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These are some of my favorite poems. Enjoy. **denotes VerySpecialFavorites James King** By what cruelty does her cold and unfeeling stare shatter this heart of glass? By whose will do these silent tears fall? Whence comes the rage that drives her razor tongue to rend in this too, too soft a skin ten thousand bitter wounds? And why burns there yet within this breast, as if in absence of such cruelty a love that even now does fail to wither? She delights not, and yet inspires such longings as distain alone might bring. James King** I give you roses In every line and with every breath I whisper of my love for you I shower the world with tales of your beauty until the seas roil and the earth trembles and the very wind cries out your name But in your heart, there is another You dance lightly upon the air as the earth moves And the music in your soul is sweeter than the wind And i am forgotten. i find the roses dying on the floor. Dirge Without Music** Edna St. Vincent Millay I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indescriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains-but the best is lost. The answers, quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love- They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled Is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve. More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve and I am not resigned. Remember Christina Rossetti Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad. What my lips have kissed ** Edna St.Vincent Millay What my lips have kissed, and where, and why I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning; but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply; And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry. Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet know it's boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone; I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that sings in me no more. Love is not all** Edna St.Vincent Millay Love is not all; it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death, Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It may well be. I do not think I would. Poema Viente Pablo Neruda I can write the saddest verses tonight. Write, for example: "The night sky is full of stars, And far away, blue, celestial bodies tremble". The night wind whirls in the sky and sings. I can write the saddest verses tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she also loved me. Through nights like tonight I held her in my arms. I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky. She loved me, and sometimes I loved her. How could one not have loved her great still eyes. I can write the saddest verses tonight. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I lost her. To hear the immnse night, even more immeasurable without her. And the verse falls to the soul as dew to the pasture. It does not matter that my love could not keep her. The night sky is full of stars, and she is not with me. This is all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance. My soul cannot be relieved now that I lost her. My eyes search for her, trying to bring her close to me. My heart searches for her, and she is not with me. The same night, whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same. I no longer love her, it is true, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to caress her hearing. Another's. She must belong to someone else, just as she belonged to my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes. I no longer love her, it is true, but maybe I still love her. Love is so short, and forgetting takes so long. Because through nights like tonight I held her in my arms, My soul cannot be relieved now that I lost her. Even when this is the last pain she causes me And these are the last verses that I write about her. Patterns Amy Lowell I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jeweled fan, I too, am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths. My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whale-bone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime tree. For my passion Wars agains the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom. And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the gargen paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding, But she guesses he is near and the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground, All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground. I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterened paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon - I am very like to swoon WIth the weight of this brocade For the sun sifts through the shade. Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se'n night." As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes. "Any answer, Madam," said my footman. "No," I told him. "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer." And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun Each one. I stood upright, too, Held rigid to the pattern, By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down. In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, and I as Lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered. "It shall be as you have said." Now he is dead. In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and the daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for? |