Classic Poems of Life and Love

Harvest ~ Louise Gluck

feeds@yuku.com (smzang) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 17:55:19 GMT

I can not post the poem because I don't have permission,
but it is a great favorite of mine, so I will share the link
to it:

http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2009/10/03

This is a published poet who is well noted...(we are still keeping this space
for classics)

The Prisoner of Chillon ~ Lord Byron

feeds@yuku.com (smzang) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 09:12:25 GMT

My hair is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears:
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd - forbidden fare;
But this was for my...

Behind a Wall ~ Amy Lowell

feeds@yuku.com (smzang) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 18:13:48 GMT

Behind a Wall

I own a solace shut within my heart,
A garden full of many a quaint delight
And warm with drowsy, poppied sunshine; bright,
Flaming with lilies out of whose cups dart
Shining things
With powdered wings.

Here terrace sinks to terrace, arbors close
The ends of dreaming paths; a wanton wind
Jostles the half-ripe pears, and then, unkind,
Tumbles a-slumber in a pillar rose,
With content
Grown...

The Lady Godiva

feeds@yuku.com (bongler) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 10:10:44 GMT

Walter de la Mare

The Lady Godiva Godolphin, of a blood by the centuries blued,
Flowing back, I believe,
to Adam and Eve,
had a rooted disdain of the nood .

'Sheep are clad,' she would cry, in their woollies ; the buffalo's hirsute,
though rude ;
Apart from their tails,
Even flounders have scales ;
Not a shrimp in the ocean swims nood.

'The ruff has a ruff, though a ruff's not...

As I walked out one evening.

feeds@yuku.com (bongler) — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 15:44:55 GMT

A poem by W. H. Auden

As I walked out one evening,
walking down in Bristol Street,
the crowds upon the pavement
were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under the arch of the railway ;
'O love has no ending.

'I'll love you dear, I'll love you
'Til China and Africa meet
and the river jumps the mountain
and the salmon swim in the street.

...

The Lost Chord

feeds@yuku.com (j g dittier) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 18:53:16 GMT

google "the Lost Chord"

Addition by Cavafy

feeds@yuku.com (smzang) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 09:33:13 GMT

Addition

Supplication

Listen!

Listen!
if the stars are lit,
then someone needs it, of course?
then someone wants them there,
calling those droplets of spittle
pearls?

And wheezing,
in the blizzards of midday dust,
he rushes to God,
fearing he's out of time,
and sobbing,
he kisses God's sinewy hands,
tells Him that it's important,
pleads to Him that the star...

To B. Pasternak by Marina Tsvetaeva

feeds@yuku.com (smzang) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 07:35:28 GMT

To B. Pasternak

Dis-tances: miles, versts…
They dis-pelled us until we dis-persed,
So we would act as we were told
In two corners of the world.

Dis-tances: versts, spaces…
They dislocated us, they displaced us,
They disjoined us, crucified on display,
And observed there, to their dismay,

How our tendons joined, our ideas broadened…
Without discord, - just in disorder,
...

"To Brooklyn Bridge" by Hart Crane

feeds@yuku.com (msscheffer) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 09:25:16 GMT

How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty--

Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
--Till elevators drop us from our day . . .

I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again,...

"Lines Written In The Bay Of Lerici" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

feeds@yuku.com (msscheffer) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 09:20:15 GMT


She left me at the silent time
When the moon had ceased to climb
The azure path of Heaven's steep,
And like an albatross asleep,
Balanced on her wings of light,             
Hovered in the purple night,
Ere she sought her ocean nest
In the chambers of the West.
She left me, and I stayed alone
Thinking over every tone                  
Which, though silent to the ear,
The enchanted heart could hear,
Like notes which die when born, but still
Haunt the echoes of the hill;
And feeling...

A Prayer for my Daughter William Butler Yeats

feeds@yuku.com (barry) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 03:51:14 GMT

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And...

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock -T S Eliot

feeds@yuku.com (barry) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 10:09:46 GMT

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
	A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
	Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
	Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
	Non torno... second comong -wiiliam butler yeats feeds@yuku.com (barry) — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 05:38:57 GMT Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second... "To My Brother Miguel in memoriam" by César Vallejo (Translated by Robert Bly) feeds@yuku.com (msscheffer) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 09:59:53 GMT Brother, today I sit on the brick bench outside the house, where you make a bottomless emptiness. I remember we used to play at this hour of the day, and mama would calm us: "There now, boys..." Now I go hide as before, from all these evening prayers, and I hope that you will not find me. In the parlor, the entrance hall, the corridors. Later, you hide, and I do not find you. I remember we made each other cry, brother, in that game. Miguel, you hid... Untitled Poem by César Vallejo (Translated by Clayton Eshleman) feeds@yuku.com (msscheffer) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 09:54:19 GMT Let the millionaire walk naked, stark naked! Disgrace for whoever builds his death bed with treasures! A world for whoever greets; an armchair for whoever sows in the sky; sobbing for whoever finishes what he makes, keeping the beginnings; let the spur-wearer walk; no duration for the wall on which another wall is not growing; give to the wretched all his wretchedness, bread, to whoever laughs; let the triumphs lose, the... "Guitar" by César Vallejo (Translated by Clayton Eshleman) feeds@yuku.com (msscheffer) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 14:18:48 GMT The pleasure of suffering, of hating, dyes my throat with plastic venoms, but the bristle that implants its magic order, its taurine grandeur, between the first string and the sixth and the mendacious eighth, suffers them all. The pleasure of suffering . . . Who? whom? who, the molars? whom society, the carbides of rage in the gums? How to be and to be here, without angering one's neighbor? You are worthier than my number, man alone, and worthier than all the... "Fresco" by César Vallejo (Translated by Clayton Eshleman) feeds@yuku.com (msscheffer) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 09:39:50 GMT I came to confuse myself with her, so much . . . ! Through her spiritual twists and turns, I kept playing among the tender strawberry beds, between her mutinal Greek hands. Later she would arrange the black and bohemian loops of my tie. Once again I would see the absorbed stone, the spurned benches, and the clock winding us up on its reel to the stroke of its interminable wheel. How good those nights were, that today made her laugh at my strange dying, at my pensive...