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Poems

1

Mr. Eliot’s Sunday Morning Service by T. S. Eliot

POLYPHILOPROGENITIVE The sapient sutlers of the Lord Drift across the window-panes. In the beginning was the Word. In the beginning was the Word. Superfetation of το ευ, And at the mensual turn of time Produced enervate Origen. A painter of the Umbrian school Designed upon a gesso ground The nimbus of the Baptized God. The wilderness is cracked and browned But through the water pale and thin Still shine the unoffending feet And there above the painter set The Father and the Paraclete. The sable presbyters approach The avenue of penitence; The young are red and pustular Clutching piaculative pence. Under the penitential gates Sustained by staring Seraphim Where the souls of the devout Burn invisible and dim. Along the garden-wall the bees With hairy bellies pass between The staminate and pistilate, Blest office of the epicene. Sweeney shifts from ham to ham Stirring the water in his bath. The masters of the subtle schools Are controversial, polymath.

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2

Sonnet 66 by William Shakespeare

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As, to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And guilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly doctor-like controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

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3

Dirce by Walter Savage Landor
Stand close around, ye Stygian set, With Dirce in one boat conveyed! Or Charon, seeing, may forget That he is old and she a shade.

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4

A Flower Given to My Daughter by James Joyce
Frail the white rose and frail are Her hands that gave Whose soul is sere and paler Than time's wan wave. Rosefrail and fair-- yet frailest A wonder wild In gentle eyes thou veilest, My blueveined child.

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5

Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves,    And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun    The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand:    Long time the manxome foe he sought-- So rested he by the Tumtum tree,    And stood awhile in thought. And as in uffish thought he stood,    The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,    And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through    The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head    He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?    Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"    He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves    Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves,    And the mome raths outgrabe.

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6

Winter is good — his Hoar Delights by Emily Dickinson
Winter is good — his Hoar Delights Italic flavor yield To Intellects inebriate With Summer, or the World — Generic as a Quarry And hearty — as a Rose — Invited with Asperity But welcome when he goes.

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7

The Willing Mistress by Aphra Behn

Amyntas led me to a Grove, Where all the Trees did shade us ; The Sun itself, though it had Strove, It could not have betray'd us: The place secur'd from humane Eyes, No other fear allows, But when the Winds that gently rise, Doe Kiss the yielding Boughs. Down there we satt upon the Moss, And did begin to play A Thousand Amorous Tricks, to pass The heat of all the day. A many Kisses he did give: And I return'd the same Which made me willing to receive That which I dare not name. His Charming Eyes no Aid requir'd To tell their softning Tale; On her that was already fir'd, 'Twas Easy to prevaile. He did but Kiss and Clasp me round, Whilst those his thoughts Exprest : And lay'd me gently on the Ground; Ah who can guess the rest ?

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8

Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

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9

Poetry by Marianne Moore

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important                 beyond all this fiddle.    Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it,                 one discovers that there is in    it after all, a place for the genuine.        Hands that can grasp, eyes        that can dilate, hair that can rise             if it must, these things are important not be-                     cause a high sounding interpretation can be put upon them                 but because they are    useful; when they become so derivative as to                 become unintelligible, the    same thing may be said for all of us – that we        do not admire what        we cannot understand. The bat,             holding on upside down or in quest of some-                     thing to eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll,                 a tireless wolf under     a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a                 horse that feels a flea, the base-     ball fan, the statistician – case after case         could be cited did         one wish it; nor is it valid             to discriminate against "business documents                     and school-books"; all these phenomena are important.                 One must make a distinction     however: when dragged into prominence by half                      poets,                 the result is not poetry,     nor till the autocrats among us can be         "literalists of         the imagination" – above             insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, imaginary gardens with real toads                 in them, shall we have     it. In the meantime, if you demand on one hand,                 in defiance of their opinion –         the raw material of poetry in      all its rawness, and      that which is on the other hand,         genuine, then you are interested in poetry.

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10

The Erl-King (Der Erlkönig) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear? The father it is, with his infant so dear; He holdeth the boy tightly clasped in his arm, He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm. "My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?" "Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side! Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?" "My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain." "Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh, come thou with me! Full many a game I will play there with thee; On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold, My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold." "My father, my father, and dost thou not hear The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?" "Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives; 'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves." "Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there? My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care; My daughters by night their glad festival keep, They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep." "My father, my father, and dost thou not see, How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?" "My darling, my darling, I see it aright, 'Tis the aged gray willows deceiving thy sight." "I love thee, I'm charmed by thy beauty, dear boy! And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ." "My father, my father, he seizes me fast, Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last." The father now gallops, with terror half wild, He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child: He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,— The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

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11

Clouds will separate us by Matsuo Basho
Clouds will separate us — the time to part has come now. Wild goose flies away...

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12

Earth! my Likeness! by Walt Whitman
EARTH! my likeness! Though you look so impassive, ample and spheric there, I now suspect that is not all; I now suspect there is something fierce in you, eligible to burst forth; For an athlete is enamour’d of me—and I of him; But toward him there is something fierce and terrible in me, eligible to burst forth, I dare not tell it in words—not even in these songs.

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13

The Lovers by Rumi
The lovers will drink wine night and day. They will drink until they can tear away the veils of intellect and melt away the layers of shame and modesty. When in Love, body, mind, heart and soul don't even exist. Become this, fall in Love, and you will not be separated again.

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14

Mandala 1, Hymn 1, Rigveda by anonymous

1. I Laud Agni, the chosen Priest, God, minister of sacrifice, The hotar, lavishest of wealth. 2. Worthy is Agni to be praised by living as by ancient seers. He shall bring. hitherward the Gods. 3. Through Agni man obtaineth wealth, yea, plenty waxing day by day, Most rich in heroes, glorious. 4. Agni, the perfect sacrifice which thou encompassest about Verily goeth to the Gods. 5. May Agni, sapient-minded Priest, truthful, most gloriously great, The God, come hither with the Gods. 6. Whatever blessing, Agni, thou wilt grant unto thy worshipper, That, Angiras, is indeed thy truth. 7. To thee, dispeller of the night, O Agni, day by day with prayer Bringing thee reverence, we come 8. Ruler of sacrifices, guard of Law eternal, radiant One, Increasing in thine own abode. 9. Be to us easy of approach, even as a father to his son: Agni, be with us for our weal.

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15

Bhagavad Gita (excerpt, chapter 11) by anonymous

Behold! this is the Universe! — Look! what is live and dead I gather all in one — in Me! Gaze, as thy lips have said On GOD, ETERNAL, VERY GOD! See ME! what thou prayest! Thou canst not! — nor, with human eyes, Arjuna! ever mayest! Therefore I give thee sense divine. Have other eyes, new light! And, look! This is My glory, unveiled to mortal sight! Sanjaya. Then, O King! to God, so saying, Stood, to Pritha's Son displaying All the splendour, wonder, dread Of His vast Almighty-head. Out of countless eyes beholding, Out of countless mouths commanding, Countless mystic forms enfolding In one Form: supremely standing Countless radiant glories wearing, Countless heavenly weapons bearing, Crowned with garlands of star-clusters, Robed in garb of woven lustres, Breathing from His perfect Presence Breaths of every subtle essence Of all heavenly odours; shedding Blinding brilliance; overspreading — Boundless, beautiful — all spaces With His all-regarding faces; So He showed! If there should rise Suddenly within the skies Sunburst of a thousand suns Flooding earth with beams undeemed-of, Then might be that Holy One's Majesty and radiance dreamed of!

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16

Song of Songs by anonymous (chapter 1)

0000001 1The song of songs, which is Solomon's. 2Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth--for thy love is better than wine. 3Thine ointments have a goodly fragrance; thy name is as ointment poured forth; therefore do the maidens love thee. 4Draw me, we will run after thee; the king hath brought me into his chambers; we will be glad and rejoice in thee, we will find thy love more fragrant than wine! sincerely do they love thee. {P} 5'I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. 6Look not upon me, that I am swarthy, that the sun hath tanned me; my mother's sons were incensed against me, they made me keeper of the vineyards; but mine own vineyard have I not kept.' 7Tell me, O thou whom my soul loveth, where thou feedest, where thou makest thy flock to rest at noon; for why should I be as one that veileth herself beside the flocks of thy companions? 8If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, go thy way forth by the footsteps of the flock and feed thy kids, beside the shepherds' tents. {P} 9I have compared thee, O my love, to a steed in Pharaoh's chariots. 10Thy cheeks are comely with circlets, thy neck with beads. 11We will make thee circlets of gold with studs of silver. 12While the king sat at his table, my spikenard sent forth its fragrance. 13My beloved is unto me as a bag of myrrh, that lieth betwixt my breasts. 14My beloved is unto me as a cluster of henna in the vineyards of En-gedi. {S} 15Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thine eyes are as doves. 16Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant; also our couch is leafy. 17The beams of our houses are cedars, and our panels are cypresses.

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17

Odyssey, book 1, first verses by Homer

Muse make the man thy theme, for shrewdness famed And genius versatile, who far and wide A Wand’rer, after Ilium overthrown, Discover’d various cities, and the mind And manners learn’d of men, in lands remote. He num’rous woes on Ocean toss’d, endured, Anxious to save himself, and to conduct His followers to their home; yet all his care Preserved them not; they perish’d self-destroy’d By their own fault; infatuate! who devoured The oxen of the all-o’erseeing Sun, And, punish’d for that crime, return’d no more. Daughter divine of Jove, these things record, As it may please thee, even in our ears.     The rest, all those who had perdition ’scaped By war or on the Deep, dwelt now at home; Him only, of his country and his wife Alike desirous, in her hollow grots Calypso, Goddess beautiful, detained Wooing him to her arms. But when, at length, (Many a long year elapsed) the year arrived Of his return (by the decree of heav’n) To Ithaca, not even then had he, Although surrounded by his people, reach’d The period of his suff’rings and his toils. Yet all the Gods, with pity moved, beheld His woes, save Neptune; He alone with wrath Unceasing and implacable pursued Godlike Ulysses to his native shores. But Neptune, now, the Æthiopians fought, (The Æthiopians, utmost of mankind, These Eastward situate, those toward the West) Call’d to an hecatomb of bulls and lambs. There sitting, pleas’d he banqueted; the Gods In Jove’s abode, meantime, assembled all, ’Midst whom the Sire of heav’n and earth began. For he recall’d to mind Ægisthus slain By Agamemnon’s celebrated son Orestes, and retracing in his thought That dread event, the Immortals thus address’d.

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18

Drinking Alone in the Moonlight by Li Bai

A pot of wine among flowers. I alone, drinking, without a companion. I lift the cup and invite the bright moon. My shadow opposite certainly makes us three. But the moon cannot drink, And my shadow follows the motions of my body in vain. For the briefest time are the moon and my shadow my companions. Oh, be joyful! One must make the most of Spring. I sing--the moon walks forward rhythmically; I dance, and my shadow shatters and becomes confused. In my waking moments we are happily blended. When I am drunk, we are divided from one another and scattered. For a long time I shall be obligated to wander without intention. But we will keep our appointment by the far-off Cloudy River.

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19

How Huineng became the 6th patriarch of Zen Buddhism: a poetry contest, with works by Shenxiu and by Huineng
The gatha by Shenxiu: 身是菩提樹，　The body is a Bodhi tree, 心如明鏡臺。　The mind a standing mirror bright. 時時勤拂拭，　At all times polish it diligently, 勿使惹塵埃。　And let no dust alight. Hui-neng's response: 菩提本無樹，　Bodhi is fundamentally without any tree; 明鏡亦非臺。　The bright mirror is also not a stand. 本來無一物，　Fundamentally there is not a single thing — 何處惹塵埃。　Where could any dust be attracted?

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20

The Sick Muse / La Muse malade by Charles Baudelaire

Poor Muse, alas, what ails thee, then, today? Thy hollow eyes with midnight visions burn, Upon thy brow in alternation play, Madness and Horror, cold and taciturn. Have the green lemure and the goblin red Poured on thee love and terror from their urn? Or with despotic hand the nightmare dread Deep plunged thee in some fabulous Minturne? Would that thy breast, where so deep thoughts arise, Breathed forth a healthful perfume with thy sighs; Would that thy Christian blood ran wave by wave In rhythmic sounds the antique numbers gave, When Phoebus shared his alternating reign With mighty Pan, lord of the ripening grain.

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21

Clair de lune by Paul Verlaine

Your soul is a lovely garden, and go There masque and bergamasque charmingly, Playing the lute and dancing and also Sad beneath their disguising fanchise. All are singing in a minor key Of conqueror love and life opportune, Yet seem to doubt their joyous revelry As their song melts in the light of the moon. In the calm moonlight, so lovely fair That makes the birds dream in the slender trees, While fountains dream among the statues there; Slim fountains sob in silver ecstasies. — (translation by William Faulkner)

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22

Eight Sonnets: Sonnet 1 by Edna St. Vincent Millay

When you, that at this moment are to me Dearer than words on paper, shall depart, And be no more the warder of my heart, Whereof again myself shall hold the key; And be no more, what now you seem to be, The sun, from which all excellencies start In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea; I shall remember only of this hour– And weep somewhat, as now you see me weep– The pathos of your love, that, like a flower, Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep, Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed, The wind whereon its petals shall be laid.

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23

A Mountain Home by Heinrich Heine

On the mountain stands the shieling,     Where the good old miner dwells; Green firs rustle, and the moonbeams     Gild the mountain heights and fells. In the shieling stands an armchair,     Carven quaint and cunningly; Happy he who rests within it,     And that happy guest am I. On the footstool sits the lassie,     Leans upon my lap her head; Eyes of blue, twin stars in heaven,     Mouth as any rosebud red. And the blue eyes gaze upon me,     Limpid, large as midnight skies; And the lily finger archly     On the opening rosebud lies. "No, the mother cannot see us –     At her wheel she spins away; Father hears not-he is singing     To the zitter that old lay." So the little maiden whispers,     Softly, that none else may hear, Whispers her profoundest secrets     Unmistrusting in my ear. Now that auntie's dead, we cannot     Go again to Goslar, where People flock to see the shooting:     'Tis as merry as a fair. And up here it's lonely, lonely,     On the mountain bleak and drear; For the snow lies deep in winter;     We are buried half the year. And, you know, I'm such a coward,     Frightened like a very child At the wicked mountain spirits,     Goblins who by night run wild." Suddenly the sweet voice ceases;     Startled with a strange surprise At her own words straight the maiden     Covers with both hands her eyes. Louder outdoors moans the fir-tree,     And the wheel goes whirring round; Snatches of the song come wafted     With the zitter's fitful sound. Fear not, pretty one, nor tremble     At the evil spirits' might; Angels, dearest child, are keeping     Watch around thee day and night.

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24

Adonais verses 1-4 by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1 I weep for Adonais - he is dead! O, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me Died Adonais; till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!" 2 Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies In darkness? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath, Rekindled all the fading melodies With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death. 3 O, weep for Adonais - he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; For he is gone, where all things wise and fair Descend; - oh, dream not that the amorous Deep Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. 4 Most musical of mourners, weep again! Lament anew, Urania! - He died, Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, The priest, the slave, and the liberticide Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light.

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25

A Hymn to God the Father by John Donne

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which is my sin, though it were done before? Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more. Wilt thou forgive that sin by which I have won Others to sin? and made my sin their door? Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallowed in a score? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more. I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore; Swear by thy self, that at my death thy Son Shall shine as he shines now and heretofore; And, having done that, thou hast done, I fear no more.

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26

Sonnet 141 by William Shakespeare

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note, But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who in despite of view is pleased to dote. Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted, Nor tender feeling to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To any sensual feast with thee alone; But my five wits nor my five senses can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man, Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be. Only my plague thus far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

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27

Still from the night ... by Nima Yooshij
Still from the night, a breeze remains, singing in the night sky And the firefly, from its hiding place, goes to the shore flickering. Like my flickering light in my window Like my heart that is still patient with it, Like the dream of my bitter love that sings Like my flickering light in my window The burning eyes - hopeful - with me, flicker in this dark house.

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28

Beyond Seas by Sohrab Sepehri

I shall build a boat I shall cast it in the water I shall sail away from this strange earth Where no one awaken the heroes in the wood of love A boat empty of net And longing heart for pearls I shall continue sailing Neither I shall loose my heart for the blues Nor for the mermaids who emergeed from the water To spread their charm from their locks On the shining solitude of fishermen I shall continue sailing I shall continue singing “One should sail away, sail away.” The man in that town had no myth The woman in that town was not as brimful as a cluster of grapes No hall mirror repeated joys Not even puddles reflected a torch One should sail away, sail away Night has sung its song Now it is the turn of windows I shall continue sailing I shall continue singing Beyond the seas there is a town In which windows open to manifestation There rooftops quarter pigeons that looks at the jets of human intelligence In the hand of each 10-year-old child a branch of knowledge lies The townsfolk took at hedges As if they look at a flame, a tender dream Earth hears the music of your feeling And the fluttering sound of mythological birds are heard in the wind Beyond the seas there is a town Where the sun is as wide as the eyes of early-risers Poets inherit water, wisdom and light Beyond the seas there is a town! One must build a boat

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29

Quqnūs by Nima Yooshij

<poem> The Phoenix, sweet-singing bird, known across the world made homeless by gusts of cold wind sits, alone, on a stalk of bamboo The other birds gather around him on every branch He composes lost laments from the tatterd shreds of a thousand distant voices, in clouds like a dark line on mountain, the wall of an imaginary edifice, he builds Ever since the yellow of the sun upon the waves faded away, and the jackal's howl rang out over the shore, and peasant lit a hidden light in his home, his eyes reflect red in his home, draws a line under night's two eild eyes and at far off points people pass by The bird, that rare song, hidden as he is rises from where he is perched through things tangled up with the light and dark of this long night he passes A flame out ahead, he sees In a place without plants, without air, the stubborn sun breaks on the rocks, land and life are nothing special here. he senses that the hopes of birds like him are dark as smoke, even if some of their dreams are like a harvest of fire sparkling in the eye and in their shite morning. he senses that if his life passed by like other birds in sleeping and eating it would be an unnameable pain The first part of the final stanza reads, That mellifluous bird in that place glorifield by fire— now turned into a hel— keeps blinking, his sharp eyes, darting around, and from over the hill, suddenly, he unfurls and flaps his wings from the depths of his heart he lets out a cry, burning and bitter its meaning unknoen to other passing birds. Then, drunk from his invisible pain [the Phoenix] throws himselsf on the awesome fire. A violent wind blows, and the bird is burned up. The ashes of his body are collected up, his chicks take flight from the heart of his ashes <poem>

Nominations

"Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens

                                            Show more about the author...         Wallace Stevens