworth [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Money & Economics] The captain who first chanted wordety, Last measured five tones strong and clear; No wind came, but, speeding the phrases, He sang them backwards with affright: "He's a babberer," too, but, no, somewhat; Some shivings he rather wouldn't crush, but Chucked them; then stamped his seaward Call, Just sweeping wildly out and in. His voice, His eyes, was that utterance; he knew No mortal there, his gaze it took: It rendered him all voice. As if, Saying, Live, till the longest day be done, He killed the song with scorn and dismay. That the song and the song, he deemed, could it be: "He'll sing it, no, he'll say it, I." The song he was on was that of the crew, His tongue, his name was Death, but more; "He'll sing it, Victory, all adore; His song will be then upon the air." He limed it as tho' the truth was he: "He's a dazzled, live thing, I see." When the chorus's chorus he fashioned, He had only to think of it. He had thought it best, lest his words were air, With a lack of magic in them there, And the sea be rude as the land he sings: "He'll sing it now," only thought he, "he'll sing it: He'll play it yet," and the tunes were dumb. Then out in the pit he gave his way: "His bones shall be shook, shall his heart be dumb. His food shall be kept in the dark of day: He'll travel the woods, and the beasts shall fly About him, and camp in the sun and die." <|endoftext|> "The Handed What Takes", by William Wordsworth [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Social Commentaries, Class, Money & Economics] "He'll drink to death," ======================================== SAMPLE 889 ======================================== "Thanksgiving", by Dan Beachy-Quick [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy, Father's Day] Am I not receiv'd and lock'd in that delicious space through my boyhood? Chamberlains of soundless life, dung and fever'd air, the face of a friend and man the same! Sun upon sun, the mind attending the inexpressible blankness in all things, where is my glasshouse light? In my living circles—in that sacred place where my abode stands, the brain of a house choose the continuous blessings of nature. The cares of my mother-touched memory, the weaknesses unsparing, the toil-in days, the exile, the exile, my father-in-law, fathers, sons, children, the land's disgrace, fathers, river-infants, and the toil-in-the-soul of a kitchen chimney, to breathe, breathe sweet, to speed the surer breath. To do the pleasure of breathe the delicate pathos, ascend the hollow sheltering curb, with the gurgling of the wheels up walking hill beside the lane. To ease the sharp pangs of unnatural sense of blank desert reveal it through the wasted night, the drifting down, the outcast's, watch the petals fading into dampness and drooping droop, and drooping droop, and droop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop—and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop— I know that when the thirsty heart is not dry and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, the tired body is not cold, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop, and drop— the tired body comes not warm, ======================================== SAMPLE 890 ======================================== "Her Face", by Claude da Vinci [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Weather, Arts & Sciences, Photography & Film, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] We want to leave the hospital this year, the country I am leaving, we want to leave the car, and go ahead about this town we call Fludrib, we want to leave the car, we want to go away from house parts and live in a tropical place, we want to live here, rocks, races, trips, wedding dresses . . . but you can’t go on smiling, you want to go on smiling, you want to die here, we want to leave the car, & the land we are sending across, we want to leave the car, & I want to go back with you, with you, with you, teasing me, & perhaps you’ll understand, I can’t, but I want to leave the car, & I want to leave the house, the city, & you, in your screaming city, the crowing of shears, the car door that you can yet reach, the town that you can yet return, love’s clock on the mantel, love’s door with the bandstand, love’s wheel by the head, love’s answer in the lane, love’s smile by the lawn, love’s name by the red maple, love’s question in the dawn, love’s glimpse in the noon, love’s hand on the latch, love’s scouven on the door, love’s answer in the morning, love’s word at the bend, love’s answer in the twilight, love’s court in the barn, love’s anger in the noon, love’s silence in the twilight, love’s peace in the evening, love’s patience in the night, love’s nothingness in the morning, love’s nothingness in the noon, & all the trouble you have made banks love & promises promise, all gifts of the day to you, all wishes you have, ======================================== SAMPLE 891 ======================================== "Song at the Feast of Bephistopheles", by Alfred, Lord Tennyson [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women] It is the autumn of your love and your observance measuring the way between bitterest views of affluence from an inferiorwhose volume you have finished and discerned as a nearly inaccessible person from whose deep realm you create your own You have to love, to love, to love for the one who has lost the one who is lost. You have to see, see, and know how a certain emotion, a certain devotion in those places beyond all control or delusion, treasure in the hard character of self fixing the soul to keep it from being the source of life and loving life a sure anchor of the human infinite that hangs not though the sleepless eye clings without end to you. In mid-season when you are wiser than you are you can make answer to that other life the light of that third life which can, if it be luminous, be in your eyes. And in your fingers, even after their work and unwisdom, you have found the strongest fruit of love, the footprint by which to the kingdom of everlasting lovers and intelligents appears to them: yes, an apple ripe, a ripe fruit, ripe with indignation, ripe with love, and sorrow that draws into our hunger and into our fingers that which is not as forbidden, a blessing a door shut to its love. And though you watch well how everything has become before you as the woman in whom you love is given to know and to understand. You, for whom the Grandmother of God was a child, no more than a nurse to babble about your bread; the heartless, the too fragile while God gave you beauty to hold, and to love—and to trust and to prepare for that end and renew all of reserve. <|endoftext|> "The Third Hour of the New Year", by Michael McClure [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Parenthood, Christmas] On Christmas morn First frost dropped cold, On Christmas morn Crested with rose And the wind had taken cold, ======================================== SAMPLE 892 ======================================== "On a Time", by D. A. Powell [Arts & Sciences, Music] The spring has gone to cheer The world, the garden, and the year, Have put the sun away: And noon still leaves the trees, And shadows cast the shadows down, As if to say: Here come the bees, As if to say: The sun and all the bees Have chased the wakened rose and brown.’ <|endoftext|> "The Argument", by Stephen Feuers [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Tiled to the fence at last Our gushing swords united clench, Painted sky darkened, field and grime, Sun-blinded gazing down the gorge, Each for himself a grandson boy, One of us cursing and of one Clothed like a sad eclipsed sun In self-conceit past sunset won, As if the turning earth had done, And then all heaven itself had birth, One soul with its titanic chaos, Thronging the tent-trump of this time With iron-throated maddening swoons. The flaming figure of this girl Proved hell to earth, the one that laughed Laughing and prattled on the pile Of heads that flashed with fire and smoke, While in the hush there sat aloof The vague unknown, the hollow vague That haunts the brain of mortal us. And then, the faces left afield Of all we felt, all we could feel, The one soul in the changeless mind As if the thing it thought was grief, The thing that had all else to do, The thing that was—unlike the true, Or the mere toy that held the clue; But more intense with insight real Than with unfair, or doubtful pain, We saw the clear and wondrous gleam, The gold of God's own perilous stain, As if the toy balloon were cast Like a tossed window, to the blast, And we were shaken like thin air, As if the toy balloon were there. <|endoftext|> "Lines", by Louis Simpson [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] The city of Israel. Lost in ======================================== SAMPLE 893 ======================================== "A Dream Within a Dream", by John Kinny [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] at night I woke & could not tellIf “it was an old woman” I think about her anywhere.Her name and figure both tall,Her lips surrounded with a funny numberOf odd-storied characters encoragedIn a very funny hat. The other was moded Like something made to be fictitious.Her face, black, ’likely’ An old woman or old womanIs something that’s left, after all, physical.To lie on her back is to follow a lineOf deep uncanny how things were so jet-black.Her name can’t be said, But her face, the kind of woman,Is a poem hidden from men’s eyes,Which means "What’s her name?" Is to hideIt in some infamous spot,or makeWhich is what I call “What’s her name”. <|endoftext|> "A Dream Within a Sound", by John Kinny [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] As I write this, my name becomes being named “Away—Away—Do your duty! I am aneddy to your melody.”—Nothing loves me as I write it.I knew when I was little, I wasn’t so fond of the time in which to take it.“Do your duty!” I echoed—“I’m a cadet!”—Well, it won’t do at all, I’m a writer.I meet someone on the street, and it isn’t time for me to say.“Do your duty!”—It’s not day yet, it’s not after“I’m a player on the street.”I threw away all memories of a childhood time; and I’m doing it too, with that mildewed lady, “Do your duty!”—Well, it’s done the little one—Like me—and you’ll not forget it, although. <|endoftext|> "A Pot of Red Terrance", by Letitia Elizabeth Landon [Living, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastor ======================================== SAMPLE 894 ======================================== "“Julia,” declared a excited reference to action, or reception of thought or imagination, based on outward understanding as to their effects upon sensation. Regret Absence, with the following energy, in the actual wonderful management whence all things are explicit, indicating the reality. In the morning, I saw myself lying down in the flowery and soft slower of the garden. Civii. When a row of ninsters of my mother mix in the freshness of morning, the two of them combine, and every one of them combine into a week’s several, the week of Reginald brought in in March by a gentleman, and a young man, with no idea of the difference between what I had seen and I know well, but it was all one to me, whether or not they separately beg it to fill the space, for “here” or “here”? Suddenly, the gardener came, adding, “there is no lament for ut ava: it was enough. Have you ever seen the Purple Cow, did you imagine the Teacher? I said to him, “He was the most gazelle he had ever known?” The blue-grape, the anthologist from the school grew, and Robin, alone in the wattled cot, led back to Clover’s room, leaving for those who cared. “Why did you?” he asked. “The field?” “Why do you care,” answered Little John, “that you paid the attention you owe to me?” “You paid the attention you owe to me?” <|endoftext|> "Equations of the Living Mind", by Robin Blaser [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] When I saw the White Man’s Horse he was smarter than others are better. I thought if he were better. We talked before the teacher of art. He read the writing on the wall—on the wall—and in his room. He turned, and told me: have you seen?—any person told— how he cheated me, tell it again ======================================== SAMPLE 895 ======================================== "Homer", by Matthew Arnold [Living, Death, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Sing, ye birds, sing; if no critic intrude,With promiscuous hand hold forth your broad Two horns that at midnight your hallow'd flowers indignant wreathe,Till expir'd they sprout. E'en so your leaves, now frothing white, Shall tomorrow paint your hopes of conquest red,With scorns that far too long endure this smart. While others shower their hopes and fears,A flood of love o'erflows the gentle sphere. Fill but your hopes; with happy days,Be joyous in your poet's praise.With steady ken ye sing; while many a text(Like this your smooth and solemn text) Urges, in sound of your own sweet tunes, Oft sound the dear Muse to her native empress.For many hundred loves, and happier here, Call it, 'Men to the sovereign power who sent you here';List, as the deep-lumbering wind its curtain veils, Shedding new lustre to the midnight clouds;Of sounding glass the poets should compare, In polished verse, with polished rhyme,Their palaces and bowers of English air: Or could I choose that noble theme, Trac'd like my Idiot on the stormy main,Whose great tempestuous tumbling breaks the main,Deserting, blind, yet seeming still to shine,So near the home of wisdom and of love,Whose hand shall dare thee on this wintry day, Poor essence born without the life to run?When love-enlightn'd childhood, crown'd with happiness,O'ershadowing flowers and leafy lullabies, Tunes serene and touching strains, And wakes such music as the syren's isle,While the sweet cottage-bower, in pity, sways Her aged branches in the balmy airs. Yes; Heaven be praised, whose heavenly gifts send out To distant worlds a more perfected bliss, That comes from all the heart's most secret woe, To bless once more, and hallow half the sphere, A lovelier earth, where Love's own Infant, bare. Then, even that earth which gave thee life, shall rise More excellent in greatness ======================================== SAMPLE 896 ======================================== "Elegy with the River", by Ted Berrigan [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Across the piers the sea-grass lies, but not so far as you can see the surface by the windowpane fashioned for the hands to make, or just to touch the long shells laid in floating pillows far away while light around them seems to play or dappled with faint haze, and the scalloped green of trees is taut with autumnal rain. Sometimes the sort you catch in sight, the ones you pull your hands withhold so well—though, just when you began to turn, came your way as old as the needle, dull as ink, and then it seemed the world was one world, this or the other kind, all of God befell. It's not the ocean that you drift like any varied hues, it's not the brilliant, sunbursts flee You when you sleep you seem to me and the light you shine on other men <|endoftext|> "Book of Nod", by Ted Berrigan [Living, Growing Old, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] What I study by myself out is my body. I use my conjGetting legs. Slippy-a-sk.I run too much, awake, fasten to the tongue. After dark, after dark, I study. A frog-hole in a pond, a cat that plays mint emptied of all kinds of grass. It smells of like history, of course, of how it was that moment. I'd just love to show it. If I can't talk, I can't tell myself. They're talking. Where? There's your paw. Bet I don't know. Turry. A good game. It's up to me, it won't hurt us. I must say farewell. I must say farewell. I must say farewell. I must say farewell. I must say farewell. The book she reads like a book. I must say farewell, I must say farewell. I must say farewell, I can't say farewell. The burial of our middle brother if filled with this lament. Weep for the son who subjugated this sad ======================================== SAMPLE 897 ======================================== "Turbèd Parable", by Christopher Smart [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] There is a real personal language and the real tone is the original that speaks it. There is a real personal language and the real voice is the original but the original that speaks it. There is a real personal language and the real voice is the original but the original that speaks it. There is a real personal language and the real voice is the original but the original that speaks it. <|endoftext|> "On Men", by K inclined To escape from our identical atoms Even from the first body, may be taken away. I have seen Red-Trip on Men’s heads. —Estate & Eureka 1. I would like to go once more into LiborA" & Paul Lannel Might be found on 9th Street by the Mayor of Rome. It would be interesting if she were a lovely woman With a silk gown on her arms Smiling innocently at me& as if she understood my gestures & wisdom, & as if she knew the source of the Nile, And I know my name.She has no parlor steps: you might as well. In Her A&E’s love she doesn’t wear a cape (“White pants, white pants”) & no other color. She wore them in a forest of small real ornaments & small fretwork & instead of a forest of tame ornaments & the containing an alphabet & poetry, what the modern female thought truest daughter to have known was to have loved. My dear lexicon is my subject, which is rightly understood, guided from the Greek Magical Papypate: (a ship named NIGHTORA) was the name of the goddess of the monster’s head. The name of theacus is understood by “ashucks.” 2. Inatory sound and Greek even in this case is understood by “sea-surre.” The name is used simply because it is beautiful. In story. A blackbird and a kite bleated from Birdalia’s church. Hollow trees. In song. In song. The name falls from the mouth of the deity. ======================================== SAMPLE 898 ======================================== "Epistrophilia’s Complaint", by John Skelton [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] ‘What are my books, my friends?’ the clerk exclaimed —‘my friends, this is what’s been said since I arrived in my fifth year’s War.’ -- I say, ‘Names that were promises, my store Courtesy.’ --Shock wrote love words of suicide no one could dial, how can I tell you? except that the truth was love. He was serious, so it turned out, placed, three folds, one in his pecanet furry skirts? No less than I think it must have been the appearance of anything that has no name. Although no courtesy, I did. It is sometimes that the art of love with a certain depth of suffering appears to me almost rendering as possible the most certain profession of a homeward lower degree that thereby perceives the things which I would say better, in a place where every day I have the secret of love.There is not a drop of pain I would like to ask, torture me if I were not invisible, one warmed in the fire, one that is devoid of joy.For I have heard it told that the landscape is the sky, the earth, and the earth is, too, too, a distant city where every light that leaps and flies and goes is a tint of pain, and the night is an enormous night of misery. And I have been given wounds and blood, and given dreams, and given misfortunes of seeing that befools the happiness of the mind. I have given laches to the veins but not from the fingertips that will not burn out the veins. The chemistry that I have spur into the wound, but is through itself clear and simple and simple and laconic and without stop or check, a attack of indifferent love that is not the thing it is to a war, an unassuming murder, a knot of wickednesses, and such as it is. I have given another existence, such as lives not in dreams but in them, but in them that is ourselves. And I have understanding: at first the sinning, the want, the ======================================== SAMPLE 899 ======================================== "Niagara", by Philip Larkin [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Summer] We expected it when we were children. When we were just a bunch of rough- clean beach sun sandy rocks of dry rocks rising from the ocean where salt water lipped the strand, our boat stayed by the cove. And when we finally were surprised at it, the island lots of loose shore smelled like it, the water thick with weed. We couldn’t understand. <|endoftext|> "Memorial Day", by Philip Larkin [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] In the photograph is November 9, 1963. Doorfield loves Hampton, 1974, which was heredity. The nuclear bull’s eye was red behind the top guard, and the seepage of streaking wagons slumped over masts framed gray within the light, too, and the Beatles were blue, too, as I guessed. I missed the snow, the few high beams, and I fell down, too. It made me think of log rafts peaked into masts, barely earn echoes for wearisome men who wore armor among rows of bystanders who coached the past at every turn in either of them. I saw a bubble inside a busy footnote bustling, and the first to go. I hopped above the jar of cars, and the bright crisscross I stumbled on for safety. The two boats were safely passed for almost empty traffic. And the rest of it roared applause, mile by mile at the break of day, rolled like a mighty sea until the wake of wartime electric transportation. Beyond all, I watched a phosphorescent cape that said, “No, I don’t live that far.” And then, just then, a train arrived. Two boats entered before us, then we left. Three boats and I saw the dark go up: a small, hard wooden ship in the midst of a wreck of planks, naked, and a thinnest capture. With a glass spattered six spars in the face of the water, and only an inch of black ======================================== SAMPLE 900 ======================================== Shimmer not, but oh, translucent streams Of gently-warmed, purple seas beneath, And star-black mists, and pure, intrepid skies, And warm and cloudless nights of velvet dreams! Oh, rivers far, and ancient palaces So still and lonely, ye are striped souls Who move and move not; ye are Poets' souls; Methinks even Poets' self must glide Thro' ages and thro' ages, and tho'e'er the world Await my thoughts to this conclusion mine Fair-haired, sweet stream! I'd woo thee as I please Some quiet maiden, ere earth's fabled sea Knocks thee to its unknown shores, and makes Thy form a stranger, here with her to dwell, Her deathless exit. Haply I forget These transient years, and weep my eyes too much. Yes, I forget. Methinks even at the time When all these atoms with an eager flight From heaven down came, as from the earthy vast, Mysterious essences, come fluttering hither, The way of one all-seeing from her death, I see thee sometimes far from everything, As air grows air, far, and the stars are far, So look not thou upon me, lovely stream. Softly, rashly at the corners of the eye Wailing loud for passage of an agony, I saw thee stand, for should one gentle thing Fly higher than my head, my heart's bird-cave Would not uncurling it, for from the shell Of my tuned spirit, even to the end, I have not fallen so, for thou, my dream. But thou, pure rill,--great privilege of all Which lives in full sun and in evening air, And whose sweet drop of silence is but song,-- Thou, for my utter need, of soul as well Means to my ear as birds drop in the dew,-- As air itself, however it do seem, Will come athwart, a marvel of delight To come upon me, ever since I fell, Not as a mother with her child new-made, Nor a first father to take note of thee, But an old lover haunting after death At the close portals of the body to me, In memory of ======================================== SAMPLE 901 ======================================== "Aliens", by prono Levi [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Poetry & Poets] My slighted penny-toed pig-sticking measure gapes’-round treasure no-glossarding pleasure. —Quiet eye that humming courtly liver in the heart to enrich and improve, alive, the modes changing its metaphors. These clean, blue plates, red- and-shimmer light keep new, regrets deep inside the corners. OneSecrets made like starlight in the dark. There are mirrors that can be if   the Spirit has made real, un- recall, part of the purity the finite brings, perceiving solitude between language and motion, envision, relation, time’s essential distance. <|endoftext|> "Cane", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Summer] Long ago we left to pony the causations of early black, gold sparkling awe. <|endoftext|> "Late Lioness", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Winter] This vast world-oyzing landscape isn’t really the world because I’m talking to myself . . . And now, in my own Spring, the fur-balls warm in the Cold, damp stubble. It seems I do not know That living thing again can be. The home- way in which I’m living, which quick and smooth and curling in the field, is what I mean by day and time. But how can I, with noisy teeth and scowling head, say what can’t be said and how can I when I cry In the darkness? <|endoftext|> "Grace", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] And Daddy Young and me minutes changed into fact-smoke workers who crane and ======================================== SAMPLE 902 ======================================== "M visitor in your Beacon’s House", by contemne K. Baxter [Living, The Mind] January 1959 <|endoftext|> "Night Piece", by Jackacking Stairs [Relationships, Home Life, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] The night I spend sleepless getting up early,think about it all—I don’tt want my Daddy, so I can’tunderstand what happens when I’m dressed.Slush it, pillow it on my blouse,my Daddy, and Daddy’s wash on the floor,the air steaming with traffic.Here’s to the little woman that puts the baby in—think of it, of me and her!I’m glad I’m one of us.What’s your pleasure, baby, one of us thinks, after all these years,here’s where the baby does everything, already there.How you love scribbling and defacing, it’s what one wants to be. Annoy, my Daddy. Yes, my Daddy. And just who can afford it?Sometimes I do something. Sometimes, in your hall the big daisies open to greet you, and the flowers open their windowless windows.Storms jar. Leaves overwhelm my senses, I think, my senses to your neighbors.I always feel certain they are only surfaces, mascot—nothing to fear.And now, my Daddy, where are you?Where? Not here, not anywhere. Shadowy walls with typewriter smoke, never mention the faces staring at you.And here’s how you feel, my Daddy, with your hands on my head. Your face in my pillow, paw rigid and hard, paw historic, obsessive, with my fingers on the throat. Sometimes, in your chair, in the mirror, with nothing to eat,Yes, my Daddy, and I always feel something.But I don’t need a word to be heard even in the street.Let’s try, my Daddy. Try, my Daddy. Try, my Daddy, And we’ll be happy.The day’s work, the morning. The sky’s looking almost human.Look at my hands, my face. The sky’s looking almost human.Let’s put something away. You see.I walked down the road a mile, one after the other.I walked down the road ======================================== SAMPLE 903 ======================================== "The Time of No Man’s Lament", by Cyrus Cassells [Living, Death, Growing Old, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics] They thought he was dead; that’s that. —B. C. That’s true. — coil out a wreath of dust page, then avert The memory of a man who was dead. Had James lived, the richest in the land, The King of Sardis had lived in three Ten years before, and if he died The King’s own son had seen it long, And if the people had not mourned him out, But reigned and was not born again. He was in the great city as in old: (A blessing on the bugler and bugle and spray.) And when he died there was no sound, But a river that wheeled and heeded not, And when he died there was no sound. They said it was over in a mountain’s shade Where a King once lived there was no sound. —He is dead now: there was no sound. <|endoftext|> "Posthumous Works", by Louis Untermeyer [Living, Death, Nature, Summer, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] (From the book of the Divina refermenttext|) Grand Cayman Little can you say, my dear Little can you say. Thoughts like these May not let me perish without fear In some future day. Still, I know You can tell from dawn until despite Of our two chieftain sons. There’s not a man Shall put these hands in mine. I can, dear, The elegy on a single string, In you I have placed my last lyre, So glad that they insist you listen. And let the world hear my address From a very far distant. There’s a meaning cannot be clearer Than the maddest distance. It forms What a grand fete of motion Is the dance of this procession. And since I have begun to travel, And since you must listen to me, I will do just ======================================== SAMPLE 904 ======================================== "Eldai on Virg. On Maximus Parson", by Joanna Zunnig [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] After Charles Villanell My dearest FLORING, you knew the way, Concerning its merits, its beauty; How hard ’twould have been to remain proud Of that same gift ’til you gave away. Do you remember how clear a bed-flower Frosted the wakened meadows in May With your delicate stem as you near drawned it? It so wanted the value of one weed. And you wished it. The wish of one plant is Welling up and deploring the deeds Which no act of worthy pride or devotion So far as its hopes could have quelled. Poor thing, little that would live next to nothing, It must make a low place among men. You thought your time then a manner of pleasant; You thought your time then a pleasant life. Nobody noticed your time in a hurry; It must have been always so pleasant before. Nobody noticed your time in a hurry; You must have had flowers to give yourgrass at the first. Nobody noticed your time in a hurry; It must havebeen growing to give up your root. The reason is written, it stands by your fathers, And will never be mine to receive them for this. Theirs is ashes indeed, who suppose it. Nobody knows the time, you and it. You and it and your plants should be light. It is surely a most exacting hard season; You and it and whatever the reason: You and it, either cold or hot weather, Both beaked or careful, whatever the reason. We should be content with a spurt and a tremble, And the swift twisting twisting of the slim leg Or the rise rising with the rising or sinking. The linen changers to the lovely shawl, And the ears loosen suddenly, and the neck Easily honking like the ripples And the falling back as the April leaves, Laughing, arising, at the wind of spring, The bells a thoughtful hammer, and a bell Announcing contentment to the business all. The thought of you here ======================================== SAMPLE 905 ======================================== "The sun of spring", by John Masefield [Nature, Spring, Trees & Flowers, Weather, Religion, Christianity, Easter] The cold rain blew anon wi’ a whistleand the wind in t’ the water-g lap how the maisterjolies saantly reel an’ free,An’ Aunter wheeled it home an’ pock-marked an’ scratch-wined an’ dun,An’ a sweat-wizened rooster shook its head an’ dahn the bar’s nest, an’ wunsthan’ az sum cunted the trees, an’ Aunter heaved up that dun pinelog’s dry, an’ Aunter filled the trees with its litany an’ p’r’aps of dead grass an’ boweled off the mate, an’ aimed with his keen Toledo blades, ’til Aunter walked into the West—nayther wunstized efter then of me an’ my young cousins, they ups an’ styles—wunstintz wondered if his wink would dawn, or beauntoasty then with the young boys an’ girls he ran away. “You look mighty glum,” wur not answers, “or you got blood in your wrists,” Fer unwontin’ don’t know what peril the baby felt when he leapt to his feet, an’ ran away. “Got a big black hondromg,” thong-legssssaferran, an’ two uncleswho sung crookneck’s hymn, an’ one dude with a silk underpants? That boy’s a genius, iv’s wuth his own thoughts, the pleasures of travel, the painof innators, the pleasures of brook corn-stealing, the still-seeming mackin-house, the kitchen spread on its slope, the always-a-bed-inness, the delight of silence in the synch. That’s when he saw his parents stare as he cuppedthe gift-off the door slams wide,an urchins throwed the collection aside,an’ then his mother—“Do my soldiers prick?”—he justPulled his steel- ======================================== SAMPLE 906 ======================================== Ser. A Season after Gwendolyn Brooks While I was playing at The Sea, there was nobody to beat, None of them were given the chance to seal a letter. The chances were being dropped, and so was Elenor Murray. Her valor grew toward greatness, and the paper spread. The men that gathered her weren’t so very hungry; For Donald Martendez allowance, ruddy drunk, Until her telegrific health passed out of it. The men that knew her knew she would not give them ink. She made them mess out of her telegr10. “How did you come?” She said, “You’re all right, Kirsty Belly, my wife, my son.” I laughed: “You were already starting for the war.” He left her, and she started screaming. She laughed instantly, and came down the shaft without a meaning. It got to current close, she caught up with her hands. I saw her for a moment, but I don’t believe it: For I believe in my sentence, as if I saw her shining, As if I saw America as queen in lace. And the truth about this was really my first motive As being the object of my admiration. I am perfectly glad that America is not America. <|endoftext|> "The Opposer in White", by Ha Jin [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The Black cap is unlaced, the Blue cap is cut, the Do dyed, and the reason is blood. The Blue Isle is blood weeping for the Celtic blood. The global economy is nothing, except when the Arrest is cleared. Someone is washing the sidewalks for the Polestar and the cabbage because it is red. (It is no matter to Whack about the Breaking of States.) I will not proceed too far with anything American. I am dumb with an American mental vision, an East India hamburger, a Green Rib that is Catholic, an East Smelling of its own beauty. The Black cap is not there to fight the right with anything formidable. The World is not the smallest, an incongruous American wayward, invading with never-enough- becoming- deeply-threatening patient spirit. These are often great evil times. When the Pirates ======================================== SAMPLE 907 ======================================== "The Jessoping Shepherd, Or", by Douglas Kearny [Living, Growing Old, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] The cat lay down in her long white nest To harm no tenderness; It brought the sun to its breast, But it lost its charm and stress. The bird flew up in the sky, and out And let the billow pass; The little gray beast stopped with affright And stayed until to weep. The little brown bird flew in at morn To bring her all that way; But the little brown bird had no left To fear he'd get away. So they gave him back to the gentle bird Who brought the snowy dove; And the little brown bird, and the friends who left The nest, so safe and warm. <|endoftext|> "The Doctor", by Lucas Clerk Maxwell [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] At the disgorge, in Manala Parte, Wi' tryste to turn the inn, I set out, sirs, to get rich By t' stook,(3) his last drink.My knock-down rams were sore, The poor cat slep't frae sleep, Jist as I went, an' chang'd ther jokes An' i'ts accrosions. I had him on the Nursy box, Just where yer broft 'as got, There talk'd wi' cagoons too oft, An' many a screggie c't, At last it fell that they were teaut, Wi' tryste to turn the shirt, They chang'd the cloat to yer legg's-coat, An' drapt up his canroots, An' when his young owd caddies, left, For morn, were all o' hoose, I sadly wish it were the steat A leuk(4) the besom, An' merry drapping round like mumps That on the corn-end sough'd, An' good coalmigrations, wi' mucks, An' thus to coom for drout, Down I comes hurkin', out at dins On mich a Bible form, An' flooont to slack down a stick, ======================================== SAMPLE 908 ======================================== "from Day-Watch & Dante", by Donald Hall [Living, Life Choices, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] I’ll have no glass-club but my finger: I’ll have a little bit of sculpture to do with it. The landscape’s grand, kind, gentle, amazing, The broad, sun-blanched fields, the permanent trees, The secrets of the clouds—the homing, evening starlight, The soughing in the wind that rawly presses everything Down to its kindred tree, already a nest of petals. Shall I tell you I won’t go on a saint to thank you For looking at my trees? They lean and lean Their yearnings to the stars. You never know How I looked at them: my face seems so much less Than their developed strength. Each rock reflects their glory On other faces, even their tenderness. Outside they can be seen. No moils between. Yet there’s a certain minor relic in this scene: A shadow on the waste, a face beneath a tree. The trees, well pleased, put on their summer clothes, Their sweethearts sheltered like the fence, their shadows Still blurred, their faces graceful, looked askantly up With an unmoving, reminiscent look. You read That these same graces draw their strength from mud. I wish that I might find you soon, where I now be, My orange-striker, my orange-striker, and my orange. <|endoftext|> "The Crowds Cheered by", by died Muirsen Vinzky [Living, Death, Religion, Faith & Doubt] When they cheered by, somewhere A crow sat on the empty street, Holding a lidded lily in his hand. He wore a face Most warped with time. A man’s Life looked upon as Hate Was his. A woman’s face Was his. A woman’s smile Was the smile that woman gave To men. His smile a mask Of hate. A smile became War’s transient beauty. Man Seemed to have thrust His very Sweetheart to the ground, And gone, from God. Years passed. A threadbare ======================================== SAMPLE 909 ======================================== "Memorial Day", by Anne Winters [Living, Death, Growing Old, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] The maple has put on flesh. The maple has grown earlier and more nerder, sitting on the sashes, afraid of wind. The maple and split it with a sharpened fist. What is left of death is—to count in stones that start a leaking river, with its closing to the hill that ends its peaks and sends it out of sight. Drooping on the table, on its top, its leaves are falling,--and in the open air it seems to float, as if with thrust and jar of glasses. And the sleeper’s face at once dissects the cold. The maple, in its fall, withers and refuseth the pungent flavor of death, as if the very name of earth were the irrevocable cause of his crossed fire. <|endoftext|> "The Healing Improvisation of Hair", by Anne Winters [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] For Craig Colin On the darkening leaf-boughs of the hon-apple bush I found a col-bird sitting, with black feathers spread along his arm, and, as I rendered up his song, I felt its presence springing out of him, and, as I left him there, I thought how harmless worth such feelings—like a happy day, a little child, or like a happy day, that is September—I can hardly say just why the heav-cat feels so easy now, or the tight-clanked cow, or the grasshoppers move so lightly into the shade, or the tree beyond its limit, or the sound of rain in the dawn. <|endoftext|> "Husartan Animals", by Philip Freneau [Nature, Animals] I was also thinking about the ant, the ibis, the only one, which could change color, butterfly-color. The old woman, thinned as white as sloe. A green male, washed like ermine on the phittying curb. At the mirror I found slippers. The boy and boy discons took refuge, food from ======================================== SAMPLE 910 ======================================== "Town Hall, 1914–2016", by Gerard Malanga [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] There should be a committee, two decades of darkness, a train traveling slowly, a train until someone started to shout, a train traveling with a man just out of sight. It could be only a body, beats every one of its headlights on a road. The train, I imagine, is an old woman’s body that is wide and still, the two of them, listening to her megaphone’s voice measured and near as if the idea of that body could be the emblem of a spirit charming and inviting. <|endoftext|> "The Eye", by Gerard Malanga [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy] I saw you, you were so humana bone shocka capture of hyacinth claws,a monk and original dandafliked by the light; the voice, like a melody, called and spoke the other wayout the bleak hills and the stelted plains. <|endoftext|> "Head of Aesop", by Gerard Malanga [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Music, Poetry & Poets] There is no one in America here, Although I wander over the tiles, Foraging like a cod the Argus legs. There is no one in America. I am a woman no longer seeing the light, A chattering utawas. I have a common consciousness: In the smallpox The National Guard, I pick my teeth up from the wall, centering things at the Canal, I do not enter the army, I have a classica skirt, stitch hers, my face blank with gnats and what is skinny reddishes— I pass the language by the White House, grinding spittle, grinding bone, absenceing homemade sores, picking her out through the slow sound of the years Enslaving hummings and self-chastis For this nameless captain who would not entirely require any of his f ======================================== SAMPLE 911 ======================================== Bledrón to Both San Francisco and the Monkey. The orange flag is red, and the orange flag is white, and the orange flag is a white melt to the breeze which whispers in the orchard. There is no room for any green thing like this; except having made it a hot day without its sweetheart. Day by day the flowers might suddenly be seen, shrinking sweet streams from a white peak of the air, orange clouds and pearled birds flying in their perfect shapes, now lost in the sky, now lost in the sky. But always the shouts and the clapping of yellow fireflies and the red chariot show me their little red forms; and I feel no tears for them, only a little peace with them. Three night ago a circus was deserted. No one was there but you and me. The sky wore its black, thick-flung banners, suspended in air with the hues of the flower that I wore. The glitter of hats, the exquisite twinkle of rain, and the soft breeze playing with my orange flute, hurrying on, it was spring. And I felt the trumpet of days, and my blood scarred with the hush and the throb of command, days of high laughter and sun with the rose that was part of my heart. Then the days and the moments came. Then we made music and drew. And the strings and blood of the young are playing in my veins, and I know that my mother was dumb. Now she is singing to herself, singing in her sweet old language. <|endoftext|> "Escape Warde", by Mina Loy [Living, Death, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] She does not speak English. She does not set foot East to mark the rising moon, East to listen. She is alone in Bifronté. She does not walk East to meet the falling stars. She will walk shoulder to shoulder in cold snow. She does not speak English. She does not speak English. She has a free language for other women. She is alone in Bifronté. She does not speak English. She is alone in Bifronté. She does not speak English. She is ======================================== SAMPLE 912 ======================================== "Subject and Object", by Linda Pastan [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] I would be a laboring mother By the world to the war, Seeing the slow of the sunsets, And the needle-moon headlights, And the stink of the parted houses, And the flat of the hills And the ford at the marsh edge Where Vancouver's russet waters Lift a ruin of pillows From the pool of the level landscape, Counting its shadows the afternoons. Would I were first to catch The clue of the new landscape, Then I'd walk the hill and catch The eternal speed of its slow succession. Then I'd spend the day searching A gray edge along the marsh, And find by the iron-guarded Ruins of the snows, a gray wall With a red-purple sky of sunset. And when twilight ended And the frost had replaced its red wall, I'd ride home to mother and mother, Mother and sister, To the jingle-note And the jingle-drum of the hoofs, To my boy's quick do stride and shout once again, Hear the forest hounding in my soul. I'd have given up all the fences and roof To jog in the track of the buffalo, Hearing the hoofs and the splash of the hoofs, And rushing like sea-horse after the buffalo. But when my old man came down to my door, He'd laugh with me in my old beard As he dumped me, hoof-keeper, On the diamond pea shell, And the rest of us, in our rough-hewn-woodbags, Would know the grandfather's breeding, And see the old woman smile on his face, But not be seen of the people who'd like to take Away the boy from the trip, The trip to the Hollowayas And my old woman beside me And my old gun pointing a wee one of one hand Over the tumbled stones at the bottom of the land. But as I lay alone in my wigwam I could hear the moonlight in my bone-house As it says: It whispered in my ear As it whispered again, “God is upon you, And you are better ======================================== SAMPLE 913 ======================================== "Serenade in the Light", by Śivaetaerato Kauśikazeya [Living, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] In the day’s womb the mother terminates the sick child’s eyes. In the eggshell duct the mother blandishes the shiny waywhile the mother measures those to a extent closer and closer pulls them down. The rain is blinding. In the belly groans for an embrace, in the arms of the exiled, where the exiled had lain, she argues for prayer.In the middle of the night her artichoke is wagging her sternsword. And in her eyes, ah, no! it is gray, a ghost hand held aloft through the air’s core.It is full moon. The mother ambles over to prayer. So it is dusk now, sitting on the sick child’s bed, staring. In her arms the leathery couch: she is weeping, not sleeping, not fain to rest upon the couch, to rest on the delicate body’s shame. At night the mother trembles for her lord’s sake. <|endoftext|> "The Rock", by Thomas Hardy [Living, Time & Brevity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] The Rock’s beautiful face is beginning to fade, And it begins to rain so it doesn’t let me dream, Nor can it be beyond pretence, if it be not for real. It’s the cloud's beautiful face that comes and goes, It wraps and blankets round it so it lifts and goes, And it stands for nothing no force can reach or plan, For we are nearing the beginning and the end. I have come to think of the dead who came and who can know, The slow drop on the cliff where the mountain goes, The waiting cloud that comes and compels me close, The black bat wingless, the tough little eel. At last they are into their open way, the wreck, The powerful ruin of the place, The ruins of the tree the wind the day has made, Rock, shell the water for them and the winds of the sea. <|endoftext|> ======================================== SAMPLE 914 ======================================== "Faresome Tales", by John Shoptum [Living, Death, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity] O poem! a brief skein with a red stone That Is called the World to Fullness. and I will tell you what you need to say. . . . A strange tree that dies in the sun. and that tree that dies in the sun. . . A death without the name. and that tree that died in the sun. . . . I am alive again. and that tree that died in the sun. . . And have you yourself, too? and that tree that died in the sun? . . I am alive. and that tree that died in the sun. . . Is it earth then that you rise from the dead bones of earth that I left alive? . . I am alive. . I am alive. and that is what comes in the sun. . One way I choose this. . And that is what these are. . My companion. . The wind howls far off. . My friend. . ======================================== SAMPLE 915 ======================================== "Coffee or Me", by Amy Lowell [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] It is said that Rembrandt knew of old that when the hive we shut our hives at the first of the day, he and his olary counlance of men (like Cicero); and, wonderfully, in his cradle, a hieroglyphic page of the Odyssey. His death on Odyssey and on the other hand, too, at the hoisted gates of the bees closing their mouths; also, for the longest part, an hour before the close of summer, the longest arriving into all the bedroom: last, the long sudden shrill, implacably boyish cry, the last last words falling out of the mouth, attended by the rapid-footed girl who ran to break his own strength and his faith’s dream; moreover, his brother, the Don who never had to hide his body, had to ask heaven by a way of explanation the first time he was taken from us. For once, as he grabbed my hand, a bird fell from the wing, flying from afar, who, “keep my house alive,” thought he: “if you could tell me,” answered my father. Then, in a moment, the song of the caged one in the broad of the bougain a puzzled scream broke into a sweetness, and, rustling, we gave thanks for the moon’s silver identity: for all the moon & stars, looking equally for a single moon, that single moon was made to rule all the world, while dad waited in the same room, silent as though he had suddenly fallen asleep. I remembered the room upstairs—to take the woman, to arrange my hair, patterned and snug in a knot, while my mother called for the broom to start me, while my father, smiling, stepped to the window with the moonlight glow in his eyes, and looked just like the moon he was: so I placed my shoon by my arms, too, in my hands, and looking up fixed in thought, “I love you,” linked together by the hands I had unnoticed, when, at last, we left the house, but on a different journey, ======================================== SAMPLE 916 ======================================== "House", by Fred Marchant [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] I am a woman who extends her hands around my neck.Sometimes she sees an ancient looking-glass.An old woman in blind suit and the doctor gives orders.She can say she sees the marks of the man behind the woman,so when I step she will depart.A Brahmasman is the son of a king.He has a daughter. Their hands are blue and human.A beggar tells of a king.Wherever the man has been travelling,he never finds it.An old woman is at the door. She will say at an old woman’s shoulder if he puts his hand on his hair and thinks of her.When he gives her a kiss, she bows her head and the crown is held.His horse is in the meadow. He walks without noise, and he says something to the other woman. I would like to ride by bridges, but I would learn to bend the head, obey, and think.Then she pulls the bridle back again until it's almost dark and we can join.She says at one word before she sees her.The man can talk like that — they say an old woman in blue cloak — well, she nodded.Then I thought I was dead and I rode away. <|endoftext|> "The Tramp of the Horse Sure: Be Mean of the Gate", by Vachel Lindsay [Living, Life Choices, The Body, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] A sovereign was used to itwhen the woman was in trouble.People complained, if theywere to be abolished and that was what they did,after they were hanged. That is what made those lawyers so black. — Bueckett — Caesar — ;bull — where — road hasn — that’s right.3 The Course of the Gate — the Whole Give. So they rode. And the hooves — road hasn’t stopped. On and on, through sweating and nodding of conels — the stones met the road. Each “Apple” was a rhyme. And each top left a trail behind.Up and down the alleys we rode ======================================== SAMPLE 917 ======================================== "Institution", by Matthew Arnold [Living, Life Choices, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity] After eighteen, Pa wanted to die. He thought of his love for Ma, “This is the house we burned over here: We must not give way far enough To see it with its red roof: I cannot even think of the rest,— This is our house we blessed our love, Our life is our departure’s idea, Our life, our view of the sea’s chance, And our love for Ma and for Ma’s, And for James and for James and for James We are supposed to be only The fish of a wish to go on. This is the wish to make this book To my lips, Ma’s: “I can’t fix A fever in the throat That speaks to me,” she said: And here was the hope: “So. I haven’t lived. I can walk here without a stop That streaks my life, Ma’s: I can stay the tide all day When the tide does not cease. I haven’t been to the blue flower That I held dear to the earth, Now never saw the skylark singing As he swept the rose tree’s waves. I have no name now in this book, Ma’s: I had no children but my name. No names now on our maps, Ma’s: I’m just a page in this book, Ma’s: I couldn’t get her letters. Yet who can say that we ’re not twins Or nothing but our birthright and the years, Or nothing but the register of blood, Ma’s, Or nothing but whatblood we drank, Ma’s? We say she was ’t so young You almost shrieked aloud. To-day just long ago was mother’s Thoughtfulness when she was big like God in her, Ma’am, ======================================== SAMPLE 918 ======================================== "Love's Device", by Charles Wright [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] The bottom is simply touching, leaving the bottom unscarred, the bottom covered with a blame. The bottom is simply soft but dazzling, lifting up lightly from the inside itself, holding her arms light yet light while taking her to the other side, although her arms stretch idly down the outside of the wall. No, no, it’s only the smell of needles, not scented yet as finely tempered, as if conscious of the outside, but lightly circling, swaying and swaying and turning as if she’d not held in, let alone the forgotten name of what’s not hers. <|endoftext|> "Dear Letters", by Charles Wright [Living, Death, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] For Darlen Small, number two years after the accident in someone sighed, it is supposed he left a sister in apparel. This gentleman married Tyler Ford, one of his trips toward Marriage & Stanley, the other famous for his money. For Darlen, a friend, is said to have had a funeral card on which candid men might be inquiring. Lynco would have said, that the parting was not certain, that the visitors were quadratics, that the Dean, not the Dean, watched over, never gave up. <|endoftext|> "NON DEST", by William Faulkner [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] For A. L. H. In the place of what is not disturbed by death, the first recorded recorded fragments of what was only ... Whether memory pictures it, or he comes back (Seeing, as he saw the stone, inside his head, the stone’s over) to tell of Darlen Small, his brother, a ghost whose ashes are dust; or a man who’s not devoid of fear, who’s not devoid of good, or comfortable, and who knows that which is shit (though he can’t be called to that ======================================== SAMPLE 919 ======================================== "Morning Watch", by Afaa Michael Weaver [Living, Life Choices, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Winter] When the morning breeze blew loud and chill, the leaves fell straight and straight and looked peering in. They moved in shape and shadow. At noon they moved towards the dark. It almost broke them then, heads bowed by snow, their pinched blackness. It seemed they perfectly designed to stay. Beyond the cliffs they looked like shades of frosty holly, fences torn and black by winds. They moved along the shrieks of lambs, the white of lambs, the rail-ends drawn by fingers dragged by hands; and the long sliding rails of the black train that journey down the white winters dawn, towards the sunrise. <|endoftext|> "Heading Down the Tree", by Khaled Mattawa [Living, Life Choices, Midlife, Time & Brevity, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics] after Khaled Mattawa When the voice of my father woke to think his book was the voice of my whole life brought to light to me, my eyes stilllit, and my voice stilllit and still kept me young. Once there opened wide spaces for illumination me to believe that a world was a book of books, a book of art, a book of life placed there, the one great Light of Knowledge charming, inviting, inviting. My mother, the teacher who moved away from the book in his tower of defense and preached me the people. He taught me things the way beautiful, unbroken line of words. His bed was with roses, hedges, and benches. His horse would never tire, his book would never have to stay, the book was empty and still. Even the lake and three short short streets would waste as they passed by. He was tired of owning fine truths. He knew better the way the moon grows when it loses its axis, the sky is pure until you can explain which is the master, which the author is. <|endoftext|> "Reflections on History", by Khaled Mattawa [Living, The Body, The Mind, Social Commentaries, History ======================================== SAMPLE 920 ======================================== "Happening to Beowulf Bathe", by Timothy Donnelly [Living, Death, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets] What will happen next? We all have to do this yet how should we? Two-and-twenty well-wishers Are all the same, and the one is The problem. What shall we do? Perhaps it was we who each Puts on the daw or can it weigh anything But can it go? We can Still cook and fry at Beowulf Bathe But a good time, if not to Could be in ten minutes or more, So that if we may get His seeds up in ten minutes, we Don’t like to lose it. Must we therefore Name all the trees? What shall we do? Let’s help few or many. Let’s advise us thenHow best to cut down the forest, and how best to renew These friends and reasons? O pity the wood, let’s pursue Some one or two the workingmen’s business, or else we may one. That’s right. This is why I should exactly rely on The conjugal discourse so That it can almost Rise up if you have To toss the man down. It is not ‘to Temperament or bed (To refuse a seasonare And you can’t Prosperity on others) It is to wish you all Good things, but don’t Be too much of it. It is not ‘that Is what makes a man So great’ But fuckens him. It is not ‘blessness But then the will And learning grow again Use right words, Or else they Will be so Little or nothing. <|endoftext|> "from Dinner", by Timothy Donnelly [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Home Life] has just come into existence and I am hard paying me trying to answer the call. I have just been through life to know that golf is all around us. But I am too much anxious this far ======================================== SAMPLE 921 ======================================== "Towns at Night and Morning", by Robert Hayden [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] In the frog light, on the stairs, my father and I on our marriage with a horseshoe crab. * We sit at a tennis table on a horse floor swaying a hickory, a cockeyed horse, on the oats rolled off like quilts. At the round mirror, lifting its head, a girl—affording one's skirt— descends then, divining, to where my father's left hip to “my” stall— ascends, with its ends crossed, the hill, head into the sky, tracing into my mind, how I felt— tomorrow, age—and saw the snake, standing on the high beam like a horse paw, cry summoning. Then the familiar serpent, her voice kissing my father. And he drove in— as a farmer emerging into the water, finding not the dry stod, how the butterfly barked after her. We set the hoses in the jarboard. They had been raining where my father went yet not for weeks. We had fed on our own soil, tasted lunch at Concord, exited from Pickova, raised a hue woven with the earth's astonishing glow. Dropped in the shaft the various petals of the vine, ate the olive. * At night, when my father and I had rolled into our bed, the first thing the birds said was that nobody, in our sleep that nothing, was shining, was shining, was shining from childhood. In the crow's death, his wings—the dark cedar promising to close—hung over our heads. Woke up before dawn, and we all searched for him—until he was dead. Then we lay down— dead, in the crow's death, on our couch—and slept. <|endoftext|> "Two loves", by A. E. Stallings [The Body, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals] The cow moored at the burn. The world was pasture. A current. The Dog crept too far. Drying dust. Hovering curl and pampas. Someone else hunting ======================================== SAMPLE 922 ======================================== "Percheron", by Richard Emil Braun [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets] The spot is rotten damp for a week, late, and such thoughts rouse. All afternoon they're employed already.Before the house's hurry does them no good to catch. The house's just a place with me at night, and it's a place I love; and I sit in a chair for the tattling course. A basket of books on the wall is a study. What do they mean by unearthly themes? An idle question awhile without." Placid, Placid or Not? Then he goes his way and if you do, you'll think the prose they tell the people is a smell. Plasing the light and bridging the stings, he is off in a hurry, or at least his doings. I can't wade into a slum, so I'm overworked. A solesome rest serene on tolerable sides, and a rest beneath the shade. "Quibelled" call me from the crowbar . . I'm as weary as the bedside slates on the table. "They told me I was in some terrible hurry, so I started from the dark wood all night. It's as luck with the late blind in the dark, and all is quiet, except for footsteps pacing up and walking down. "I'm overfed already, I'm as tired as the leg of the new machine. But the closest to the tub calls me out as soon as I can, and the worst that I'm to do is quick, just like I'd go outside for the night, and should I have the luck, I'd say, of the liner over there in the dug-out square. And they'd tell me about the busy stretching back of the light beyond. It's almost a place for scaling upon the rim of the sky, and that's the place I've come from. On top of the harbour, where there's nothing we can do, and that's the name for seats, there isn't none, but it's more than enough, and besides, there's still a lot of seats, as I found it. This is so curious: but I got in first, when I sez that, and that is for a man. He looks at me as if he had his pants off, and wants to go to bed. He looks as if he hadn't ======================================== SAMPLE 923 ======================================== "Cabé", by Spencer Hutton [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Pets, Philosophy] We made a collar for his neck, Laid it & rubbed together,Took it & snapped & looked after Cabé.It is said to have kept shelved popular and Persian rupees. Bumping would be pretty slippery,Hard as Except the Mosquitte is soft asThose big walnut trees over the dizzy strip of a pool. They were two claims to the poet—Mate di Roge. The merest penny in the British world—The best-laid Lares are real.Give me five onions. One or twoGum collects Some fresh Calabè.We live on one chattering like Ch tens at the opera. We chattered like two birds,Whitew, linseed, star the mother-of-pearls,Whitew and the sunny noontide.I remember the sidewalks.The faraway in the distance.We walked on three weeks under a sky of dark blue. You held your parrot’s head as a crucified.From that morning till this evening, the horizon sloped towards night, sloped till, not quite near to west, nothing but death, nothing but cape of blue. Nature had made the sunburnt it down in its own deserts.Nature would have another sun if it were only here. Totzogubbear <|endoftext|> "Once a African", by Robert Hayden [Religion, Judaism, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] (for Greece) Pilgrim, half-light on the Campoam among the Persians— scourging in the Pleiad, driving up Olympus among the Sun’s race in spua-leones; rooted in the leaves of the plantains, breathing in and out of the earth, moving among the stars that swim above the Headland . . . (for Greece) Steel, the Sun, the rain, the world move over it; it palaise in the sun, then shine in the sky. On the disconsolate front of the snow it rains, and tears adown the face of the earth, emourning the S bodily valley, the old language of the elements. <|endoftext ======================================== SAMPLE 924 ======================================== "Gratoph", by Carl Sandburg [Living, Death, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] (Jes impelling on the Queen) 1 King Eustace of London 1 King Eustace of London 1 King Eustace of London 2 King Eustace then 3 King Eustace present then 4 King Eustace present then 1 King Eustace present Then 8 King Eustace, the time and the place, grace of the time and the name 9 King Eustace III The crowning moment and man the same the third, he brought with him the self the name and the name of a king (nobility and rape then fetching in the sword) the self and the tyrant’s name (Lo, thus they did), in a dying man all the same the King was a stone that sank, (4) and that crashed on the palace of Eustace’s king. (Lo, this was Philostratus then), the son of Hercules (dear 5) graved on a rock that overcomets the world. But the might of the king was over the world, I have heard tell Pilate legends of great things were wrought to him by his children and great men from Hercules’s own land (city of ships, he said), from the time which shields the world, he was the one who first fought on the battle field, whose name and glory both now suffer grievously upon his island His eulogy of the Greeks was loved like a friend By the famous Scythes whose flood and fire consume the ships of the Sartos (city of Atalanta, he said, whose terror full in heart and in body doth set the world its strands against the realm of death) All that dwelt in the isles of Troy, that people, king of men, sacred and glorious, all that is ordained through Thebes, was he dominion first in ancient time (when unto Atreus we were told) that betimes they should set the Argives free. He spake: “Though great our quarrel, hath an end (which we twain is) of his doleful end, neither ======================================== SAMPLE 925 ======================================== "The Horse of Light", by John J. Ortiz “The stars are on the table ... —” — if the horses were those who did it not means the moon was in this scene the horse so I was walking this day the trees being as I was heads on beams burning like dead decorated engines and the smoke in the air moves damp across the sky above the hillside; now that the nostrils are turning now that the nostrils are turning and the wind stars are moving and the steeples are sparkling in the summer heat and the snow cannot still warm and already the youngest, who knows more than we under the huge old oak is gone and out of the ground like grass. <|endoftext|> "The Windowless World", by John J. Ortiz [Nature, Stars, Planets, Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Money & Economics] The girl at the door sits making her morning meal, and the girl at the door turns to the smell of lilac or cod in a bedroom, turning while the man at the door sings. Who were her travelers—who were this way? What unknown and familiar faces glancing at the road that lead nowhere in houses of quiet people, and here and there the grass, torn and tattered by weed and worm, and here and there a blade of grass, and behind the bed a sky, and always considered by some of the sky— a gossip of bees above eaves, and the voice of a stream—Sometime, by the road, a rivulet clanging in the woods before the nocturn cloud of the night— and the woman at the door turns to the smell of lilac and things at the door, and hurts in the street, pours into the night— sleeps with slow pain the way she was born, and is changed into the smell of rain, and is changed into a smell of thistles, and the words into the words, and one turns from the nothing there will bring and the words into the nothing, and one turns from the nothing, and ======================================== SAMPLE 926 ======================================== "Song of Oercanos", by William Faul [Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] This was the song you taught me before I went to sea in March. That was the song you taught me Southward of  avin 2 Nellowese Guards Learning the Channel and the winter, for God’s sake, Always a land of synonyms, oft the people Long after the Yarmouths had been broken. This was the song they sought to sing They sought to teach our Apostles to forget Their faults and fall into a sullable cage Blindly. We played the pipe, the pipe, the call, Played with the creatures of the Wharlowes Bask in the moonlight. At the western window Brightening the way to the Yarmouth city, This was the song they sought to learn: Let us be few, if no least king am I. Victory, triumphant, all men understand. They dream their memories of the Roman's hand, Of him who walks on the judgment-seat In the far Eastern star of Zanteum, And of those two great gods whom no man sees. But Italy has entered into me Mutely. And, like a child set free, I draw the cloak and take the helmet, saying: "O Italy, I think it better far The man should die content, content if but He would only live and have his share Of that great happiness. This is the image Shall not be used to vex the older soul. O bitter hatred, O most fruitless hate, Which is the man who can requite your hate, Hate apart, vile insults at the hour of midnight, Scattering your wild, most shameless gratitudinous faces With base-born mockeries to the toppling clouds. And I say it will be easy matter for you, But let the darkness, and be forced to go. Must never heal the wounds of Cinodis With healing, who has given me this wound, Being so called insufficient for it, Being so called insufficient for his loving. But I could give to him, O Cinodis. What can you give for what I ======================================== SAMPLE 927 ======================================== "Man of the Ears", by Mahmoud Darwish [Religion, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] For Shah Benalnight a chant is sung by him, who, when he breathes, leans upon the air. The melody beats but a little higher than the trembling rays of an umbrella. He shivers on the far side of the road, lightship but strong as a pliant work and light that may be rounded into a point, where the cicadas are still singing their stories. He has been beaten to gold; golden, flameless; stripped to the hiding energy of gold. He is a writer; he is a seer; he has gold. He is the page on which Virgil sours the wine of old. In The Falcon City he is lost to the white edge of the changing past; and his white pillars serve for a defence against the fierce black rage of the white polar winds. His enemies have died on the sea and sands, there is no defense like that; the white whales will find against another ocean; they call him the sea he divined in his life. He is ennobled in all its beauty. No rock can take down his light, so he sees, on the surface of the waters, only the boat, and, departing, sees the snowy flake which is his, the shadow of the sail, and the thin blue taur, and the dripping like a spider, in whose web the raven flies, and the cove is drowned. All this, with such hair, must be the work of teeth or claws, how terrible soever the ocean spreads out its melancholy, the red sharks howl in the cold and fireless night. The cold death of a white vice over Saul boils at every wound, while Satan, the prophet's dog, sits sweating in the black craft of his destruction. The ocean's teeth and claws are hard as stone, but the lava cracks them, and the mouth of the red flag squats with all of it, the fiery tongue of the stagnant water. <|endoftext|> "Bee", by Marilyn Hacker [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets ======================================== SAMPLE 928 ======================================== "Changeling at the Meccrit", by Janet Tolman [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books] There is so much sweetness in this tale. So much avail. The penates something about wisdom. One thing is plain. Some things are ever the same things. Others don’t live with them. One thing is simple. Others jog or chump, jingle, riggle, rattle, scurry, devil, newspaper, deaden and prostrate, hunger, murder, murder, and scraps of stories, devil, murder, and scraps of poetry. You will find them. One thing is plain: one day they will eat them. One thing is implumable and one is incurable. The poets in these have never understood anything. The world seems all one sickly. What God wills we do. One life is sad and bitter in this sad light. We take our leave and laugh. One ought to do. Others are richer who lose their self-gotten gold, their pure spirit, and their quiet, foolish ways, and look up to the sack called gold. There are so many things that never permission made necessary. With little thought or feeling of wrong our idle songs rang out like gongyo- caterpillars. We all sang in ragged tassels as bluebirds interchange in vases. Awed and stricken, with trembling struck with despair, our minds a waste in all the solar system. At last, the weary morning light spread so far like a candle at night and embraced us. The black night fell and sank one after one. The world was ash and clear of the ordinary light. In the heart of this poem we read, we three of us read. The rain stilled. The summer stilled. The Unseen Dead Sea stilled. How many times I have asked the world to play with my little dog, his eyes hanging down toward me from the topmost mountains of my life. There was a spell in the world, a vast porpoise shattered down on the face of the world, a slight sarcastic familiar, bandked woman. <|endoftext|> "House of Latter Men", by Clark Coolidge [Living, Arts ======================================== SAMPLE 929 ======================================== "Full Moon", by Sophie Jewett [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers] I filled the boat up with the wood and then he pulled a piece to the back of the wood where the stream became a stiver and he pulled in a tiny one or two of the ropes to the snag in the thicket he spoke with the wood he wasn't meant for but I could hear him groan and in courtesy confronted him from the avenue as a steady welcome to the sight counted in vials of bright and dying moonshine that made a musical underirl so sweet to listen to waves of singing, momently sweet for prayer better than hymns from the old march—a tune he made to ease in the changes he made ten years before the sea wholly died. <|endoftext|> "Mournful Bones", by achie commercials [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] Ice’s brittle touch still bears the flowerDown the dark wind it fortunly driftsAnd falls, as silver music mocks.The dappled waters with a wizard tranceAll smooth and smooth their gentle slumbering danceA-thrill with sense of creeping grace A-stream with glamour more than rhyme.The sky’s discolored hours may be too clearAnd the sands be too sharp to seeThe thimble swallow laboriously,Her wings still swimming like the skiffsThat scud upon the sloping fieldsAt their long white becks and vanish thenceIn the pale sails of a phantom shipThat wanders curbing in the thuring tidesWith the undulant thins of elf-traps.As the uncertain quivering glint of starlight hatchFrom the rich frondage of the fronded isle,From these acquainted imps it needs not shriftSuddenly bring a healing cure.The primordial green-stocking strawberriesThat spill their scent through the sweet fruit, the fat,The crumpets—the apparently gorgeous dappled coyotesNo herdsman ever returned to tell their speedOr pace up trees and plan a rifle’s paceAnd look up at the stars. Years after years, I meet them with a sense of gratitudeIn that dun winter of huge wonder and surprise—Leaving me lonely ======================================== SAMPLE 930 ======================================== "Coming Together", by Ted Kooser [Living, Death, Life Choices, Nature, Animals] The coyote waits in the road so long to have to leave the dining table and the driveway quiet. Coyote has a snail inside, a chain of light on the wall. And underneath the roof the horse is sleeping, too tired to move around the table and never rest so that never even a thin line will snap and the frame creaks back. Someone is waiting—“The Antelope” above her bed at the kitchen table, beside the sound of the kitchen doors, to phone the cat, so she might just come in the back of her husband, who once would cling to her as the morning cloud into the sky, imploring our good night to her, the god of bliss. Coyote, like any afternoon, flies to visit her, starts to dry the bedclothes, and covers herself with forecast, rests on the table and waits. Heroded, if one sees the silhouette of a flying leaf, the form of a flower at the front of the house, its mouth blazing pink, like the rustling page it will never forget, whoever thinks it will least remember with all else that the day has not forgotten, never forgot, and keeps its current on the window-sills till the sun appears, a beam of glory glinting from the blue- edges above the sea, like some great stone crowned with silver I see that every minute isn’t such a silver ray that the sun shines from the little stone on the pillow. Coyote! the sunlight is sparkling to me from that glorious vision which appears at once on the brow of that bright morning crushing through all life to my rapt soul. Coyote! there is a star gliding down within a thousand years of sadness, a dumb toss in the blue of the night sky, a dark caw that falls from the unformed ceiling of the soul, and then a buzzing of circles and points, points an apple, and lo! this is all right, this ======================================== SAMPLE 931 ======================================== "Rock Me to Sleep", by Matthew Dickman [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] At the base of the hill, the boy, his manhood beloved in breast, running his own life, growing old as himself, the old voice full of friendship, his father’s violin, the voice of the patriarch, his grand steps, how childlike! His empty hands, how perfect, his empty breast. <|endoftext|> "When I Was a Child at your mother’s back", by Charles Reznikoff [Father, Family & Ancestors] When I was a child, my father planted me to the trunk, burned me to a cross-bow, the roots of trees— scum white money. My father works with his mother, where he weeds the seed burned by her daughter— father, my father, father to father— <|endoftext|> "Scraps of Hearing in Little Country", by Henry Wadsworth [Living, Coming of Age, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Make up a pretty noise, Avoid the smallest field, And be not in a hurry, But pause and be a harvest. Avoid the smallest furrow; Be the smaller harvest; Be the smaller harvest; Be the greater harvest. Don't count the blades in The field each year; Be the harvest thief And parricide indifferent. Right now, the sparrows Draw clear throats to sing— Let them sing. <|endoftext|> "After His Diagnosis", by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow His good courage warm and his good will luminous To every tenor will betoken your heart. Soon as he wept, so bright a pity shone Through all your kind heart, that, though undimmed by tears, Your peace was gone; no hunger of his life For truth, unknown, appeared to him to be Our one delight. He called to mind—his friends, The light of 18 methods—when his high life Was a rare blessing to the world. He called To mind—his friends, to help you have—his ======================================== SAMPLE 932 ======================================== "The Moral of Lost Life", by Kiar Kan [Living, Death, Life Choices, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] — Anne Hutchinson The intricacies of the universe, insidiously, unattainable, insistent, reminiscent, demand the spectacle of some inexhausted or mystery, to which the old sap runs cold. The roots of the earth swerve upward from the earth. Where their original patterns are, they slide out of the seed to that impossible realm where the old sap’s born. Where’s the conclusion of the past sounded over to begin? Where’s the conclusion of the present? The hill-life of this eternity climbs the steadfast surface of another, time, shadow of a city, all have been magnified. Where the embrace of this wonder has come between wet sand and the motion of the distance up from the ice, the sea, waves obedient to the impulse. The illusion of coming again, the conviction of being the essential upward of the body, the centre of the car, the waking: this solitary communion. —Echo: This bare branch of willow, called Ebo. Fleeing, fleeing the dark wave, the suggestive legend of alyssum, green willow, Icy roses prank the straits of ocean, fragments of the moon, which we were wont to call “an infant,” or a northern idea of being called “emptiness.” Fleeing, fleeing, which God knows, we watch the nesting bird rap-galling from the thorn’s roseate juice, and falling like the quiet snow upon the ground, then in an endless wail of notes, and then, then on wings that would follow as swift as birds that follow their pale strands and follow in the wake of winds, do flee away. All day long until the end. Fleeing, fleeing—every sound and sight away from us, we lie close in embrace alongside the chill garden bed, and whisper in each other's ear, Watching the white hands of the blossoms tremble, tracing the red juice inside every bush, and I know not what to think or why, and yet I am so ======================================== SAMPLE 933 ======================================== "The Mountain Dog", by James Galvin [Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Relationships, Men & Women, Pets] The Mountains dog won't go away from any one else. Think of it as the sea does, and the Sea will not quiet after dinner, and the little Nerve will come into it each time a cat runs across the village. Stop your arrogance. Do nothing but Stop it. At your age when will women forgive you? <|endoftext|> "Horse Tales, January, 52 A. Komes", by James Galvin [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I. The American Indian Year The American Dog lay stupidly patient. Resting in stall and stove and wrapped in blankets. His fur chaps were different From braided slippers. When one morning, The cold, cold dog lay stupidly burning In the middle of his day's work, his attention Only increasing until They promised to sow the pure snow. Then he resigned his body To the cold and steady air blow From those huge yellow drums, And swept down the mountain trail Of polar trails and caused Motions to flow in the way Of the good hound as he strayed Through Warsaw with the pack pack And the pack of gold and trains. July, just before When I came down the hillside path To find the dog, his load Was eight yards across The choicklared passes that lead To the power-builder who counts My probes over and breaks them. I thought of the bittern waiting In Hunter's Yew Mountain And how I'd saved a trail. I'd lie in the fire and watch The trees thick with ice. The fire would make a break. If I had a sign Of life, I'd have burned that I was done. The hot weather had driven My cheek from the cold trees And turned it white. The way that I came to start A coy hunter looked at me With eyes of ice. <|endoftext|> "A", by George Eliot [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Time & ======================================== SAMPLE 934 ======================================== "There Is No Birds But It’s No Birds But It’s That Waking Care And Myself, With Imagination, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Class, Race & Ethnicity] The Originat of Human Action. Webbed, a theater. Perched ones. Perched ones. Perched ones. Perched ones. Perched ones. Perched ones (Per Gott’s Tragedy) Parashevery. Perishevery. Persean ones. Persean hosts. Persean hosts. Persean hosts. Persean hosts. Persean hosts Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, Persean hosts, ======================================== SAMPLE 935 ======================================== "Love with Left Lung", by Christian Wiman [Love, Desire] Love with leave (The advance of noon is• Night’s other half will set) Love with rule. The face-down of love Love with urine-seed An eggshell feather The opposing bank Space-black walls rhyme A hymn or two The advance of love •2 Love with leaves Scum of seeds The alcarc from home This avenue This avenue It is very far Love in wedlock Succour Self-spent Syllogrify Self-torture Headland Swell Of his land He disdains to carry his standard To the far side Who shall embrace our advance •What is love Is the contending Impoverescence of mind To make a show of the field The field’s rendezvous What’s his play What spilth, what marue, what hate What is his day What shall. •Far and far we out-yes Ever to and fro Ever to and fro Love will make a breakout The American Love The American The American The American The American The American A soldier The American The American The American Over all The American Over all range God is blue God is weather and love Love is the hue of the sea The American The American over all space The American over the green Love is a summons The grim fight over France The American over the green hills over the green stones No vision of home The American over the green hills The American over the green hills The American over the green hills <|endoftext|> "The Watchet of the Human Race", by Maya Angelou [Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Anniversary, Engagement, Weddings, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] One man in the morning sees a great love in the blood of his wound, he fears it, is troubled with memories they sell. And so, the aftermath for seven years now, a great love in the darkened east unseen is coming over the wolds of your suburban ======================================== SAMPLE 936 ======================================== "Man Cheaphern Me askshal", by Joseph Housman [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] “When he was dead, his wife from out the roaring dogs.” —Female visitors did not like to talk, but professionalievers—especially Grecian, and English. He learned to say, “As long as I live as Poseidon died.” —Meetings and Stairs (Water & Streams)", by Emily Dickinson [Nature, Trees & Flowers] I like to read of men who had to drink from the public cup; of women, as the teller made up his mind with all the other qualities I like to read of men whose hearts existed and who died in love with other women's sons. And I like to read of women, whose hearts were made to be stilled, whose dreams were limned and debased for all the other dreams— but it’s honor that lets peasant breezes out to them and cause them feel the sea slashing their bodysuits to drive them from the country where they’ll be mended. They don’t see it, the curbs thinch of heaven in big thoughts. I like to read of men who trod the town the other way with men who were not other than themselves but trampled and then gave up the house. I like to read of far off souls whose hearts were pointed towards crime; those who left death's threshold the kind of godhead. And I like too the more when I am somewhere along the road that someone has stopped giving to someone who has been lost. <|endoftext|> "I LOST LOST LOST LOST", by Mary Karr [Living, Death, Life Choices, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] "I AM NOT A Man", by Mary Karr [Living, Health & Illness, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] by Mary Karr (Physicians, Physicians) No ======================================== SAMPLE 937 ======================================== "Big City Speech", by Kathryn Starbuck [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] 1 At night the artist’s elbow’s bolt is still hammered at sky, and no one exclaimed, only a hurricane cloud appeared early from the snow-swept hills of jet. No one thought that while they stood precisely opposite each other they had something to say in the middle with no ring or hand, so they sat down and wrote, wrote the words for the weekend at 3:21 <|endoftext|> "Any Leave-Out Portrait on Listony", by Leslie Monsour [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] One day it will be April then poemless, blank, the night before I took to true poetic language and took turn from road to road, persuaded by the words on the gold page in hotels now this morning, you know it wants to go It is April today I think of all the things the nine girls like to see and not imagine they already are who make the nine girls drink a cup of magical amnesia a cup of magical ineffable moon rising in the dark reflecting you can call it a yellow star that stands above the tree a cumulus that peers away from you a boy and a dog and a fat wolf far from you a porcelain and not a lamb in their forest of small babies always singing the obvious silence of the moment's break and not a gun that prowls wearily among the rest 2 Over their mountain battalions cattle and sheep on sashes over their cars and boulders between ridges of cloud into the pastures all the way to 14mm up the hill between the pastures I willed down right into your garden iron shoes and calico new cars and jobs down the back lane on Highway Slacks the man with the gang selling to the big office truck with the big bus thumping his neck into admiration squeeze back into the corner 3 Going ahead making a diamond split the sky not to really look at me 4 Going ahead making ======================================== SAMPLE 938 ======================================== "Being Present", by Michael Thomas [Living, Growing Old, Health & Illness, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Men & Women] After Lacthal If I should fall, dropping, I should escape in time to become A sound at the core, household furniture, A thing known, but no name known, The whole in its place and/or house And house—I say utterly, I am Death. The seasons are no longer May Fish for the years, salmon for lunch And chickenberries, and hard bacon grease, And tomato boards, and Lazy Don So. I fall in love. If I should fail, The pods and chaff chew in the meal house. The maple and ash are the worst of all That toil may end us—the garden’s best Aflint, a name that no one has ever spelt. The maple lingers to hear the rain crash, To see the melon leave its meat for the ants And forget it too. But where is the rhythm Of syllables, numbers, tallest ones? Traces, nothing but a series of drawings, ereritis, a perfect fit of song Or any thing that doesn’t come down? Or every song that no one has played with. Is it a row of houses on the way From across the heave of our instruments, Or a perfect set of music? No, no, it’s only the music of the street— Or the rising wind that stops it in old buildings And all the crowd to see it in these streets Which has to live, an ancient smithy, And a finish to work at the eaves of abandoned sidewalks. <|endoftext|> "Doing on", by David Allan Evans [Living, Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Class, Money & Economics] Doing on, achieve, what others do: The idiom waits with dusk for speech And all the moles will end the talk. The old negation is as weak As wave on wave or wind on wind. The beech dreams golden. And again The river walks. The crows can crow. The hillcrows, one and half, watch all the sky. Then clouds of rum ruffle and stream ======================================== SAMPLE 939 ======================================== "Deir Blue", by Bruce Wephleey [Arts & Sciences, Music, Theater & Dance, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] Where no pure soul ever casts its eyes On the crystal sides of that icy place where lakes of ice flow down To the dreary moonless sleep of the glacier’s face. Where moonless glens glisten in ghostly snows Over the frozen rills, and the shivering moon On their teardrops lies, all silent and abloom. And there’s magic in that naked glare, and in its cold, As warm as now it lies; and the shivering moon Beaming upon it, sees it to the rim, and feels Its hands in meet, as in the wide-eyed dawn’s breath, Like a harsh-turbaned beast, that, thrust to quick And fearful prey, springs forward with a yell And terror through the realms of night and woe, And dares not look behind. Then on the wing it flies, Past lordly peaks, through caves of agony, Where sunless stars are battling with the cold, As restless as the moon in all the skies. And there’s a sound that dares not come to hint The hoarse, dull notes of the eternal sea, Its gills could wake the living daylight’s drip, Nor the violet-pink that floods the dripping side, Nor crickets cry to the insensate, pine-crowned night, Where star on star the ceaseless tide is swept By the awful foot-fall of the Setting Sun. <|endoftext|> "Harvest Song", by Richard Emil Braun They’ve been a long time on this stone, But now they don’t come close; They have so palsy-heated the heart And sobbing say that Hope is dead That even their teeth are in the bread They have so thin and weak. But though they soar a lifeless Babel Cannot you hear them flutter? The shells they’ve driven upward flare Are shell-boxes in the air In bay; But there is no home to pray For the dead as yet to-day. There is no altar still to hope in, There is no shrine ======================================== SAMPLE 940 ======================================== "Follow", by Louise Bogan [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Separation & Divorce] I have been making my point, they say, the address of one or the other man who died yesterday, in a room he’s leafing. And what’s left is not the same thing, but not the same, he’s forgotten it, the form of it, the attitude of it, all those I know. Then I was given a plea, but not, that I imagine the person who will confess the truth and not all I forget. And if it’s too late, why not? And if it’s too late, why not? When the woman I love smiles her first at me and turns her thoughts from my youth’s tendrils to her gentlest response, her sweetest pledge, her wished hope, her well-tried vow, her ample love, her longing for myself, and her desire to share, then once again I may entreat, and it may be. <|endoftext|> "The War’s long illness", by Charlie Rosemer [Living, The Mind, Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] Struck by a broken knock who puts his mallet by, I vex myself always, in my boy’s days, by their detractors, show that I’m a man with neither here nor there, the sick themselves submissive, for their untruth. I’ve seen disaster hanging in the rear, all the people crying, every one capable of what comes on; it’s the strapped grip on things others don’t know, the old pleasures that uncountains reach us, and the oldTragedians now are victors. <|endoftext|> "The Eavesdropper", by Rita Dove [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism] Cut then the fore-fend, cut, too facetious, that so aggrieved I’ll cut the omen, and engrave with it the old verses. I’ve not, for that, exactly the appropriate, cracked line of requital. Did I tell you? The nose of the head is a marvel ======================================== SAMPLE 941 ======================================== "Tartar", by Edgar Lee Masters [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Midlife, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Reading & Books] Lachi and you, in soft and silvery light, Where not a jeweller may escape your spell, Is it alone there's not a thing to look at? You with your pinions fluttering on the dark With your soft and silken tapestries and syrups, And the warm breath of things that touch and pass, Breath of your cool tongue, breeze of the gum-tangled grain. Ah, we catch sight from the secret evening, As, between here and all the raindrops trembling, She comes to veil you with her eyelids falling, And when you're dying sweet heaven wilt send you A smile that ends in sadness and a wailing. Where is it now, O heart in joyousness unblighted? O Earth, howling and howling, rending apart, Cannot you e’en be distant, or be nearer Unto infinity, and almost never, When you two winds are hissing one another? O Lament, for in that night you hoped and prayed Still thinking of your names is not unmoving, Beholding day’s eternal progress and its working, The longings of your former lives that roam you, Winds unforgetful evermore, fierce yearning For the unseen goal unattainable of you; Rising from your knees down beside your loved ones With pity and love and trust and simple trustfulness; Reflecting still deep thoughts of the right, unfaltering, And shunning harshly of their treacherous innocence. O little sinner, in your dreaming time be sated By sunset gleams of mellowing years that flicker On your sad, meeting eyes; be sorrowful, be sated Of pent-up bitterness, and bitter tears, And love that never frets them, to you bearing, And sorrow, that but ended, seems to grieve; Bitter and bitter, aching, to you bearing, The burden of the moment: Joy is not for telling ======================================== SAMPLE 942 ======================================== "Song of Myself: 35", by Walt Whitman [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Heroes & Patriotism] Though in my verse I strike the sounding string,The harp of fire can rouse not from the long-stirred strings:Though through the shout my circling fingers o'er-passioningly moveIn reverent murmurings, and o'er-warished quiveringsOf sounding instruments. I know not how the spirit may strayTo some high caverned hill that skirts the way,Illumining a land that is not sown with human seed;And yet I find it so. Now through the blast and crack of this broad earthSlender and mellow, smoke and musketryAnd voices rude that hourly change their tone,Ringing like bells in many a wakening air,That float and sway in many a tremulous way,Ringing like blossoms on the crimson boughs,Rivalrous as the royal winter vow,Ceaseless as ever breakers castFrom iron grieved gates and brass awash in blastSpreading their teethless pallid wings invisibleDown in the blue deeps. In such strong places, safely harboured free,Free as Bandristi, free from canting fingernails,Free as the sons of noblest Castles on earth,Free as the sons who cast on manTheir sleepless eyes, free as the galleots knownOf their unbounded, freezing hearts alone,Free as the ocean free,Rival of shores, free as the charger sails,Loosed on the blossom of great Hesperides And the swart tropic highway of the moonlit air,Called ‘away, away, my love,’Down on the blossom-streaked hill where you and IOn the wild mountain, proscenium watching pale,Dim as the past and spectral in my dream,Rounding and rentAs in the future tempest's unbroken pastRallying white cassia. Grey as the future, chillier than the past,Yet as the present, softer still,Now as the future, now as the past,Now as the present letting once again Shine and be seen, as in the first mirror caught,Dies in the brightness and the shadow of the Falls. All in that dusk the fair romantic dream Glides from my sight, moving along the sapphire lake,Toward a low ridge where, leaping, ever makes An ======================================== SAMPLE 943 ======================================== "Occupation 1943", by Babelle Alexander [Religion, The Spiritual] What color is this hollow of your skin? It is a lawn of fire. No one. This is a woman I love, tossing in the court. She is a woman of a country flowering her seed. I was born to love myself and my mother gave me birth. No one. This is a wattleshell house on Fenway. You must plant flowers. Is this a screen? My first one. The boyish amaranth wants a garden through the one house. To spread its foul petals over your head. To decorate, to construe. To be the rage, to be the rage, is to be the rage, is to be the rage, is to be the rage, is to be the rage, is to be the rage, is to be the rage, is to be the rage, is to be the passionate. <|endoftext|> "Parchment, Please", by Philip Levine [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving] impoverished Virginia restored in memory the law: "Grandma made me beautiful" says: "My mouth is scabbed to pieces, real to touch," says Sifewin at the window. "Please, aren't you pretty, singing when I say Red Cross way? have you had several Zenos to hear me, always singing, and you never wondered whether I'd handle you with glue? Then I know— just who I am, picking roses. I'd like to put you on a shelf and beg you to take care of your books. You know what. The little girl, she thinks I taught her to write your poems, every time a little girl like this her ritual was early for uv finding you, she said she wanted to dance, paid so much of this, but you don't know it, she said she wouldn't know you, she said she'd never seen anyone playing any scale in one, she said she'd never heard anyone playing any scale, she said she didn't know you, she said she'd never heard anyone playing any scale on your slate, she said she didn't know you, she said she'd never heard anyone playing any scale on your slate, she said she'd never heard anyone playing any scale on your slate, ======================================== SAMPLE 944 ======================================== "Sleep", by Alleghorne Pickford [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Friends & Enemies] The rain, as life goes by, eased me with sunshine.The sun, emerging from a vacuum,whispers to me how the rain is doing work.It’s good that I’m listening to the rain. Seem to me I’m listening for it. “I’m waiting for the rain to fall.” —Dere’s waving sudden bareware. So it is that other things: the raindrops.The neighborhood in the suburbs, the thunder,the raindrops rising.The brant of the raindrops below the roof,and through it, voices calling. After all, it’s the raindrops that fall and the other noise:the raindrops and voices calling. <|endoftext|> "Nostalgia and Complaint of the Sky", by Edgar Allan Poe [Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] —after whose birth everything seems like dark money when my house isn’t ours. And—after I’ve learned to love myself as myself can’t see through the rain and the light in the doorways of my eye looking up. <|endoftext|> "Fairy Mice", by Edgar Allan Poe [Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] Downriver the mired guard watchwords slip from the sky’s slackest receiver — í Little dog with snow-white nose and a tiny yellow bag, you’re small real people so they look at you and grow sleepy, reaching down from the hill’s magic height into the past where you hangfrom the real sky with your right hands spread reaching for one. Little dog with gold hair, looking out beyond the valley, the sky’ you who are about to start over beyond the hills, where white cuckoos call to stay all you’ <|endoftext|> "Summer", by Robin Becker [Living, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Pets] ======================================== SAMPLE 945 ======================================== "To His Lady the Night", by Sarah Anker [Stars & mountains, Heavens, Trees & Flowers, Weather, Religion, Other Religions, The Spiritual] This is the dark and the night is to you. It is a room of lamp birks, an Inn at the Dog’s Bath. The doors of that house you came in, statues, and of the lady who lay under pillows. Those trainers in this machinery. As you turned on your discrescent of black hair, a white rosary, above your shoulders, the moon fell. The moon fell. The fog licked down. The fog licked down. The moon licked down. Darkness licked down. You didn’t think the moon would ever carry me to Heaven. I forget. There’s the moon on that river, the moon on that river. The moon's body with clouds walking in dark. <|endoftext|> "A Please", by Afaa Michael Weaver [Living, Death, Life Choices, Parenthood, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals] If I could be yourself, you’d be the man. who knows when the fields are sad, or if it’s bad? who knows? the horse’s life in every yard, and Easter milk. And everything at 3 a.m. or 2 a.m. a tired life is hard to cultivate. He thinks for one more bowl of mutton than his bike until he is ruined by the single longings of the moon. He knows the signal: the command to pick up languages is hard to lose. <|endoftext|> "National Park", by Adrienne Su [The Body, Activities, Jobs & Working, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] The platform, a Sunday Sunday greeting the citizens in the street, high-arched with garrets and lilies and many coaches ofPretty pink wagons. Between brick and gravel and sky, a clean lane rushes and red carnations to market into the suburbs and the suburbs of New York, say. Oh city center, set in the center now, you venerable houses ======================================== SAMPLE 946 ======================================== "Opportunity", by James K. Baxter [Opportunity, The Mind, Nature, Animals] In the field’s mind what happens you do, what you do, do not come, do not come, do not face truthfully, so terribly, if you do not belong here, you shall soon release it from the cold, brought on the smell of you so many that you will come, you will not make it come, do not make it go, do not reign here, you shall free the air. <|endoftext|> "Philosophy", by James K. Baxter [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] I asked five apples for a chair", by Susan K. Baxter [Nature, Fall] And I was young enough to hear them talk. I was not a growna sister of learning if a word spoken misinterpreted, no threshold threshold way, no path beside older, no open door either friendly or grim to tell you all is well You have no child. Giddens have one with hands, the twitching toes, the rest to take over to be you but is a house, some door away to bed, none on the street to choose to sit with, is more worth It means that you must walk at night with arm that is a streetkeeper’s first hour and if you find her at the window she is also night, she will walk her head up till almost blind she is of the city, yet not pay her by or by. Consider this illustriousness of one and the next due; fear is most of all in this. There are those who, the worst seen, have eyes and false hearts Not on truth and evil but on truth’s truth. I am not one of them the last man or woman either who, learning, is pleased to act the hypocrite one and which has been called a lecher praying for power to poison and ravage the conscience; or at least, since the body says that it is true and is worthy of both, have eyes to see if, being alive, I have any disease No snake nor murder, no wound, no smarting, no last form ever and I ever will. But is it so, can you ======================================== SAMPLE 947 ======================================== "Bargant, Hazak", by James K. Baxter [Travel & Journeys, Landscapes & Pastorals, Summer] Last night, as I drove by the road I saw a man waiting just as he was riding. He said, Look at the men far out on the road I said Don’t come, but why not? They are so beautiful, men cannot see them.The man brought the gun, they looked at him then and why not. I heard the man as a child whose left arm was rough behind him, a man who could do nothing for the fine milling work, and who did not do the best that a wounded horse could do. He said he saw three of a vatster then half a dozen men sneaking in line, and they joined in at the place of the crossing, joined in the battle. They came down the last, and the order was read by a man whose name was Charlie. And Charlie said, Never a word, as we placed his gun along the quay with a hound in it. Charlie had set up his table, and he began to take off his fur. When Charlie got up and flew by, Charlie blessed him; he said, Never a word, but he stood and touched his gun, and the gun went into the distance. Charlie had longed to go, but I said to him, Never a word. <|endoftext|> "The Glove and the Lions", by James K. Baxter [Living, Death, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] They wore the fur, they were seven cents almost bright. My man in leather and my woman in harness did me this presumption. He ran into the gutter, to stop if I called and there she lay. As he walked in the suito, he called for support, so I took my time and went alongside her. My lady roared and cried, Be on, he said, Lord. They said we should do something great wrong with the man. I was in the swig of the river, I was in the paste of the Lion. He called for support, so they called for mine. Oh, he called for fire, they said, and I had no protection but I gave him something. He gave a carcass and a fine room, and he wore the gat. He had three earrings, and he brought them together when I placed them back. The ======================================== SAMPLE 948 ======================================== "Moth", by Carl Sandburg [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Money & Economics] I could never have turned the Wheel Braille. —Inferno b. 1340 The St dresses were all covered with fur. —Inferno b. 1389 TheGirl’s Lace was hungry and thin, with slips That did all the nails and ends in. And she was a virgin. The St dresses Might have been beautiful to see. Her voice was a faint sound. I could hear it Whistling from the bottom of a fine chest. The St dresses were not black but rather red. “Strangers are you,” she said. I said, “Human, dancing! Unwashed!” She held out Her hand to me, her throat was dry. “Let us devote your beauty to silence, I am proud you wear no dress. I have a large silk purse, stuffed with leather, And a large pair of boots. Box of socks! “I wear them in great battles, you unlay! I don’t want any burnish, no fire. My heart is sooty, that’s like a cold sky O’erspread with blue smoke and clouds.” We walked on the steps Of a high wall that caught the sun, We looked up, she and I together. “Those aren’t . . . Yes,” I said, shoiting buttons and plastic lace, And a stitch of blue on my soft shirt. “She was scrubs, and dirty, she had needles in, And then you were laughing.” She was stupid. Her seeing that I love was the pure Delirium of poetry that gets those things That make all things completer. G. B. Wore something fitting: “The Outwithagingales,” While something else was willing that what might have happened To the violin’s soft voice, and the invisible Murmuring instruments. You could see Strangers entering the flat chamber, at the first, Then going past, coming up, then lighting On the cool floor, waving, sinking, With the candle, bedisprecating a little As a tiny silver whistle ======================================== SAMPLE 949 ======================================== "Rash Dad", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Living, Relationships, Home Life, Pets, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] singsor thy paw match pray watch cow skittish katydid flotam over snotrum: katydids greet adHolinam & wvthrypetem. thud pryka ad filthry moutam liquidth clean ef I et tachy co n ter a wth a dulth in me & tsix centuries old Lab which dy voulde see you dot me, Coming te vaintly to you: Glam gatternum te vaterno, te vince, te vint femissa promissimus maioribus flammis Vennicelli & usus from Fort Hudson and Rasta, far from glaciers as human appetite will find the flesh. se vidi longe bruma gelato te vanais amarantis vanais sed vanais Veneris, hanc route superbit Pilaris arator. terra, ele vidi te virent, te vene etiam praestantibus extravi suadet his pedibus gloria. atticitus armory. quam testauit campus arva et ardet, hister parabas flumina. non modo aut piaunto cachphalus ploratus atque paenosis suadet Zephyro sulcis agitado: sic me uxores, non intermendis quaerere mater, non rudis aliter paratus longius inter cinis. non mihi pephalus gens est modo potentem secura noctis mota puellae, tecum sero te scissa sperans iniqua lacrimis. sic me uxores, sic velente mihi pruinae, fallax aurea per iura cibos: aut si quis inmemor auel quaerere mentis uenit et et Idaei uincum flectat sumordo maior ergo pectora nostra colorit in illa uincit intus tecum vano curas ======================================== SAMPLE 950 ======================================== "Sonnet 1: While in distant Egypt’s wastes (ib. note. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. quote. ======================================== SAMPLE 951 ======================================== "Then the Dark House of Darkness", by John Spaulding [Living, Death, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] (excerpt) No one knows the truth now, As I lie here, Severnus, I, group you in rooms, Or crouch at the feet of the mother that is to be born. I, perhaps, am a wanderer, skirt the earth, Roots of mountains and fountains,Finding not Some pretext to work me in blood and in stone, Or else to engraft me who knows not the way To plant a new world on the world itself, Where a wing as unseen as a wing escapes, Or a sound is heard, lost. Or perhaps in this dark house perhaps he bears A mortal sword with which to store its name In cities of books and of lands beyond the sea, Where others, none are he that pass by. So, Silence be not an obstacle; to burn Is not so helping to God who gazes through, But to ask and that allcom dispatch From the heart of man, something worthier than his imagining. Therefore I, Lord, serve thee. Go from me, else I might err; but thou, To whom God gave his strength, mayst give alms and relieve my soul. For my God is as a dream whose desires meet and melt; In which the one sure thing is to do that he will. If he have not, himself as he did him he accompanied; By flight from the roof he'd return not so much, But my great tower is placed in the uttermost sea, And in the floor of the pavement at home, Where at first he climbed into my slumbering heart. Here, on the very main, he himself will put a grate, And in an open-and-out cottage thrust his fires; For my God has given me power to serve his purpose so, That he come not to his own inheritance. All my body is charged with an act of his hand; Wherever his mind and his body move, The shadow of his will cannot reach me, And it must needs have been sent to deliver me from pain. May I never have turned, when on my vision first I saw him stand, Vittis, out of the bathroom, playing alone, With his head upon his hands. At the base of the pavement of it all is said, In his very first life, when he walks away, Where he does his spirit not admire ======================================== SAMPLE 952 ======================================== "C inseparable on the Cliffs", by William Cole [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] —after Lorca I gather your fresher paths with my hands to your multiple, and I give you this white breast I have no gift, no subtle part in your world. I bow myself to your large, lucid hands. I pour the multiple light above you and beget my knee in the ocean and you— your body poised on the laundry-machine beside my hipbones where you in deep meditation with the sub- eraged magni of the island’s freedom you slide out into the blue water and to me— out into the blue air and you forget! It is like this: you are the child I left beside my mother’s knees across the bed. <|endoftext|> "Eros National Court", by Kathleen Lynch [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, God & the Divine] Three wild jays live in the forest’s skin, And their whole family numberless as can sin; They eat, drink, and sleep—not minding us; We stay inside, I hold my mouth on it— They say God has more. Maker of this world Has wings. He flies—is not a little bird Distraught and trembling. “Be careful Of children in the trees. That is our answer For our wish—we won’t be near to God If we can meet again.” Our Father, So far from thank you, flies, sings, and shrieks As he catches the echo’s distant sobs. I hear him who will his cross smooth to his feet. We cover the black wounds with our side-feathers. Externalrition Touches our holes. O hope—oh, hope— That helps even this bad dream. <|endoftext|> "Tree", by Kathleen Lynch [Living, Time & Brevity, Trees & Flowers] When I was just a boy and they made ill their greenings and bad germs hidden in the seams while to my car. Brother piled thick woods with leaves. A giant tree grew only with leaves, and leaves ======================================== SAMPLE 953 ======================================== "Ah! Why did I never hear of the beautiful things in the garden before I was twenty-five, and know not why?" Oh, you mistake in the child that seems to know its pangs and sins and the things in the garden, the things that do not die, and the things that make the garden horrible for one in the night, where father finds it out, and the days become simple as they are. The child sleeps in his little bed that the dawn is growing slow, where the green moss grows over the head where sunbeams do play with the dew, where evening holds everything where they carefully cover each thing. Sometimes the breeze enters the room and touches it with a caress that it brings from the frozen world where a heart lies a-lightning but the crystal is a mirage as clean as glass. The garden looks out to the sea, and the wind brings the water, but the water is not the tree, not the water is not the tree, but the fissure on it is the grass, the sand is not the stones, and all things are covered with moss, like wrecks of a seagull or a drowned city. The river walks along its banks and rattles its fragments into the mire that sometimes spiders bring, but doesn’t, as does the water, that water is beautiful. What a mean element of mud and slime that could have raised the ancestors from plaster and mud and from the sofa that never was primitive, refreshments— and in the light a baser form and a darker yet, the form that was obviously sending up its waters crosses for moss. This one is a chain of unknown names in homespun and household houses and people—though the rest is from the earth and not from some other place where they will again be free. And the minstrels of the Teuton captivity singing among the ruins of old times, in childhood hearing the Dorian moods changed in their degree, like the sounds in the strange hollow of a minstrel’s voice. Only a few brief t ======================================== SAMPLE 954 ======================================== "Movèd", by Joseph Di Prisco [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Music, Funerals] My last toast to the ever-pelting sea That hath chalked its pathway to the shore. No friendly dewdrop hence hangs on the wall To tell the way that I was born; No whispering of thee or speech of mine, No word of pain or hope of any sin. Here is the portent of an unknown crew, Like the old battered city's desolate crew. I loaf and simper, and my joints grow slack; I have not thought upon the journey past, And I have not the heart to laugh at last. My voice is empty as a empty brain, My book a goblet: all are over again. The grains of water in my empty skull Fall out and in Oblivion drown. O sea, thou art a mystery and a grief, A victim to a tyrant's beck and will, Or one poor moment rid himself of life. I do not weep so long, The song is still, I have begun to plan, Some desperate attempts at last, Some uttering words that make men weep, Some moments when I am alone. But surely I have done, Forget not all thy secrets, though thy name I may record as an emaciate. I am as weary as an abandoned wall That stares at what is like itself, And makes the tired heart, Who hastens up and follows still, Because I have but sadly found me, a deserted heap, The height I have forsaken and forgotten, a remembered heap, And therefore have not lived as I have lived, Nor therefore left but only that it does with all its waves; That it has been retained by the companions of my mood, And now as spent and interrupted, as a man Who has forgotten one thing and forgets to think it one, Makes what he will, and does it with his thought, Until imagination lags, And then being what I was, I find it sweet, ======================================== SAMPLE 955 ======================================== "Trail of Tears: Palladictum", by Paul Hoover [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Love, Heartache & Loss, Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt] There’s a tear that dims its eyes, and dims its gaze. The dawn that’s coming on has wings of haste. What though the dew is falling on the rose, And nothing seems to tell the passer-by Of things the years have buried: the dark blue Where Nature weaves her skeletons in bloom, Though it is winter on its brow, the moon, And stars waste bare its tints upon the earth. One star is riper than the loveliest flower; A voice throws out its silence at the birth, And what it seeks, it cannot nor can seem, Has tamed the spirit of the nightingale. What changes? In a gilded doorpost, at the door, The King and Princess wait. Without, a virgin walks before the King, The herald of the morn; Above, the mantle shakes like the sharp sword That speaks of death as one. Within, the King sits fervent on his throne, The clarion speaks his word, While on the belfry marches to the war-blast, The clarion listens still, and listens for the hour When an exalted king might earnestly sit with his majesty. The trumpets bray, the banners fly, The glittering standards wave. O lily! rose of the garden! ripe and fair! Must one make for the land of love, this death of kinsmen here? On a mantle laid before a throne of gold The Queen of Love is sitting. The leaves are falling; Their multitude is gathering, And at the morning dawn they cry, And at the evening gate, so bright and cold, The people of the heart are gatherèd To listen to the tale. The tree-tops have quaked to the wind, The orchards are ripe; The birds are resting, The maidens are cheeping. As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives, And each had seven children; He caught them up at the poverty That made them look so blindly. I was a money artist then And lived on ======================================== SAMPLE 956 ======================================== "Nought There", by Richard Wilbur [Relationships, Home Life, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Music, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology] In those Greek gardens cool Soracte works from the strait in front of the door to the middle of the house up in a great hollow.III Swift is the bend of the bank to which the spires of the town fishermen are bound to stand stretching as wide as the sails of a great wind, taller than the tall ship on which the sea billows turbulent. Toward the middle of the island, Troy, the sea, and Ilus, Thes descry from above, Lest on your strained and fainter look ye, and think you must stand awhile in your place there, until on other occasion, in other time you discern the ken of the sword that holds your sword there, And wonder at that edge, and remember the keen edge, And the hands’ edge, and the shoulders’ vigour, and the side’s heft of the axe. Thes and awa sae slow, and the sound of the fall of thy footsteps ... and the birds that are now about to fly, and the vine-hooks rustle in the throat of the light, and thy beak on which the shape of the lark leaps in the wind, shall utter a lull for thee. All thy birds of the air shall rest from their moaning in the green shade till fresh they come to the light of the sun. And then, if haply the bees are noisome now, and wandering in the myrtle groves, thou too mayst see how the budd is swaying, and hear the lover’s song pour thy honey into the throats of the flowers. All thy flowers the earth gives thee, and choirs the lark with melodious lips to awake thee. Thee too, Cypris, none of the gods reckons neither the flower of the lark, nor the lark, nor the lark that sings of love. All thy days, sweet Cypris, pour over the love that is thine alone, for the gods are contrary. O goddess and Delos, be just of heart, for I will not hurt thee, nor the loves that once embraced have turned to ashes, nor the frosts of the plough, nor the fierce labours of warlike Greeks, nor the storm-torches of warlike giants ======================================== SAMPLE 957 ======================================== "Last, Who Brought the Plum", by John Hoch [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love] Last, who commanded the basket. This golden-eyed, blue-legged visitant Hieing his footsteps to the top of the mountain That stands between the fountain and the fountain. Then come, you four, and dance in lovely pits All round our favorite fisherman Miss Darcy. What shall I say? That is the message. You four, four, five, six, run the colors! And please put your finger anywhere, to see What you have done to his life: first cry For charity to take you back to home; then watch This letter certainly, stand or go straight For the hot ironside, until it’s spring. Or wait until it’s spring, to say: this is. And besides, this is too much. It is a signal. It is also probable That if it is invisible—why? THERE are no problems for the people as yet. Not because they’re there. Stop and look. Our speech is but a thin gray cloud of smoke Over the motionless clear pool that swallows The trees and sends out the unquiet lights And the small waves, like tiny prayers and like shadows. The woods are still there. That’s why I’m not. It is because the leaves are fallen and thin For a few hours, left for a curtaining salt To remove and make way for the paper that makes Intense the precious silver and gold and golden times. It is for the sake of confession, my sister. It is your friendly temper, and you’re thankful That you have not forgotten the calendars Up North to read us. The lawn is still. It is for the sake of bed. With trembling steps It is not far. The white-swathed cross Is lifted to take the kiss of the sun As he takes it rolling up. Oh! you were not hungry. It is not now as you are. Your every step Shows the white road over the snow. I heard the silence That was not from the snow. Now it is quite quiet, Stirring in your throat. And now it is so quiet, Is the curving of the wood. My breath is like A flight ======================================== SAMPLE 958 ======================================== "Yesterday 4: Firefly", by Paul Hoover [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] The crowd had enough of sobbing in my hand, so I fitted my scarf into a button into a tiny boat, then went into it and passed through the other meat suit. Weeks before theetting stroke, “ha’s leaking” came I knew it wasn’t worth it, but I heard it “cock-a-dubble” and “cock-a-dubble” then. Down through the woods I came upon the barn-yard high in the night.The trough was warm, the trough was sunshine and not a blade of grass was nearly dripping. everyday it came to be day, which made it brighter next to the moon and finally got its own way. It smelled like rain, but it smelled also showerless, and made me feel foolish. I even took the milk from the barn. ¿The rain just seemed to follow as it passed through me next to the house door. ¿Bohemia, time early, i used to choose my way because they said I should be with them any morning and would show me how myself fitted for the channel. No matter how I felt lacking, the vine was beginning to bleed, the herd stood singing and shining, though it was late. It got no older. No rewrite, for I knew the discipline they tried, instead, of a famous English driveway and I got joined together by “additional strophe,” and at that moment the whole place re-visioned again, like a meter of the hills. It wasn’t necessary to move on, and I must be saying it sounded stale, but still you have to marvel at it, you beast you don’t recognize. <|endoftext|> "This Is a Poem", by Dana Gioia [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Pets] This is a poem about the pain of living into the next life, and the pain of not dead moments. It was a romance of not dead moments, but to read them through and through again, and to hear each other’s song, and then each other's sound again. This was the one which is a voice which says: This is a poem about the pain of living into the next ======================================== SAMPLE 959 ======================================== "Desis", by Jerrod protector [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Weather, Religion, Christianity] Last night in St George’s Hospital... you’d seen the giants walk like mad armed birds the street close together. They lined up, each stride a broken wall. Their stride you did but none came haltingly. You know they kept their step so steady half a gash beneath the arm. You’d read the news right then, stroked and cupped in bed the pillows’s bloom. It made that smell a abstraction, strange, like death, an unnatural pain. Like sleep you slept, your breath was warm, like pulse that worked, confused. Was that what it was? quivering through the brain its stable door. <|endoftext|> "The Triple Fool", by Thronus goddysman [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals] Couey-ouey and Old Man No-one They sat, each taking his pleasure in the appointed task. Each held his pleasure’s share in the utmost sense of his significance: Don’t waste the energy in persisting. Don’t treat it as much as you live, But humble in your duties. Don’t be perturbed after the bout: Don’t be downy fearing weather. <|endoftext|> "The Good Lord’s Exorable Mistress", by Thronius goddysman [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Class] All this is a good idea: in being human, getting maternal, looking hen-pecked and holy to give mother drink. I want to be mother, to grow up and give mother drink, to live in life, to want to become a polite master, and this young man— look! he is Big Bang. <|endoftext|> "The Breeder", by Thronius goddysman [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Mythology & Folklore, Fairy-tales & Legends] The seas wash the metals away and the mallet dips to the foot of ======================================== SAMPLE 960 ======================================== "Fenced Sodom", by Emily Dickinson [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] In galloping on the sights like these We heard the treading of an unseen heel; It was the treading that could steal Through splintered shield and splintered sword; It was the actual steel that drove Through splintered shield and splintered scabbard sweep At intervals with gentle appeal; It was a thing to love too much A mailman pinned beneath some murderer's arm; The mailman's gleam too wildly grand Seemed then to beckon from the dauntless dung; But on he rushed with Death's stern hand, As one that knows his bigness is undone, Whose one last wound is where her heart has gone. The shock was over. Over head The pallid dead they had enfolded, And shrouded closely round the dead, A fleshless thing upon the ground Within these arms alone was cold and wan, A skeleton lacking memory still, A skeleton by life to kill; A Ghost, a Ghost, by Lethe's ring Touched only on the brow that glows; A vulture, ominous, inscrutable, A struggle in the agony of love. Then do they fear? Oh, foulest names Set in the faces of men's sons; The eyeless animal in stone, The skeleton that cannot shine alone; The skeleton with which it used to bear The bed embroidered o'er so lovingly; The skeleton lacking spirit of purity, So wont to struggle with the strong assaults Which threaten still, and always fall away. The dead are dead, and, dying, each alone May mix once more with those they left behind, And mix once more with some delight they own. Lie quietly within my reach; I cannot catch the birds Which watch my step, and pass the time With solemn gesture on my lips, And trust them to this bird. I cannot reach the hand to call With half an awful cry To my dead heart, that kindly lies Beneath the coffin-lid of Death, And calls its little ones. Dead leaves of what were memories Of golden memories: How the old world's familiar ======================================== SAMPLE 961 ======================================== "Letter of Recommendation", by Faith Shetts [Living, The Mind, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] At the podium I may have been mirroring your form —Black, White, Blue, C above; Black, white, little . . . But it’s only one of my own to, my stanzas still on the ground— a Dase of Pistilizer like the X-rays in your eyes, O news half blown from the end of a paper At David’s statue: the passage out of which a new eagle quickly darts before it is carried down into the blue space between sun and water, and his prey hails, lightning crashings, the red rain, whistle and thorn shouting, the aim of gulls, the blood rushing free of them, the raw surf—the gulls—the gulls—the flash of lightning through your dark, flashing like gold against the sky, the dawn like a gold metal barque, a torch, a drum, flaring through the blue. <|endoftext|> "Abner Boy", by W. S. Di Piero [Living, The Body, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Theater & Dance] In those sitative cases the soul of the fish is the symbol of my being: a bone walling in its base, hacking the shell above a corpse, and (every hour there when it is buried smile again) a feeling of slow, sudden dying evoking: but always staring at nothing except the devil. Sometimes, an octave is as quiet As a bubble breaking Into a song: coffee at odds with the world, days of bliss—and, if it is satisfied, there is no future, And I am happier than the tired dear world. <|endoftext|> "Evening Prayer", by W. S. Di Piero [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] for Phil Jackson Mac regrets I have failed to clean up the ’Pilking Point And to imbecile other people’s souls. I have gone back and lost my way in the dark, Called the power of the ‘P ======================================== SAMPLE 962 ======================================== "The World Now Arrived", by John Ashbery [Living, Infancy, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] In our  toang-ear. It’s morning, though, in the  never quite getting older. All our 
legs off. All our little stories left out. The whole body has started growing older as   ourselves. Together our heads halo ourselves — our heads — our gaze dozens quickly enough for loveless eyes and stilled tongues. We’re alone here: the mouthing, even, something we can’t catch. It’s the veldt, the only word — the only thing left out  by something we’ve known. A much later one happens to be all of this easy Egypt with neither of us, simply, not. We both know better than we know better. We talk about much later. We keep silence. In our 
parasading, still, nothing we can recall resting. Not really a word we’ve forgotten. Not really. It doesn’t always be like what we know, but it does. Motes and lots and lots. <|endoftext|> "Protector Accompanies", by Jericho Brown [Religion, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] incubriously everywhere it pursues its flight to east,east, northof scriptures, whippoorwillow and rivule think it isn’t that they’ll turn their beaks from them to rivers, that they’ll reach to them from every quarter.But it’s only because they’re sensing a fish that crawls from them to them, from whomthey have such contempt of the variegated bird dragging their wings above their heads that they feel not why they tear their dead again before they’re killed outright? Maybe what you feel is that when you spring up, in calmthat becomes the natural element of happiness: the human being feeding on its departed when from every direction he does drive, but from which he supplies his wings when he takes a swallow flight, in the attitude of gulls, not really where the mind is from winged stairs, not the soul makes light of it. It’s the common scene that smiles and beckons.It’s anything ======================================== SAMPLE 963 ======================================== "Peaceable Mushroom", by Joseph Millar [Religion, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Sciences] 1. If only I had not always meant to paint the anger of God. Angels must not be understood. Go home. Shall there be anything to stop you thinking God does come. There are places for you to write while you are in your mind to keep from being of a different kind. Is there no method to make God afraid? Is there no way to let God in. How could we talk to the Deity in our mindlike the cows about the lawn, posing to make God ashamed? Having known all the bitter qualities and still more careful for us, we wait for the holy word: Eternal Light. <|endoftext|> "The Water", by Joseph Millar [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] The sea I’ve seen when I was playing bone.Mary, have mercy on me! Flood of other lands, I’ve been thereon the very same tune you are with.Mary, look down on the strand and listen! It is my image that you are so with eyes that cannot close,While my hands clasp them together in the embrace of the clasp you couldn’t change. <|endoftext|> "My Name", by Joseph Millar [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Trees & Flowers] Oh, the crowd hunches down there like a statue, frowning, seeing how amazed they look. The sea heaves high as emotion, etched with bluebells, rosy green staining. What do they know? Don’t you know? They can. Oars behind boats, the keel bearing me along. And the pier lies flat as the tomb of a dead head. And the sun sinks low behind a screen of red light. And the fog comes up in clouds across the island, pulling across the waiting harbor. <|endoftext|> "My Name", by Joseph Millar [Living, Death, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I knew the man whose hands had carried you across the shimmering water. He was a man of life , he walked ======================================== SAMPLE 964 ======================================== Sublimes the world is immortal: There being no station, No country, where men feel the stress Of servitude, and taste the pain Of being humble: mean the level seas, The boundless land, the unchained pastures: Fair fruit-groves there that are, Fair harvests, holy pond and creek, Flare and the everlasting dream. Oh, Fatherland, on thy rich blessing is God’s golden sun, On thy blest face the Easter sun, The ever-sorrowing sun, That seems to shine on thee, and round about thee run The thoughts of many a dead man. The olden numbers seem to tell How Israel, from the dream of sleep, Had fallen senseless on the way, Their awful Lord, who died to give them day. How Israel, the nameless terror, lay Dead on the spot His temples lying low, Whilst all the past through wearied days, Their weary night, their weeping, day by day, The land of strangers, moved in wondering woe, But now to feed their wants and fill The ever-burning fire in their hearts of woe. Blest is that Sabbath day of His whose name Forever shall the world adore, The promise of an endless peace on earth, Blessed with perpetual peace and love, An ever-sinking, dewy birth, The promise of a fresher shore. Blest the Sabbath of this evening hour, And dawning of the peace that lies Smiling in the western sky; The home of love, the night of care, The land of trust and joy, the home of faith, The land of blessedness. Rest ye till the day is born again, And day is born again; God is the Lord, and every breeze In motion and the strain; The tide’s his and the waters’ tide Heaves ceaselessly through the golden gates, Yet unto him the sound of Zion fails, The shadow of the Lord is come. Awake the east, and burn the west With rages; let the day attest, His coming who shall outrun the rest, Or save the remnant of the day from doubt; For he, the God that made the seas, That made the earth ======================================== SAMPLE 965 ======================================== "Curtained", by Stephen Sandy [Love, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] I like to think I liked it for its smell, but this was really way of jumbled down when I remembered it. But it's not just that and when I woke, I'd have to bolt an early lawn of “right” and choose between who knew how to be plain. I'd like some things. I’d like to be the same boy who wakes in the right when I decide to snore. I’ve really come to choose this kind of game, but no one cares except some few beautiful, square and fat girl on a stool. But I like the walk. And I like a launch the whole world like a float with a background, have no room to meet anyone about to come and tie a book or be swallowed up in someone else's lap. And I like it. A surf is missing where it goes, but the ones who won’t decide the least passion are telling all. One of us is working, and we are careful of this for around him. The trouble was only when we started. Sometimes a figure in a sleep. <|endoftext|> "First Line", by Carl Rakosi [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Plucks slip in and out but touch the surface with a formidable kind of gait of people, who watch over the water but duck and tipple as it tosses the surface past the marks like folks who’ve thrown their hearts to. A wave of memories swallows the ground and swallows the wind that carries them up and away over the bay. <|endoftext|> "from Jubilate Agno", by Cortés Lamar [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] There’s a lot ofew today in the godless early spring, but I’ve always thought that I should catch the bird instead of him, for now I know that every fly tonight is its little diamond wing and yesterday St George of Barb’s high-water buffeting the waves. It’s ======================================== SAMPLE 966 ======================================== "Gran'mena No. 2", by Christopher Smart [Nature, Trees & Flowers] Santa Fe s'Tendragonta no me a-terrutzpa I love you like a little farm With windows red with tiger And vinyl clams and a dandy country house all day in the saahs. In a hoarfrost Kitten, carved in charcoal, and set upAlmost every day on the housetop pail. On the roofs washed soft but soot by the sun all day, slumber soft and play. On my eyes the milk of the earth all day, milked by the sun all day, milked by the moon. When it rained, though small we've a-fed, small we've a-been. Eleu! Magic child! Where have you been? <|endoftext|> "Romans", by Christopher Smart [Nature, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture] I saw you pushing an arm away right into my palm, And Iago carried you into that arm, And Iago carried you into that attitude. You were not lonely, although Iago doesn't know. You walked in front of the mirror Of the rain. You turned on the wind and Iago doesn't show. <|endoftext|> "Romans", by Christopher Smart [Nature, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Sciences] Iago at our great newspapers and newspapers. Io ho! It was a summer and autumn ball. I George was in the 80th Street inside George, Under the influence of intense temperature. I have been driving through a field of planets And walking round a road of planets, With one another so young it has hedged round me close And ahead of me thinks of me, and my head I have been thinking about him, As a child remembers the sun and the trees and everything else Has faded in my mind. And he has become a bird again And has left a pattern behind. Let him go: Let him fly. <|endoftext|> "No King in England", by Christopher Smart [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Heroes & Patriotism] When I was a child and nothing else would attention But the ruined battle-house of theandeceraunce ======================================== SAMPLE 967 ======================================== "Morning Noguchi", by Jennifer Mizzie [Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics] tonight morning to breathe the last night of your dreams, Blue Devil, in your guts “how do I love you” Henry Howard I watch you become a bit of a spit I release my pence into Taste for a nice moment in one. Stick to the dishes Mossbrush’s sister, Sweet squab, Sweetest baker of all the world, Nurse and I lure Eve to draw Evocative, anteriously When she senses you, You are hurt by a club. Tomorrow the kettle steaming bowls Roll up the kettle Rattled up against the wall Trumpets till the explosion is loud Someone is hurt if one of you is Someone walking on the cobblestones Today is dark, this vowels storm and soon the village disappears This oak tree will stand a garden Meanwhile the moon appears <|endoftext|> "dreamtre", by Jennifer Mizzie [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Love, Desire] dreamtre Sing a river so excellent Sing wel sartin to your paiper song Joy so true to your thatched-head Blue of anemone, smoke and rain Smooth your face in its penetrant space Tend to my hand some of your golden hair Violets blue, cobblestones of a summer evening What is in the bowl to me A spiralled harmony The face of a child I once saw She is smoking yet, smoke still blown She steals between my red rose cheeks She is thawing by dawn of time That a girl may brew A bright and heavy sunlight from the spring Zippith, bring their eyes to me Trail the smoke of a hot spring night She is laughing yet in the frosty shadows What are you in the bowl to me The one who is our god and heroine The smoke of a passion in the hair We are all late at the beginning of morning We are all frozen in a good-bye We are all skidding horses There is a weather there, Beetles about the door It isn’t over there Just peeling through the window, A sunbeam ======================================== SAMPLE 968 ======================================== "The Cloud Corporation", by James Galvin [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving] Look to the shadows below: there’s a buzz of searing people below. Oh, fair are your shrouds, my beloved of rest, The horror of being a gentleman to molest, But a roving affectant of pines in the rags of the wind off the moors Has kissed them apart, with a sound that was me, Till they laid their dead pall in the wind of the sea. Near by the river of Time We revel in glee, warm in June, Where many a spirit hath gone and lain’st with us, One constant thought scahes us about us and thee. Like a frosted-out lamp that we see In the chill of an early-uknown, Ourselves are to us a people forever, this nation, to us. Oh, many a man of us all is gone, And the memories of those who were his livements, which we shall have in the past, And which are to him in the present New England. I think we should all be in a hurry to walk, And I think as we walk on the highway at night, Which is just like the last of the houses of light. Oh, dark and dark may we look in thine eyes, As we look in thine eyes and think of them, In the way of a man so noble and great, Who fought for his people and lost them a day, And now is in life’s great battle-glory. Our sweat runs like wine, and our lips are wet, Our faces dark and our hands are so small. The picture of sorrow, the image of woe, Is faded away like the smoke of a glass. The past’s distant landscapes seem always ablaze With purple and gold, and the false past’s rays Are dear as a thought or an answering thought. Then look at the clouds and the sighing and wailing As they slowly fall on my sad, easy breast. The past is all past, and the perfect instead. The future’s vast pallor is o’er with years, And the past’s mighty summits their courses are, And the ======================================== SAMPLE 969 ======================================== "We keep Him At Home", by Rachel Watts [Living, Infancy & Failure, Parenthood] He sat there waiting, uttermost Of all her children’s lives. He thought not of their pale-faced boys, But o’er and o’er in word and thought As if they had not stayed with him That lone celestial fugitive:— “He’ll go with me.” His sister prayed, His heart with one swift throb allayed. She knelt beside him, in that peace Between his two worlds he remained, No sweeter his bosom-beats upon Than a small song of midnight’s peace. As morning dawns upon him, so He prayed with all his brothers near. Even now, as morning comes again, “She will go with me!” They said. She went. With weary speed she went, By all his glimmering jewels led. And now, before her bright array, Upon the carven forehead bent The morning star that glimmered bright Beyond her memory’s darkened heaven, And when, upon the fearful reach Of bright-hued sword and helmet broad, She reached that tower and smiled once more, While far behind her warning sent That he would build again his bower Of grass and flowers and heather-dust, As if he too had dwelt on it, With wonted courage near him set. Oh! a dreary moan has come to me From the dreary rooms. And I long for The summer peace, the pleasure wild And rest, the peace that, long denied, Lies round me still. With weary feet the wonted chair Must wander through the close-packed hall; There, where the peat-fire's red glow flashes From the rub-tongued chamber, seems to call, And I can hear the hoof-beat rustling Through a chamber where the clambering vine Of robin and the vesper listens, Or the gurgling fountain wakes and grieves With drowsy cadence slow and solemn, As I would sweep with it the evensong Of some glad bird. Or just be come once more Among the hills, along the dales, O up then! ======================================== SAMPLE 970 ======================================== "The Post-Poet", by John Ciardi [The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] What great offence is this, to know God’s ways, not His own ways? And why not his own will? Your friend’s confession, your face, your palfrey, Your cat, your horse and your own stalldog? Do they not feel all through the dark, the heavy God-sentences, the crazy question Of duty, the sad softness and the power Of thanksgiving—good to ask, not worry. To know your secrets is to watch the stars— To see your star-world rise and shine Above you, glittering above you, flaming. What power or knowledge has it left? To think of silence, and the bones that sleep Within the soul, and pray for silence. To hold the book and keep the book shut out For one who reads it and the moth that smells— A row of silver flecks that lie within it. What spirit reassizes life against itself? What body holds the spirit in its hand? When you stand forth, you will recall your words, Words of yourself, letters of you, duds, And suns of memory. R. WI. IMA( yielded city-gods) consol before Thee, Lord! SEMMAINE (soul, xxxv). Excuse me—a dialect word heavy on the tongue— For I am more than allied to Thee! IRA (goes before Thee). Excuse me—am I not the same thing? The same thing. (seriously.) The worst person in the whole world Was I, I was Thy servant— For years I have lain in Thee. And what then became of Thee at the time I was A doorless, eyeless, drab, beast of the sty— There was not a soul in me that could smile through Theppy blue eyes of the limousine eyes. But I am Thee— And because Thou art more Thyself than I did of the slim red Slab of the feet, of the limbs, Of the starving, bread of the mouth, Of Thy ======================================== SAMPLE 971 ======================================== "Festubert Cauyster at the Surgy Cliffe at the Bay", by John Skelton [Love, Relationships, Social Commentaries] I Swall the shreds, So shifting handsired Young and old Lay on the water— Love’s blood poured Through my arms. II What can we give thee, dear? What gift, what gift Is thine own gift To me? Can I, as now, Dress my raiment With roses? III I made a garland Of weeds my hair bound Too; and, instead Of osier, shred by shred, Left it unsung. IV What garland canst thou bring That I should thank thee Who hast thy gift for me? V 'Twas Chieftain Tomyris, who invited us to live with him and invited us to drink cocoa and honeyed us with the same wine and churamect and the honeyed usufects. We poured the same wine every path between us, First in the car, afterwards in the drug-store; Tis obscene and demure, for that taste was heavy upon us, the one that sets us in hell’s pinch upon us for ever. But when we would drink cocoa and cocoa and cocoa and for the world to make. We would drink cocoa and cocoa and cocoa and not be danced, We would drink cocoa and cocoa; then we would sing and dance. We would dance on the ice and sing, danced round and round. This is what each one feels, Song, beast, and seal. V Two white boys, who keep Us, and like birds, sleep. ix But as for the fly, the fly shows us as a gun. Why does it come then? Lives there a lady, That is subtle, That is fiery, Lives there fire, And night and day? "When can I give you over to the short clouds?" "When do you get over the short clouds?" "When do you get over the short clouds?" "When do you look over the large clouds?" "The short clouds?" See, they are snarling Oars that are roaring hot. "Look over the far waters. Come nearer. Come nearer ======================================== SAMPLE 972 ======================================== "The Temperance", by John Green [Living, Parenthood, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Philosophy] If in my dreams the man so young has gone afar I have not seen him I know not why or what is evil but he has gone onfor whom I would have forgotten anything but what it is I desire it though I implore. Therefore I shall think of you I lived on earth but never did he come and has left me in my dream.I thought I heard him say, 'Illumination has no include piesand here's eggs; better if you leave me here but I must leave you and a pDeathless landscape site my door is so is my dear one. <|endoftext|> "The Aunts", by John Green [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture] Not without a warning from his father, we have some small work to do. Nobody has a match for me and I want it. Sometimes I expect you to be my Ma and my daughter,But it is late. At any rate it will be late and I am exhausted,Or you have nothing to do but wait and wonder how we can behave like kittens. I’m in this condition. My ma doesn’t like muchpain when I tell her I’m not a translation, and when I tell her I don’t work, I’m faring from the depth of my conception. I lay very much light and heavy when I tell her I’m coming. I know that when I tell her I mean to speak her truth I mean to do it. I’m not really black, not red. I scream when she accepts it. I row you around with steam and soap, churn, spit and grind. Everybody. They get me to work when I tell her that my daughters never did anything finish. They’ll swim and swim. I keep on nodding. I don’t care if I’m giving them orders. They’ll take food when the farm woman comes through. You’re alone. I have no coin to spare. Nothing will break your quiet nice care. I won’t until you come over to me. I won’t take too much. I’ve taken so much eternity outside my woman’s room thinking that ======================================== SAMPLE 973 ======================================== "The External", by William Cullen Bryant [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Jobs & Working, Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] To see you prepared, to leave us undone, We all have that charity allowsThe chief among us who have clean destroyed, And sealed in Christ our high oaks of our own. The man in the road is the one who gives, Who has made the vile quickness he gave thePoor: He who brings the people to God. I look — And I know that the Eternal One above A well of love to His love in a well of love. Still, face of stone, and brown frame, With saintly sweetness and saintly godliness; If there’s any place that’s fit, instead of peace. Intercourse: Filled full of blissful melody! Love virtuous works in the heartAnd makes it pleasant here, for it’s very sweet. There’s not a nook that looks too cold, No ledge that’s too clear, for the wind to moan, Nor ocean wide though it sometimes roll. There is not a rock without its load Of rocks that rise like a tempestuous sea; Not the rude rock, where on our side we layThe shelter of our shelter’s pride away. Triumph it there, for we are a band Of bold free spirits, bound in their Master’s way. Softer than thunder, or the fall of dew, The water sings along in a golden glow, Sweet with its music. All is fresh, and still, and fair: And I that walk therein, apart, When all is done. My heart is clean as the strips of new-sprung grass, And the white clouds frown. I look into the sky: I almost think the "brown" faith really is to pass. But I am sure no angel, as I am, Stops in the darkened room and swallows air, And lets his bludched white plume fall thick and clear, And says, "Oh my beloved, what is your reward? You cannot say, “I’ll tell him what you have”: I think that has to be. I’m sure no angel Peers me in the darkness, and outside The heavy gate, labours with all his might To rule and minister to Christ, And never say to me, My Christ, that even in the dark cellar All thy ======================================== SAMPLE 974 ======================================== "Ice Cream here, Before the Salvation Army Months", by Anne Winters [Religion, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, Gender & Sexuality, Money & Economics] After the arraignment police pontiff This is the black night with a pack of private spy weeds of papers, the ding of doors traversing through a rusted wall outside the Jardin Public Library. Always the windows of the blinds to get out again at the cool moments before the black night. Always the hands grow silent before the call of the clock— hand making certain small squares of red. Always the yells never yet come true, the latest shivering of a stove— never yet extinct the terror that the black night express in making good. Always before every betrayer watches everything— until her own end. Succor suicide comes to life and tells him there is a black lot just after eleven, a gang of eight that took people out, that will prevent them. Saved by the horrors of Queen Anne's army, the ministers of the “Semites Society” have, to stick with the moral danger, set up LCD labs, and then let them gather for the night guard fireworks, to send around the enemy to aid what gets under the marijuana protection: the staff of the Ragged Mountain to stand on the heap of Egypt to give in to the presidential President of India, to buy the black National Engineer of Spain to be in theolation of a leg of the plane digging up all the resources of the world to feed the black coal. In the sad shirking of the grille deciding the millennium deciding the birth of the foul sexor CustomStorm-Crawl, different from the hitching-jacketed September making fortune necessary while the black slouch-in-a-blank freshened the back street of the lunatice (no mortal knows how it is, waiting out in re-en reven like a rogue gene uncle making ghost towns of the Viet Congan and the Afghanisthod ======================================== SAMPLE 975 ======================================== "In Appian", by Quan Barry [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Philosophy] Never sound, always sound. The old, old, old bell inside your neck its roll. Its taproot ticks far round and very soft. It seems to be beating. Milkweed grows over the rooftree's arms and up the river, the crows go caw, then caw. An almond blossom is just as newly made As it gets hot and feels. I think of how it feels in silence with the yellow moon, whose coat of mauve is strange, because it feels the chill of night. Everything is in being and that is strange but only in the long, dull roll of blue light. Let us smoke, let us go babbling. Let us grasp the fog with the dogs’ teeth and eat our food, let us love our country. Day and night, nothing has changed. The hills are silent with lifting gauze, their tall black, towering peaks above— their watery crucified milk white foam. <|endoftext|> "The Wound", by Quan Barry [Living, The Body, Love, Desire, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, The Spiritual] 1 When the warm wind in its breath receives the powder of marine snow, when cracked on land, the levels of seas bear tiny whales, I walk to the window of the ocean with my chest weighed, trying to figure out which fish or which brilliantly rose to make bread, but I’m thinking of a man, the sea, the gull, the gull, but I’m standing here looking at the bottom. I’m thinking of depths, of the subtle poison of the element hiding poison in the flower. <|endoftext|> "The Stars", by Quan Barry [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Nature, Stars, Planets, Heavens, Religion, The Spiritual] Neither the poles nor globes, fixed up, underwater—into the dark— and though there may never be light, there may not be light— it is not light, the mirror of the sky is made of holes and conservancy ======================================== SAMPLE 976 ======================================== "House of a Tree in the Robinson Brothers", by William Cullen Bryant [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, History & Politics, War & Conflict] (In memory of George Frost) Here in this little house of ours it's as if I'm playing right there, without ever behind my door, and I know it's okay to be here on the edge of low-rise, that place where a woman I used to be sent out, to have gone through heat and cold to feel her limbs smooth and out to start this walk on my floor. My friends aren't so slow to learn your things. Actually, they've turned out to be there or you'd know them. It's a long night, a long time, alone. In the empty house on the highest top of my familiar room there's a sofa that's just covered with windows like a waterfall of books, where everything's still full. The things you know when you get to see them flush and scar themselves. On the bottom of the bed there's a foot-smeared space where you sit with eyes not opened. In the darkness there's a mouth with mouth tight like a spasm of water wrapped up under lips asleep. The things you know when you get to see them are not the things you'd like like like like no one would say when you stop listening to you say back. By night looking out from behind them, I'd wish a bad night for each of us if it got too close to each other, refresh out the hate we'd one time, and sure enough enough enough enough enough enough enough enough enough we feel we've been left over to our sleep. <|endoftext|> "Finting", by Kenno Handger [Arts & Sciences, Music, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] Each docile as a policeman at the edge of a great roaring god. And the greatest voice of all a man knows perfectly well weren't worth the first watch. A guy got out o' streets and walked downstream. A book said he could be happyin'; he got a firm lick in his lip and held his shingle as though he had an acute audience about a spieler . . . he read pretty wellakin' out o ======================================== SAMPLE 977 ======================================== "Miz Rosa Rides the Bus", by Linda Pastan [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Town & Country Life, War & Conflict] Before the War Memorial, in the scarred face of the Republic, and in the round eyes of the local marvel, I sit down. [Forgive us our Excellencies, for we are small as we are. Let the Nations mourn our dead and all their Kings, with eyes of shark or Gosh. <|endoftext|> "Harlem Ordect", by Linda Pastan [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Race & Ethnicity] He will find me in the Afterlife dragged down apartment apartment apartment succorately by lockers to his attic in a KKK 1914? Women vote for him. If his neighbors speak to him or if they hint his proclausive blood or his poisoned presence, I’m just up from bed, sleeping and waiting for him to call me back to take a chair. If women speak to him he will say good-bye and say something or flirt with him. I’m just a nom de fait that I know goes on, a hot excited person. It’s like most of my own late hours, a brief redecent intensity of blood. And I want him back to tell me everything, the dead or feathered, emerald in the spotlight shining and yellow,Jacopey has just seen me. I’m a president of some tip-toed belles and glasses, a lonely cellist in a high blue room, with broken bolls around him. And beneath the vacant sky the snow still stands, looking down on the imperious city. <|endoftext|> "Beneath My Miraceth", by Jonathan Middleton [Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Race & Ethnicity] When I grew up and went to college, says my mother to me today, a woman who contradicts her own conditions. She says, on what side she deceives now and then: she has decided to leave my house. She’s described here to me, says everyone abbles in this house. But still I’m learning to call home now. I’m selling my buildings, I can� ======================================== SAMPLE 978 ======================================== "Song of Myself: The Body and the Soul", by Kenneth Rexroth [Living, The Body, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Religion, The Spiritual] “On once I thought I was not in the world,” the inward ear exposed. Thus by his spells abandoned they gain control of the world, and the body, the mind, treasure its repose. No delight that I had capture me can intuit the universe. Since the world was made better by my weak feet and my nails I have spent my days in noisome and clean. And here I sit and talk about slavery and its consequences—the future almost every year, the future, and its wrongs— I ponder it all upon the radio. And at night I wake too early and walk the dusty streets. The moving world is the same and there is no life at all. <|endoftext|> "The Armada", by Kenneth Rexroth [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Weather, Religion, Faith & Doubt] In the beginning, before Egypt was crumbled under my feet, I was lying revived in the sun’s aluminum milk, chicken and slow chicken. It almost hurts to be caught in the trestles where a truck’s fierce inskeepmate gestures only hurt in my groin were the rubies. In the barn, even in the street, I think I’m abashed by the storm and masturbating synth into the vast asphalt my eyeballs have mingled with the smell of dead ones in their primeval passion. Mere bubbles in the copses, mere gaps in broad daylight, mere broken doors. <|endoftext|> "Passing Things", by Kenneth Rexroth [Living, Parenthood, Activities, School & Learning, Religion, The Spiritual, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] Nothing that was ever and ever can be made into the garden of words. In the crystal of the night, a shape appears, stamped and mixed to match the chrysalis of the abyss and up and down the syllables of billions. But only in semblance of a ======================================== SAMPLE 979 ======================================== "After Midnight", by Linda Rodriguez [Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] O nightingale, what can you say But this simile is gone with fille Like a slice of bone, chide me for weeping Because you’re sleeping now. Love, I have it And want it died down and’s best For years now, while all the leaves of April Lie “sobered and mossed and alive with shower” Without a word to say thanks. <|endoftext|> "from The Mumwoman’s Lament", by Susan Stewart [Living, Death, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] In your bed through this snow there is so much that already is beginning to break. And because the carpet holds just one when I started for you it is the same size that was then, long ago— I want to draw you back into the light though you will never know. There is so much that would not do. The penis has been carved with the ivy and vine which I keep carefully keeping cool till you sleep on the floor. There is so much that would not be taken. Your bed, those soundless sheets, will I strew on your summer clothes, so you lie there awake and forget the hour of your bed. And my feet move ever into your house. You sit on grass at the top of the hill and the rabbits circle right and left: One of you always thinks and thinks: To-morrow he may take the place of a man that is here where he walks and the creature also returns. A fairy story has made me forget to weave it. In the lane of a lake I see slim craters, notliving except for a little green pond. I lie on the grass, and watch the blue-white lizard slipping sudden gray stilts through the pools of light. Cars halt for a moment. The sky seems enormous ======================================== SAMPLE 980 ======================================== "Work-a-day," said I, in a lazy voice. Then she spoke on short-roofed hounds. On horseback, spent with chasing, The red moon churned the gray and purple skies. Small, red tongues moved in a shining wind As they wheeled, the moon leaned, And the bright world seemed the harvesting moon of the stars. When, out on the hills at break of day The great snake Tawny ran Down the west slope and down the valley, he fled. He ran down the shadows glistening Up the mountains' crown Down the small town with sunlit sky And birds that never knew his calling Clapped their trembling wings at him like rings of silver. Till, he woke to the echo of their calls, And they knew there was only the world outside That he had no children, Till the gaunt grey mountain ash heaved and spired Like a sun-blind planet in storm-tide, All his body might have been once he has been. Never he knew, Save to the hungry that kept his spirit free. Now, the dance is one with the black-ribbed rain. So, let the flowers Bear in their boughs some form or other, I hold the gorgeous hymn, I feel the clear heart of eternity. "Give me the quiet house where I grow up tall, Give me more my daddy's new life over. I'm glad you were born out of the world to fall. Forget me, now, of centuries dead, for lover." "But, mother, mother, tell me why I am so sad. Is my sweet boy lost to-night; or have you left him, A thousand times, to cling to me to mother? Is there no way to say to my little girl He married, who so gayly wore the wreath, The sorrow of death and of mother? For mother I say to him: That boy fell blind! You cannot count the days, The years, the tears, so wide, that you should go to him. But he is now far gone. Nay, mother, that is the story of my life. I too have been a shadow while you danced, And now I know you do not like me either. Do at ======================================== SAMPLE 981 ======================================== "Fie on me, Love", by Heather McHugh [Love, Unrequited Romanticism] The quest of truth’s desire fails beyond the years, Crying eyes searching all the ways of love. We do not trust ourselves as men trust us, Nor mark our laterness. We do not trust that eye, Seeing in all the wide and starry heavens, High in the lordliest arch of God’s triumph, Ordained for evermore to learn His law In breaking cloud and daring death and doom. We know not that we have the strength to be The norm of a great and generous heart. O, I could lie with God as well As dance with him, or walk with flame. But love is just a country in its might, Where chilling winds and b cheating waves Disturb its honor, and its hope uphold. And I could stand here by the throne of God, And never murmur at a thought so mean. But love is just a country in respect Of outward beauty. Lithe and pride apart. Not so if I could count the men I serve, Beholding gifts, unquestioning above all In talents, worldly worth, no words could tell. They talk of commerce and their social life. Their conversation was of life and glory. Sometimes I think that I can dream of this. But most of all, I never can remember The happy moment of my first love kiss As if I could remember that now The watching, the wall, the night had taken me. <|endoftext|> "A Poem That Starts Out Wrong", by Heather McHugh [Living, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I sing what once was sweet and new Telling the world that it is true, This sweet, that passion, dark and sweet, Doth in it move and breathe and meet, Yet, if I might there move along A steadfast soul, filled with strong memories, I might bring thoughts of joy to the spring, Seeing the apple trees within the branch, And all the foliage of the fruit, Here with the flowers of yesterday, And by the windows, daintily, ======================================== SAMPLE 982 ======================================== "Houses’ Soliloquy, Jobs & Working, Run & Dance, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, History & Politics, Money & Economics, Town & Country Life, Thanksgiving] to Marry The first hint the day opened and I went Into a room by lamplit with clear firelight Across the blind edge of the floor. A blind spot, My feet coincident, the floor was hot With smoke. I thought I was in for Switzerland, And it was there in the attic. Climb and turn up the slats, step in to the bed, My father on the bus beginning to frown, My mother on the bus coming down, The two doors closed, and I could see her First, starting from the unhearing bed, Her voice above the window, Became like something that you came, I thought, The sun at noon and moon at eventide, A perilous road to the high hillsides, Driven by a badger’s cry. I hurried back to the house to talk to it, To tell it all. In Germany, the two Dear friends, I was in the house When the town opened, and you went to it, Of course, and I heard you Standing there so long. And I did know why. <|endoftext|> "Waltzing Hoak", by W. S. Di Piero [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, Class] Waltzing Hoak, “We have lived to this,” A Little Red Dog, rinsing his face With a tiny pinky-and-twaddled tail, And one eye opened as he searched The dark with a few eyes, A few thumb-screws from the memory Of a wild little red men, a bunch Of black matching skirts and dresses. I put a clog on my scooter And took off my cloaks To see the dog slumbering there in his newness On his hide. I put a bundle of rice In each hole of my way And left my dog To keep dogs awake every night. <|endoftext|> "The Light Horse Company", ======================================== SAMPLE 983 ======================================== "Greek Architecture", by Billy Collins [Living, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets] It is always a play or a labour: Hang the loph resolve on the stone! Or, if that is a coincidence, Show the truth as a series of tears; Scholars give instead of advisements, Fling back the lamp, the stage's bright candles; But for men whose eyes have not seen us, Men still hunt all our sins together. Say that poet Lanigan, enraptured By the witlessness of the senses, Brings no peace to the recollection, Swings no bar wished for another day; Modelled but as a senescention, Deathless as the best of planets, Proving that no force can disturb him, He must still have genius for his? Yes: and while the tear bedechen about him Floats itself in piteous guttur, Never the nobility of Nature, Does the poet cause such poverty, As to make it fully worthy, If, in strains so diogenently lovely, He controls with graceful movements. Not voiceless but consecrated, The great stone steps where men labor Are its lasting monuments. Once, in ages past in the Poconcernya, An acmicseras sang sweetly Above his head the tunes of his lay; But not a breath stirred within it, And the leaves moved, all trembled, As they sang, the stories of Rhesish, And the folk wept, the stories of Dogen. Many a summer morning, evening by night They gathered the lilac and lily flower To baptize the Easter rite; And they made the golden cross tower With blue flowers in its chalice And they drank in the crystal fountains, And they came and learned the ditty Of the plaintive ditty of Rhemia, Of her beauty and quiet childhood In the Kankoei kingdom In the land of the pygmies, In the land of the pygmies. But the children of his mother Were the dearest to him, And they brought him the tragic story Of the flight from the southern islands, Of the death from the southern islands, Of the murder from ======================================== SAMPLE 984 ======================================== "Sonnets from the Portuguese  7: A Child’s Lamentation for the death of Dorothy Marble, 1670–18", by Ronaldo V. Wilson [Living, The Body, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] In the night while the candles are gleaming, while the wind crumbles into sleep, the wind falls and falls into dreams like the shrieks of hearts biting at the teeth while the plane in its dim sphereoff foam sings out like a wounded or lop in the storm. The long drunks have made a sound to me like a rattle of chains, and the current of the ocean wails in the body’s waves like chains of ships. On the sand where salt flats her gates keeps the sea-wind able only to break free, in the turbulent void of my storm rage. On the cliffs, which seem to aspire to above the foam, two eyes alone gaze at sea, the sea, the space between the drowned sea that foams, some doomed bandits sing through my sleep. Through the night I hear the deep closing up the seawall sketch of my sea; the skin darkens with speed; the edge is everywhere, yellied with cars, yellow-hewn as though by some night-companion with monstrous hammers. The cold without branch-like fingers brim my hand, moving in gutters with movement unapt to the taste. And now I cover the earth with my hands, red-golden lilies, golden plaits. <|endoftext|> "Childhood Affirmation", by Sutter Knarl [Living, Parenthood, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets] I saw you as a bird, laid on your back at my mother’s knee by the small, fat toe of a bank, and a dozen seed added fuel to your perch. The footprint of the field was a basket, a basket. You sat in the field and sat silent for a spell. Abstracted conversation with you, three. During the school-week, I begged I had the knack ======================================== SAMPLE 985 ======================================== "from Paragraphs from a Booted Reuge", by Gwendolyn Brooks [Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] Here’s a copy of Ovid’s Preface. Demons’s feet did slide under his foot like through a wire and almost through a wall. “What did you sacrifice,” the man of yore claims. The Greek wounded and the Latin, bent forward from a hill. “Christ, this our moral right,” he cries aloud. All heads are bowed and some dust like ribbons, torn from their shoes and their kerches. “Take hence my shoes,” “Henceforth be of good value” says one. After that he named the dog named for his God, the seer’s voice still calls upon him in the next canto. He now calls Tuscarrot whose five years breathe the Virgin's message. “That was Emperor consecrate this person says S Eliseo dead at Gistoo— we will scatter our lives for him.” Aristotle’s sacred name is simple and dignified, but Latin, accomplishing any violence about S Eliseo. Chateau is a country famous for its arrivals and its autographs. With his non-antology a library clerk called S Eliseo from a kingly palace. At about the same time a postal clerk called S Eliseo, Nonantem salamanders and modelions and modelions and modelions and modelions just before the birth of the pontifers, Nonantem salamanders, levandembers and modelions. Any plainer person was large enough to stand against a backdrop is just a name but not enough to stand against anything. Any plainer person was large enough to stand against a backdrop and question if he were the person to stand against a backdrop or hear music in the same cart that people keep screaming. Any plainer person was the hypocrite, with a memory that could be broken, and a tone it could be played over without strainings or reason, the way that soldiers hold it sacred. ======================================== SAMPLE 986 ======================================== "Nons of America", by Anne Winters [Religion, Christianity, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] the Esculapius who condemned his hands carvedwith an oar he was brought to the river of Euzdor, two lives on a sectional quote of 100 sharps,the names of his artes are found in the life of every man born in the human world some people and some the writers who paint the wallpapers themselves are cut down in the corners and some have both razor blades foundered in New York other people are driven along seeking sherbet gown and incoming gifts and some getting rich, some loaf on the cold foot and some picking the pen from the arm to the head among the silent persons, the dead ones are buried there by the river in the land the dead make no speeches with one another so that their dead may not quite quite forgot he collect rations Which is to say all the dead are rewarded or rather excited ex-lunaxian silverheads I have heard the man was a woman of going about sore wounded if not into bad habits but what were they to become a nation of great sports sports sports sports sports sports sports sportsmen perhaps, whereas from the side of the field near the house he could be well-nigh swaddled (but with arms) and spear and two-edged dagger He could be even forward gazing (at a glance) who by the same river he could see the different borders of the river on the plain his hands in the water pointing to the prow, the oars they could uplift from the wet soil. Thus would one day he behold another float like a god's fin out of a cloud season. The boat was wrecked suddenly, and discovered again on the wide surface of the river a black, black band of boys. The man had been buried five years before. His old swim, the homeless, the alien, were hurt, they were all burying one another. The body was broken and the sorcerer gone. The man had wrought hundreds of years exactly before. One day a boat was wrecked completely, and a boat was wrecked and it was the same way he had used the craft of making money for the future. That day a boat was bought for years ======================================== SAMPLE 987 ======================================== "Magnificatores", by Eleanor Ross Taylor [Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Morgante Cavalieri “Oh yesterdia morga no morg ben meist As for your pater, dime, or any of ’em yet Yoost no no nade por grant me your consent” Morgante Cavalieri de’ Antonio No nuts yo le segúbes no morga el sueño, No buscan turn tengo tan grand tonrait Pues de las trovies y de los donos a pistia Cómo sean tu grand maliz de Dios los amores, Yo le pido pie con tengo y dar disgusto A do márcelad el reino de venturoso, Pensa roba el mentido amor que yo creer, Y con otra faz á tu caro buscando, Pero ejemplo marchando el día, ¡Oh viene de las aguas aya varío! Ya con un punto una canto Quejarse ninfa por calmaría. Vuélveme á tu caro y las aguas peneces Los grande celebras, bien trafez gime elpen. Pero pues de una yegua levantó Tumba funesta compañar; que no le A do toda su bien ese sueño ha sido. Ya es más ese sueño hacer sus vientos Ya es acaro y ciego á tu ciego Su voz, como todá, que los hombres Desde oculta aguacar, de larga soledad, Que ser bondan á tu causa y celaga caza De un puebla afí con los hombres Desde un vencedor de sufrimiento Y el sueño ó el no quien se al mundo Do asa rodando errado á tu prof fiction Para agradó á el sellinge su dolor. Ya su ======================================== SAMPLE 988 ======================================== "Night Singing", by Thomas James [Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Valentine's Day] The brindled sexton, fumbling at the door, Knows that the mansion must be dizzily top floor, That, though he gasved at last, he hadn't "carried" till The lass he saved last night, with reckless smile before, As if he'd hoped to make his yield, across the sea, To some coy maiden's breast. So, chiding easy his appeal, At some weak word, she strove to break the dubious seal That on the far off prize she had intended. But, no, He stopped his car to catch what it would hide. The seaboard snugged beside a crumbling ledge To try to point its way outside the sleeper's eyes— A fragile carbine, but of sovereign size, Big with a female head—a basin filled to eight, A basin formed to suit our Southern dreams, An island ready for the sea to sail. <|endoftext|> "The Night Brought Blank", by Thomas West [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] What great thing have I done? Ashes to ashes, ashes to dust, The sleepless aspiration; The eternal toil and sweating, The eternal me groping, The eternal wooing For solace of the deep to keep; The eternal cleansing, All the unavailing, The eternal cleansing, The eternal gladdening. Places, vacant, crystalline, Aues like the demons of old, Silver rifts, splinters of design, And the laughter of the running brook; Under the spread of the eaves, Under the branches of whose well, Inch-cavements, With the sacred ones floating to and fro, Faint echoings, silver voyas, Song-music, heavenly consonants, dirge-calls of forgotten hours, Like the inner sound of the storm-beat flowers, Faint strains of heaven, which float at once Faint with an infant ======================================== SAMPLE 989 ======================================== Were it to this, the size of azurethat inside your bodyis an insignia of the spiritual, an instrument ofriel,or a sound. It is the light whereof the leaves the minnow-bird’s bellyis the emblematic word. To strip and rendermore words is to stretch and be movedwith the fire and rind of ancient words in rime. This light in rime is the penitential word Where roots, as subtle as the shoots Of actual parchment, hang for the shrinking soul. To eat the fire and pass by its lingering Is all it does. And what is left is so stripped in damp. Will it grow on earth of you and not of us. <|endoftext|> "The Arkansas Prison System", by Juan Delgado [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design] The lilac and the only one of all The little street where I can wait For green palm leaves to wave above The slippery floor of home. In the uncertain breeze, the hum of life Confuses at the base of the river, The cracked cadaver called, and I Will not choose the black cat’s eyes. Only out of the shattered wall Guarded by bodies floating naked Or damned of a past sublime. Here in the dark they speak The languages that appeal to me. <|endoftext|> "Birdless Boughs", by Juan Delgado Dear grass, have you taken me for this wind Silver and dull ash and the light In your house and yours, or nothing But the sky and the river and every star Lifting away books from the bin and books. Dark against blue brick lookout In the tower the willows, dark Behind the house, the shed Heavy as pink paper and papers. For the day the grown man knows What is underbrush and what is still marked And every June's like a newspaper, Fog-like, folded and stuck or unmade. Dark against blue brick and slant The evening flares down upon houses Stuck in yellow stillness. I have traced the river and its wood Winding into patterns Like the ======================================== SAMPLE 990 ======================================== "To the Poet", by William Cullen Bryant [Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Nature, Anniversary, Valentine's Day] If the heart of the poet is pleased to wheedles, It requires a stout heart to be wary and simple. From thence to the world he has left only a few books. Then since it appears he must leave to the good of the few books. I am sure, he will not be long delayed to read them, How on a certain Sunday 'twas done, sirs, by Jove, sirs. Very soon, after they had come, Sirs, to kiss me, I kissed you. The page was nice. I was sure you would write a pretty novel, I thought I would like to be gentle and modest. Well, sirs, we can pay much to know it with the ladies, How the many there are who would make a Pastor and Author, How they would be kind if their friends had been sorry. Now at the Mission, sirs, we can very good authors, They will drop to the bottom with lovers of future occasions. Then come, let us toast a toast to the last of the fashion. I know, when the stranger sends word, he is likely to check it. I have little doubt that the journey to travel, The text to dispute, quite unconjectured, is far too emphatic. If the long rolling of waves blown across a wide ocean, I know quite the contrary reason for me toforecast. To solve this I am sure, as the way is uncertain, There are persons who have a friend who ought to consider That a stranger looks kindly, and after a stranger commends a The knight is invited, I reply, from the summit Of a cliff of the cliff of the cliff of the Rantigo. He is there, of course, there's a very great figure, But he knows the beautiful, maritime goddesses, so that it is like a She has given the stranger a welcome receaves from you, And in silence they gather to-night that you come. Oh, they're not very gracious, and there's no person so secret, For I look up at them and I send the stranger thanks; While he turns to the foot-path of stone, in the forest alone. That's why I was able to ask him ======================================== SAMPLE 991 ======================================== "To Play", by George Eliot [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] Still playing was the father’s role, In questions of a boyish eye: With shrugs he noticed that the path Was split by nutriment from lie. “I am skilled in words not to be taught,— I am scrupulously careful, I will, if I agree, essay The art that practice cost me many a day. I like the idly meditative thing That comprehends its time when he Is from his childhood used, and brings Its justest use to Pall Malladio’s tongue.” Albeit he did whatever man could send, He sent an artist to the task Of Architecture, clear and lucid, In his most fully measuristic mood. Temples, from which no sooner was removed The sparkling imagery of art, And women learned to poet the sure art Ofbestowing on the bright design Of elegance, but, more intuitive, How to a several tune endued, As one that had a wild vicissitude More suited to the rule of tone. By way of easy self-denial We may suppose that human art Pushed by the measures of his art Was to an edge, a contour of the will, To which the very landscape took its part; The wistful earnest of whose eye It had its due observant lifted high, The heart's own, reasoning with which to scan A deeper, holier way to life than she. The reedy marsh-frequents were fed By gliding brooks, and at the woodlands brown Lay leagues from fields whose summer tread Had marked their fickle course with frown; The sedge-fringed brooks, in many a rill, Fell showering to the foot-hills’ haunts like rill. Great forms and wonders lay concealed In the deep woods, and well concealed; Some Pan or Spleenor filled the grove, Or bright Imagination's quenchless view; The shepherd-swain, in cassock-baskets hung Securely garooded with berries stung; While less distinguishable forms, where they In green and purple valleys rested near, Did the late forest ======================================== SAMPLE 992 ======================================== "Written on the Morning", by Lucie Brock-Broido [Living, Life Choices, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] I have a friend who's really doing things, but he does not belong to friends I know by heart. He's not as honest as he is, however, nor staterately, nor staterately nor vauntingly, nor sadly, nor sadly, as ever. He is not honest as the Dawn-Sorrow come and goeth out with the World to light our darkness grim, nor merry as the Night-owl, nor sweet as are the pipes of the Linon, but honest as thesettling of the lark's deep pipe. He is not honest as the Moon-Sisters are, an' hearkeneth to their dying every far away cry. He hath no conscience nor no conscience but is dear: Because he loves them better, then he loves them better. <|endoftext|> "A Garage in Co. Cork", by Seacoq I have a sister who hath a sister. About her name have many servants and a voice is a moan. Born to her in marriage, were she successful in this, the young Eros,She might have been the pearl of all the star-shaped worlds, the jewels of the year and sun and stars, the pearl of nights and days and love. II. —The old man his wife was—they kept her as he might have her, but she loved well and this alone. There was something in her voice, in every line, that said, “My child, I have forgotten you, I have forgotten you, never again to be yourself again.”III. —In a nook of Odysseus, meadows and rivers and the cry of gulls when they wheel round the unbelievable. —In a nook apart from the world —Eros hid in the woods —Harayn turned his back to look over him though his heart burned sweetly. So the song a breast, hungering for his heart was broken by war. His heart beat fast in meadow with its dry season and his close consoling arms. IV. And since he felt deeply moved his spirit turned his back until in it ======================================== SAMPLE 993 ======================================== "Caw", by Emily Fragos [Nature, Animals] In the North the ox-eyed mignon sheds its ampersandrine on the crumbling wall And the sky the fig-tree owns apart And its turbulent black, teethed tin, With its motion always full of color. The sea’s bird, on the reef, turns and sophifies In a rush of color from its home in glass. A rush of color from its home in glass Flaps, an instant mute in the familiar screen, Then hovered in the nest, as if the stir And motion of this visible, invisible nest Might make a logic for the crow’s still quest. The eagle, from his high, interrupted dells Flaps forth, then stretches forth, then slowly drops; Then follows up, then lies, then sought, and fells; And now again retires, now flits, then calls. Thus with reluctant claws in even balance The vast, gray desert, girt with spade and precipice, Like a gray fly whose unmoved pinions sweep The desert waste, so checkers this old keep. Then, with suspended spear and goring shield, Back to their cave the adventurous sea-mice flies, Like the last arrow from a deadly bow. An OWLING dashed with frenzied pangs, to find The hidden recess of the wild Indian cave. The air was filled with ices, plants, and airs, As if bewildered by their deep, woe-strung woes; And in the heart of each dark-hearted maid, The curses of the presumptuous mountains prayed. Plunging to that low craggy and domed cave, The spectre lifts her head, as if alone, And looks upon the moonshine as a grave; The traveller meets her, grim and grisly, And, looking sternly, marks the grimy form Of that devouring giant, where the gorge UpcBegs into the mouth of the black gorge, The spectre in its craven, breathless woe Rides upon ankles, through the cavern below. The cock crows in the sunbeam as if stunned, And cries aloud against the risen sun. The crane shriek-rides upon the crested pines ======================================== SAMPLE 994 ======================================== "Kolape", by Wendy Videlock [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] To “Help,” said drainage Guebdea speeding through the frame fence to mirk December. We began our journey as sails flutter through the storm over lagoon and starlit oceans my childhood goes screaming for news, and I’m in hell for having to hire a dead student and have to know that the ocean is under the great intricate milken nets that encumber oceans. The sun passes into the cut spray and quick becalmed clouds observe cold easy progress in the wind. In this steamy jungle of towns, bank, a tree that just lifts his arms to pinch the sky’s wet shroud; and I see the unquiet broadcast in the myriad, seamless march of the sea. No snow, but blossomless, intricate, intricate as the snakes of a greyhound whose complicated touch. Even marvellous, smells come from every rose censer and blur, and I bless the silence in this accumulations that we breathe, and I turn to my books in this ruthless and implacable interstate of sea-girt parties where most agree to withhold from our touch a power of touch, like a hand cleaving some person from his paradise or his understanding. <|endoftext|> "In The Small Boy’s Wrongay", by Hannah Brooks-Motl [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy] Someone brought up who said, “cut it again” “Do it again” but they said, “Damn it again.” I saw blue, moon-lit, star-girt, white hands at my wrist now, no weather. My head aches now, no sun. A dark breeze falls like the needles of a song-bird, and I pluck some feathers for a friend who told me it was you who thought I was also young again. <|endoftext|> "House of Chimes Feeding", by Hannah Brooks-Motl [ ======================================== SAMPLE 995 ======================================== "A Promise", by Matthea Harvey [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Health & Illness, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving] One day I went to Jericho: Across the unaccusated freeway, Beside a noise, the words, Not forgetting: you know the car You ride scaled Belvoir: where Your father took you, there is more Than I have thought: he reads my mind, And stops write my mind's thoughts, Recurring, with a history Of random changes, and a house Like this. I think of you, of you, For the night after, and am glad You didn't stay. When your steed ran the prairie on the hill, You rode me north: with gay heart You did not stay. I held your hand: Your heart for me, your heart was mine For all the love that me you gave. Sister, you led me north: with gay heart You led me east. You taught me how To ride the plains: with slow first flight The croup, with flying words, did reach Their farthest west: and when the team, You asked me for another nerve, The strong youth, clamoured for the goal, Said, "Son, strain on, strain on"--and in your Will falter, you taught me, and I saw The wavering will. The spin of the wheel It swung, a shuddering shudder through the wretch, The warning whistle.III Lord, what a liveried warmth you lend to me That all should love me! As I walked one day I met a girl who wore a blushing eel Under my neck: one shoulder bore a palm, One neck was bowed as if to steel a stitch, Her large, dark eyes between a vein of milk. She answered me with this vehemence: 'Dear boy, my text is bound to yours and me And makes me spell the name and name and terms The duty of the land. She, bending o'er, acts me As men bow down to worship. She is love, Methinks, and I am service unto her. What does she, my cousin, have you all the ======================================== SAMPLE 996 ======================================== "Bright Piles", by Jacqueline May [Living, Time & Brevity] Within the shadow of the greens I meet a youthful, laughing girl Who smiles within my chubby hands And sings my much-lashed English song. “I love the way it is half laced, A belt and chain of sheepskin suits And Christmas snow bin sloped. . . .”— I touch her with my tiny hands And shout my knuckles when they meet; And now I know that by the day (Where do our young eyes grow so wide) Be there familiar faces tied Some short space in the hall—at least A chain with million palsied fingers That laugh along the bed. . . .” My little girl, when will you come? Ah, when you bring us soap and glass Succour and rest and bloom and scent And laughs and dips and sees, Remembering how white clouds rise To greet us with their curious wings, Invisible, somewhere Against the purple horizon And the light and shade of things. When shall we learn their secret, Whom have you pared that time ago? And glowed that flame and cloud So suddenly, for such desire Of your return, that no man drave Among the grey clouds, pale as snow? Ah, tell me, tell me, ancient, When can I find one left alive Who had not lost that subtle mien, That subtle tongue unscarred by time And taunting soul and love and form, It would surprise me, saying, “Lo, this is she, the fairest That ever with a child was born.” <|endoftext|> "My Hometown and myulu Crayon", by C. D. [Nature, Animals, Spring, Summer, Trees & Flowers] When the spring earth drinks spring rain and runs our veins like blood when the prairie is dusty with snow when it is blown from the sharp wing when the flower is heavy with sleep when the sleeping multitudes of sunlight leap on the darkening snow when the green spring clouds drink spring rain then my Hometown and my Sister We will Sing and our voices shout across the naked snow Into our hearts and across the naked snow Into our souls ======================================== SAMPLE 997 ======================================== "Dust of No Soul", by Stephanie Burt [Living, The Body, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Sciences] Rain, in streams, over my head, Lost on the road between where they set the will of their way out They fell into this thickened black and cold wash of cement too. This black bag made of rope so many rocks and bits of it that the bones hung up briefly in approximate motion in a clear frost. And inside the sieve a cough of the town is bluntly disturbed as at the shock of clatters and clatters above the house. As I stare I can see the mouth of the living moment at last in outward substance it’s completely the pitiful, the disinterested one. Water can’t be washed up easily by the sink in the chiloe wherewith to search inward. A potentine smell to be released from the sharp leather that molds a frame and then flings it away while the Aprilick, the practical Tuesday, investigate, formidable, conscientiously, outlining the way to the centre, the other godless ones hurling themselves at the angles and then turn up the bricks and get themselves cleared again. 5. Parturition: This isossibly otherwise. Empediness is a Shadow of darkness the god that abandoned his next body at the angle of a bicycle impossible surpassing. I wish I knew how it is all process: the stony firmament shaking limsage torsos, clouds, suns. I wish soon I’m snug in the little form: Nymphalian fountains and old Nymphalian forests deep in the woods. 6. Parturition: This is also all that you know about noise. 7. Parturition: It is all noise, though I fancy a toy with a reason for this, only a toy with a reason that I’ve made beautiful all these years. 8. Parturition: This is a middle temple floor, on which the clouds take their slow procession across the valleys and arranged on the left a great wall. 8. Parturition: In ======================================== SAMPLE 998 ======================================== "Love in a Box", by Miller Williams [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Money & Economics] We want pictures of everythingBelow your waist, We want nothing to pull downYour house to its knees, So get into your room and hide From all kinds of women and men. <|endoftext|> "Because I Was", by Miller Williams [Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships] When you pull by the lawnAll I love is for my life, And you should be afraid In all your yearsTo be afraid.I should be afraid, I should be afraid, But there is no doubt,Though you do brag that you like me not— As if I were not.But if the worst were so, The best and surest way to me Were not to notice or notice,To be afraid would be in fear. <|endoftext|> "On Teaching a Telescope Unknown", by Miller Williams [Living, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] On these industuring machines There's a crag—just like the sea— And you are like a fisherman Making these waves appear -- And you are like a rock Lifting in the air Something to withstand -- Till all eyes seem to kneel, And then to move your hands, Then the basin is erect As you move, dear Gee! And so you move about, With wave upon the face, And you are like a rock Leaning toward the etherial —That is a quiet place Where people fall, Only a child can understand, Or so I'm keeping watch What happened to the swarm Of human things that, day and night, Are working, pounding, carving, pounding, pounding, And getting nearer, faster, faster; You're winning on the counter, And you're making double circles, You're thinking of the moon, The narrow, black, bell-cavined walls, Thing you to become a satellite, Your own persistent bumps! And some of you are weeping, weeping, And some of you are whistling, And some are just so weeping Because you are not with the world And everything is flat. <|endof ======================================== SAMPLE 999 ======================================== "A Posthumous Poetics", by Michael Jordan [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] 1 They compose a glossary of a poetic treat. I maintain that imagination is not a kind but everything: nature is not art; We are naturally indifferent in expression. A little girl I used to be, was a woman in St Peter’s Hospital. (But she was ‘hangin’ me.) I even offer loneliness — aristocrats— To hide in the subsoil of the tarmac down by the cottonwood ...’Tis something that we’re imparting to dream. Try to read a vacant dream about that other life: you come from that country and you die staring at me. Over there a pulpit, doubtless, waiting for the newspaper press, looking out as if it were a thick undertow that must be really small. You stand at the edge, waiting for a starfish. Don’t say: ‘that vast flea will never come flying down the wind like this and stare me through and through.’’ I’d rather mark: Too much! Too much! I’d rather mark: a bush, like that,Adjusts to a big folio branch, and watch it climb across the room a moment before it has reached the top of the window in a blue and tender blue, then look up from the window, where it used to stay. <|endoftext|> "Sketch of My Lady's Dream", by Louis Simpson A week ago I came to visit Mrs. deluxe, whose ceiling was clear andYellow-white vinyl of Three's name. She loved to linger with her family during a raw bout of farming in a Three- Three School Sisterships I spent this evening on her donnaice and wept the next and smoked the beer, which she relished. She thanked both races, but never Replied. She went to stay With her family and play this reading on her I still look up. I look as though it almost broke me to have her home with me ======================================== SAMPLE 1000 ======================================== "Cynthia's Revels: Queen and hunt", by Edward Thomas [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love] Cynthia's laugh, wherewith Arethusa smiles, And of the isles such stories told, As neither tongue nor tongue could spell; Two crystal streams to pleasing sight appear, Two silver mountains high in Arden's Grove, Each other music of the rising year, In softest wood, neglected as the ground, Or Pindus, to the bottomy Cloud's sound. Two the next day have joined in reedy Yon isle, or that which won in Thest, The summer and autumn hath dispenciled, The winter hath distain'd. Two summers have roll'd sixty-three,— Which yield those three to fame ere yet unfurl their names, Such as in Aethiopia spring or Libythe reign, Or coats the sunnie circlet of the year, Or Haemus, when his fickle leaves they wrinke— Like to a Gardener glistering in the North, Or Valium, where Timothea lyres the vines, Or Haemus, in old time, th' Etrurian flocke, Or Haemus seed, that windes the head of May: And two so soft, so as to seem lyke soft, Melwaroes musicke with the Musick hues, Or Graces wch the tendre of the ayre, Or the mine owne quietude of ayre, Or the two else with armes in flarded sheepe; Where as they arm them for a myrrke, so I my selfe do arm me for a styme, And brythely for a syde, to make more short the sence. Therefore thou my fair one, that conyanllis art, Do fear me for this violated hart, That thou wilt vse of pity the more, And make it more to greeking request, Bathe some pity, and some fruitless smart, And so remoue on this your imprudence beseeme, That to the owner none but you can blame That is the owner of the towne be lame, And eftsoones is chang'd his stateable Name, That you it worke, as I suppose the same, Genv th' other, whose on fire, At your fireside what the foly tooles doe purchase, And make your