Sanity

Related poetry:

1. One Art The art of losing isn’t hard to master; So many things seem filled with the intent To be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster Of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn’t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: Places, […]...
2. The Judges Of The Little Box to Karl Max Ostojic Why do you stare at the little box That in her emptiness Holds the whole world If the little box holds The world in her emptiness Then the antiworld Holds the little box in its antihand Who’ll bite off the antiworld’s antihand And on that hand Five hundred antifingers Do you […]...
3. Still own thee still thou art Still own thee still thou art What surgeons call alive Though slipping slipping I perceive To thy reportless Grave Which question shall I clutch What answer wrest from thee Before thou dost exude away In the recallless sea?...
4. Revulsion THOUGH I waste watches framing words to fetter Some spirit to mine own in clasp and kiss, Out of the night there looms a sense ’twere better To fail obtaining whom one fails to miss. For winning love we win the risk of losing, And losing love is as one’s life were riven; It cuts […]...
5. 5.7 I don’t care if you are you and I am I. I am not some exotic flower. Whatever coat you have on, I will put it on to warm me… and the shoes however small… I will walk in them to balance our height difference. You don’t need to convert for me; I have already […]...
6. Maya Through an ascending emptiness of night, Leaving the flesh and complacent mind Together in their suffciency behind, The soul of man went up to a far height; And where those others would have had no sight Or sense of else than terror for the blind, Soul met the Will, and was again consigned To the […]...
7. About the Little Girl that Beat Her Sister Go, go, my naughty girl, and kiss Your little sister dear; I must not have such things as this, And noisy quarrels here. What! little children scratch and fight, That ought to be so mild; Oh! Mary, it’s a shocking sight To see an angry child. I can’t imagine, for my part, The reason for […]...
8. Scholfield Huxley God! ask me not to record your wonders, I admit the stars and the suns And the countless worlds. But I have measured their distances And weighed them and discovered their substances. I have devised wings for the air, And keels for water, And horses of iron for the earth. I have lengthened the vision […]...
9. Classical Indian Explanation: Music past the hippies Past Ravi Shankar Eons before When the first Asian snake Came alive Stiffened with sound Through some empty shell Some hollow wood Some emptiness The snake Was not so much charmed As listening intently To the accidental flute To that which he knew Must be female Its empty insides Calling him With […]...
10. Sleep is supposed to be Sleep is supposed to be By souls of sanity The shutting of the eye. Sleep is the station grand Down which, on either hand The hosts of witness stand! Morn is supposed to be By people of degree The breaking of the Day. Morning has not occurred! That shall Aurora be East of Eternity One […]...
11. Poem Of Night 1 I move my hand over Slopes, falls, lumps of sight, Lashes barely able to be touched, Lips that give way so easily It’s a shock to feel underneath them The bones smile. Muffled a little, barely cloaked, Zygoma, maxillary, turbinate. 2 I put my hand On the side of your face, You lean your […]...
12. Writing A man who keeps a diary, pays Due toll to many tedious days; But life becomes eventful then His busy hand forgets the pen. Most books, indeed, are records less Of fulness than of emptiness....
13. Last Night the Rain Spoke to Me Last night The rain Spoke to me Slowly, saying, What joy To come falling Out of the brisk cloud, To be happy again In a new way On the earth! That’s what it said As it dropped, Smelling of iron, And vanished Like a dream of the ocean Into the branches And the grass below. […]...
14. To My Brother Miguel In Memoriam Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house, Where you make a bottomless emptiness. I remember we used to play at this hour, and mama Caressed us: “But, sons…” Now I go hide As before, from all evening Lectures, and I trust you not to give me away. Through the parlor, the […]...
15. Does It Matter? Does it matter?-losing your legs? For people will always be kind, And you need not show that you mind When others come in after hunting To gobble their muffins and eggs. Does it matter?-losing you sight? There’s such splendid work for the blind; And people will always be kind, As you sit on the terrace […]...
16. Bombay In your bosom we wake up with fear, In your sky there’s only unending tears, You always roar, but within, Hangs silence like a shroud of death. You are rocked, periodically, by bombs, Yet, we go about our business, As if nothing happened, all’s well, Are we too dazed to protest? In your hungry, convoluted […]...
17. Rebirth If any God should say, “I will restore The world her yesterday Whole as before My Judgment blasted it” who would not lift Heart, eye, and hand in passion o’er the gift? If any God should will To wipe from mind The memory of this ill Which is Mankind In soul and substance now who […]...
18. 16-bit Intel 8088 chip with an Apple Macintosh You can’t run Radio Shack programs In its disc drive. Nor can a Commodore 64 Drive read a file You have created on an IBM Personal Computer. Both Kaypro and Osborne computers use The CP/M operating system But can’t read each other’s Handwriting For they format (write On) discs in different […]...
19. Tic Douloureux The trigger is sensation. The violin’s a dirty animal. I want you to take away the suddenness. Pain up the side of my head. I’ll have my teeth extracted one by one. See if it makes any difference. Rehearse for the real. Be either present or absent. I’ll let my fingers drum ebony. Thinking makes […]...
20. The Octopi Jars Long-vacant eyes Now lodged in clear glass, A-swim with pale arms As delicate as angels’ … You are beyond all hope Of salvage now… And yet I would pause, No fear!, To once touch Your arcane beaks… I, more alien than you To this imprismed world, Notice, most of all, The scratches on the inside […]...
21. Hymn 29 The ruin of the Antichrist. Isa. 63:4-7. “I lift my banner,” saith the Lord, “Where Antichrist has stood; The city of my gospel foes Shall be a field of blood. “My heart has studied just revenge, And now the day appears; The day of my redeemed is come To wipe away their tears. “Quite weary […]...
22. The Little Lives Of Earth And Form The little lives of earth and form, Of finding food, and keeping warm, Are not like ours, and yet A kinship lingers nonetheless: We hanker for the homeliness Of den, and hole, and set. And this identity we feel – Perhaps not right, perhaps not real – Will link us constantly; I see the rock, […]...
23. The Boat I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the Shore – Alas for me! The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger. The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane The yellow […]...
24. Hymn 21 A vision of the kingdom of Christ among men. Rev. 21:1-4. Lo! what a glorious sight appears To our believing eyes! The earth and sea are passed away, And the old rolling skies. From the third heav’n, where God resides, That holy, happy place, The new Jerusalem comes down, Adorned with shining grace. Attending angels […]...
25. Growing Old What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone. Is it to feel our strength – Not our bloom only, but our strength-decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow […]...
26. Did life's penurious length Did life’s penurious length Italicize its sweetness, The men that daily live Would stand so deep in joy That it would clog the cogs Of that revolving reason Whose esoteric belt Protects our sanity....
27. The Visitor In Spanish he whispers there is no time left. It is the sound of scythes arcing in wheat, The ache of some field song in Salvador. The wind along the prison, cautious As Francisco’s hands on the inside, touching The walls as he walks, it is his wife’s breath Slipping into his cell each night […]...
28. Age and Youth WE have left our youth behind: Earth is in its baby years: Void of wisdom cries the wind, And the sunlight knows no tears. When shall twilight feel the awe, All the rapt thought of the sage, And the lips of wind give law Drawn from out their lore of age? When shall earth begin […]...
29. The Armful For every parcel I stoop down to seize I lose some other off my arms and knees, And the whole pile is slipping, bottles, buns, Extremes too hard to comprehend at. once Yet nothing I should care to leave behind. With all I have to hold with~ hand and mind And heart, if need be, […]...
30. The wanderer Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, I found a shell, And to my listening ear the lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell. How came the shell upon that mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too careless […]...
31. Ignorance Strange to know nothing, never to be sure Of what is true or right or real, But forced to qualify or so I feel, Or Well, it does seem so: Someone must know. Strange to be ignorant of the way things work: Their skill at finding what they need, Their sense of shape, and punctual […]...
32. Mind Games I am a waterfall in the desert. A rain from a cloudless sky. A well known but unborn child. An insistence experience That you never had. I play mind games with your brain. When you strike the keys and remember the sea I come as indefinable memory. When you look at your watch And the […]...
33. Freedom he drank wine all night of the 28th, and he kept thinking of her: The way she walked and talked and loved The way she told him things that seemed true But were not, and he knew the color of each Of her dresses And her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of Each heel […]...
34. Two Children Give me your hand, oh little one! Like children be we two; Yet I am old, my day is done That barely breaks for you. A baby-basket hard you hold, With in it cherries four: You cherish them as men do gold, And count them o’er. And then you stumble in your walk; The cherries […]...
35. George Crabbe Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows, Hide him in lonely garrets, if you will,- But his hard, human pulse is throbbing still With the sure strength that fearless truth endows. In spite of all fine science disavows, Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill There yet remains what fashion cannot kill, Though years […]...
36. Sonnet XXXIII: Whilst Yet Mine Eyes To Imagination Whilst yet mine Eyes do surfeit with delight, My woeful Heart, imprison’d in my breast, Wisheth to be transformed to my sight, That it, like these, by looking might be blest. But whilst my Eyes thus greedily do gaze, Finding their objects over-soon depart, These now the other’s happiness do praise, Wishing themselves […]...
37. Sonnet XXXIV: Charm'd by Thy Suffrage Charm’d by thy suffrage, shall I yet aspire (All inauspicious as my fate appears, By troubles darken’d, that encrease with years,) To guide the crayon, or to touch the lyre? Ah me! – the sister Muses still require A spirit free from all intrusive fears, Nor will they deign to wipe away the tears Of […]...
38. The Ships Are Made Ready In Silence Moored to the same ring: The hour, the darkness and I, Our compasses hooded like falcons. Now the memory of you comes aching in With a wash of broken bits which never left port In which once we planned voyages, They come knocking like hearts asking: What departures on this tide? Breath of land, warm […]...
39. You and I I explain quietly. You Hear me shouting. You Try a new tack. I Feel old wounds reopen. You see both sides. I See your blinkers. I Am placatory. You Sense a new selfishness. I am a dove. You Recognize the hawk. You Offer an olive branch. I Feel the thorns. You bleed. I See crocodile […]...
40. The Dog What I was doing with my white teeth exposed Like that on the side of the road I don’t know, And I don’t know why I lay beside the sewer So that the lover of dead things could come back With is pencil sharpened and his piece of white paper. I was there for a […]...