Posts tagged ‘T.S. Poetry’

Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy

Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant;
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediæval grace
Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without it;
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking;
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.

— Edwin Arlington Robinson, from Selected Poems

T. S. Poetry

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XI from Zero Gravity (excerpt)

XI from Zero Gravity (excerpt)

The second time the comet swung by
the knife went deeper. It hissed through the sky,

phosphorous on water. It marked a now,
an only-coming-once, a this-ness we knew

we’d keep forgetting. Its vapour trails
mimicked our voyage along ourselves,

our fire with each other, the endless cold
which surrounds that burning. Don’t be fooled

by fireworks. It is no accident that leave
fails but still tries to rhyme with love.

— Gwyneth Lewis, from Chaotic Angels: Poems in English

T. S. Poetry

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A Dream Within A Dream

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

— Edgar Allen Poe, from Edgar Allen Poe: Complete Tales and Poems

This poem is offered as part of our January theme: Dreams

T. S. Poetry

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Evening

Evening

The light passes
from ridge to ridge,
from flower to flower—
the hepaticas, wide-spread
under the light
grow faint—
the petals reach inward,
the blue tips bend
toward the bluer heart
and the flowers are lost.

The cornel-buds are still white,
but shadows dart
from the cornel-roots—
black creeps from root to root,
each leaf
cuts another leaf on the grass,
shadow seeks shadow,
then both leaf
and leaf-shadow are lost.

— H. D., more Collected Poems 1912-1944 (H. D.)

T. S. Poetry

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You are Sitting in the Kitchen,

You are Sitting in the Kitchen,
Only a Witness

On the table, the man cleans a gun.
A boy aside—pajamas and a ragged rabbit,
stuffed and sewn button eyes.

The boy begins to cry, though he can’t name
a reason yet. The man hands the boy
a cloth and swabs and oil can. Grunts instruction.

This kind of man cuts away all color
from his life, restrained fever in monochrome,
blind to all his accidents.

This kind of boy falls less in love
With what can be imagined. His clothes grow
smaller every day, slinking off his frame.

The double-barrel’s obtuse ends,
the laid out elements—all lead-ready, clean.
And from here things move fast.

Shriek of metal on metal, a clack together.
The man’s voice a trigger squeezed, the boy’s desire
something like a dove. A hammer and a shell.

Now past the clumsiness of destiny
and onto brighter things: swilled chirps
of crickets in the field, under summer stars,

gloved and silken silhouettes, overgrown grass
popping seed. What noises shape our small sobriety?
Strung serendipities no one can explain.

— Dave Harrity, from These Intricacies

T. S. Poetry

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The Return

The Return

See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
Wavering!

See, they return, one, and by one,
With fear, as half-awakened;
As if the snow should hesitate
And murmur in the wind,
and half turn back;
These were the “Wing’d-with-Awe,”
inviolable.

Gods of the wingèd shoe!
With them the silver hounds,
sniffing the trace of air!

Haie! Haie!
These were the swift to harry;
These the keen-scented;
These were the souls of blood.

Slow on the leash,
pallid the leash-men!

— Ezra Pound, from The Selected Poems of Ezra Pound

T. S. Poetry

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On a Pose of Virgil’s

On a Pose of Virgil’s

Near its peak, the mountain requires nearly no
effort to climb. There is no sky behind the flags,
barges of pretty silt. Some wrestlers oil themselves
to prevent a grip, others rub grit on their skin

to help it. In the cartoon, Orpheus puts glasses on
the back
of his head and walks in reverse. The pastor’s white
collar is a foam neck brace. I am sorry to hear,
this morning, as I can’t see the mug top through

the pouring steam, that there is nothing new in
philosophy: I meant to tell you a story but cannot
keep myself interested long enough to describe
the pinewoods exactly. I can never remember jokes,

but there were twenty-four flavors of syrup for
the soft-serve, as for an entire day of ice cream,
and a man near the summit holding his palms fast to
the grass, waiting for the dew to come so he could
wash.

— Zach Savich, from Full Catastrophe Living

T. S. Poetry

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