Poem (Don’t look…)

Related poetry:

1. Mayakovsky In New York: A Found Poem New York: You take a train that rips through versts. It feels as if the trains were running over your ears. For many hours the train flies along the banks Of the Hudson about two feet from the water. At the stops, Passengers run out, buy up bunches of celery, And run back in, chewing […]...
2. Pigtail When all the women in the transport Had their heads shaved Four workmen with brooms made of birch twigs Swept up And gathered up the hair Behind clean glass The stiff hair lies Of those suffocated in gas chambers There are pins and side combs In this hair The hair is not shot through with […]...
3. Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers of my palms tell me so. Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish at the same time. I think Praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think staying up and waiting For paintings to sigh is science. In another […]...
4. Whats The Use Of A Title? They dont make it The beautiful die in flame – Sucide pills, rat poison, rope what – Ever… They rip their arms off, Throw themselves out of windows, They pull their eyes out of the sockets, Reject love Reject hate Reject, reject. They do’nt make it The beautiful can’t endure, They are butterflies They are […]...
5. Bag Of Mice I dreamt your suicide note Was scrawled in pencil on a brown paperbag, & in the bag were six baby mice. The bag Opened into darkness, Smoldering From the top down. The mice, Huddled at the bottom, scurried the bag Across a shorn field. I stood over it & as the burning reached each carbon […]...
6. Poem (The spirit likes to dress up…) The spirit likes to dress up like this: ten fingers, ten toes, Shoulders, and all the rest at night in the black branches, in the morning In the blue branches of the world. It could float, of course, but would rather Plumb rough matter. Airy and shapeless thing, it needs the metaphor of the body, […]...
7. Poem 2 EArly before the worlds light giuing lampe, His golden beame vpon the hils doth spred, Hauing disperst the nights vnchearefull dampe, Doe ye awake and with fresh lusty hed, Go to the bowre of my beloued loue, My truest turtle doue Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake, And long since ready forth his maske […]...
8. Afternoon Poem a lion at the door Swallowed the day Broken with spite At the inevitable chorus of pop songs Sutured for soft light I burdened siesta With a thousand little earthquakes I listened where you suffered vertigo Flowers have faded Bellies betray Caught the wistful eye That curved beneath my eyelids Something slime And panic strewn […]...
9. Every Death Is Magic from the Enemy to Be Avenged My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Psalm 22 When fever burned the last light out of my daughter’s eyes, I swore to find and kill the ones to blame. Men Must mount the long boat in the dark with spears. At dawn, where the flowering spicebush hid my scent, I crouched. A […]...
10. Small Poem About The Hounds And The Hares After the kill, there is the feast. And toward the end, when the dancing subsides And the young have sneaked off somewhere, The hounds, drunk on the blood of the hares, Begin to talk of how soft Were their pelts, how graceful their leaps, How lovely their scared, gentle eyes....
11. Poem On His Birthday In the mustardseed sun, By full tilt river and switchback sea Where the cormorants scud, In his house on stilts high among beaks And palavers of birds This sandgrain day in the bent bay’s grave He celebrates and spurns His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age; Herons spire and spear. Under and round him go Flounders, […]...
12. The Chimney-Sweeper (Experience) A little black thing among the snow: Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe! Where are thy father & mother? say? They are both gone up to the church to pray. Because I was happy upon the heath. And smil’d among the winters snow: They clothed me in the clothes of death. And taught me […]...
13. A Birthday Poem Just past dawn, the sun stands With its heavy red head In a black stanchion of trees, Waiting for someone to come With his bucket For the foamy white light, And then a long day in the pasture. I too spend my days grazing, Feasting on every green moment Till darkness calls, And with the […]...
14. The Poem Cat Sometimes the poem Doesn’t want to come; It hides from the poet Like a playful cat Who has run Under the house & lurks among slugs, Roots, spiders’ eyes, Ledge so long out of the sun That it is dank With the breath of the Troll King. Sometimes the poem Darts away Like a coy […]...
15. Here's to the Mice! (Written with the hope that the socialists might yet dethrone Kaiser and Czar.) Here’s to the mice that scare the lions, Creeping into their cages. Here’s to the fairy mice that bite The elephants fat and wise: Hidden in the hay-pile while the elephant thunder rages. Here’s to the scurrying, timid mice Through whom the […]...
16. Muier Oh, black Persian cat! Was not your life Already cursed with offspring? We took you for rest to that old Yankee farm,-so lonely And with so many field mice In the long grass- And you return to us In this condition-! Oh, black Persian cat....
17. Poem (You, my photographer, you, most aware) You, my photographer, you, most aware, Who climbed to the bridge when the iceberg struck, Climbed with your camera when the ship’s hull broke, And lighted your flashes and, standing passionate there, Wound the camera in the sudden burst’s flare, Shot the screaming women, and turned and took Pictures of the iceberg (as the ship’s […]...
18. I WILL NOT EAT MY POEM I kill for pleasure Not for gain. A man much more Than you my hands Find knives & flash them. I am guilty In my works While in their eyes I seek redemption. I find myself Forgotten Angry at the thought Of bread. I will not Eat my poem(A. Artaud) Much less be raped By […]...
19. Ka ‘Ba A closed window looks down On a dirty courtyard, and black people Call across or scream or walk across Defying physics in the stream of their will Our world is full of sound Our world is more lovely than anyone’s Tho we suffer, and kill each other And sometimes fail to walk the air We […]...
20. Dance Me To The End Of Love Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove Dance me to the end of love Dance me to the end of love Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone […]...
21. A Poem For Myself (or Blues for a Mississippi Black Boy) I was born in Mississippi; I walked barefooted thru the mud. Born black in Mississippi, Walked barefooted thru the mud. But, when I reached the age of twelve I left that place for good. My daddy chopped cotton And he drank his liquor straight. Said my daddy chopped […]...
22. Poem (Old man in the crystal morning after snow) Old man in the crystal morning after snow, Your throat swathed in a muffler, your bent Figure building the snow man which is meant For the grandchild’s target, do you know This fat cartoon, his eyes pocked in with coal Nears you each time your breath smokes the air, Lewdly grinning out of a private […]...
23. This Is A Poem I Wrote At Night, Before The Dawn This is a poem I wrote before I died and was reborn: – After the years of the apples ripening and the eagles soaring, After the festival here the small flowers gleamed like the first stars, And the horses cantered and romped away like the experience of skill; mastered and serene Power, grasped and governed […]...
24. Incantation A white well In a black cave; A bright shell In a dark wave. A white rose Black brambles hood; Smooth bright snows In a dark wood. A flung white glove In a dark fight; A white dove On a wild black night. A white door In a dark lane; A bright core To bitter […]...
25. Le Gout du Néant Morne esprit, autrefois amoureux de la lutte, L’Espoir, dont l’éperon attisait ton ardeur, Ne veut plus t’enfourcher! Couche-toi sans pudeur, Vieux cheval dont le pied à chaque obstacle bute. Résigne-toi, mon coeur; dors ton sommeil de brute. Esprit vaincu, fourbu! Pour toi, vieux maraudeur, L’amour n’a plus de gout, non plus que la dispute; Adieu […]...
26. The Day Is A Poem (September 19, 1939) This morning Hitler spoke in Danzig, we hear his voice. A man of genius: that is, of amazing Ability, courage, devotion, cored on a sick child’s soul, Heard clearly through the dog wrath, a sick child Wailing in Danzig; invoking destruction and wailing at it. Here, the day was extremely hot; about noon A south […]...
27. Poem For Maya Dipping our bread in oil tins We talked of morning peeling Open our rooms to a moment Of almonds, olives and wind When we did not yet know what we were. The days in Mallorca were alike: Footprints down goat-paths From the beds we had left, At night the stars locked to darkness. At that […]...
28. Poem Reaching For Something we walk through a calligraphy of hats slicing off foreheads Ace-deuce cocked, they slant, razor sharp, clean through imagination, our Spirits knee-deep in what we have forgotten entrancing our bodies now to Dance, like enraptured water lilies The rhythm in liquid strides of certain looks Eyeballs rippling through breezes Riffing choirs of trees, where a […]...
29. Choriambics I Ah! not now, when desire burns, and the wind calls, and the suns of spring Light-foot dance in the woods, whisper of life, woo me to wayfaring; Ah! not now should you come, now when the road beckons, And good friends call, Where are songs to be sung, fights to be fought, yea! and the […]...
30. Seven Strophes I was but what you’d brush With your palm, what your leaning Brow would hunch to in evening’s Raven-black hush. I was but what your gaze In that dark could distinguish: A dim shape to begin with, Later – features, a face. It was you, on my right, On my left, with your heated Sighs, […]...
31. The Ball Poem What is the boy now, who has lost his ball, What, what is he to do? I saw it go Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then Merrily over-there it is in the water! No use to say ‘O there are other balls’: An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy As he stands rigid, trembling, […]...
32. 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 […]...
33. Cotton Song Come, brother, come. Lets lift it; Come now, hewit! roll away! Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day But lets not wait for it. God’s body’s got a soul, Bodies like to roll the soul, Cant blame God if we dont roll, Come, brother, roll, roll! Cotton bales are the fleecy way, Weary sinner’s bare feet […]...
34. On A Ruined house In A Romantic Country And this reft house is that the which he built, Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil’d, Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild, Squeak, not unconscious of their father’s guilt. Did ye not see her gleaming thro’ the glade? Belike, ’twas she, the maiden all forlorn. What though she milk no […]...
35. Hoodlums I AM a hoodlum, you are a hoodlum, we and all of us are a world of hoodlums-maybe so. I hate and kill better men than I am, so do you, so do all of us-maybe-maybe so. In the ends of my fingers the itch for another man’s neck, I want to see him hanging, […]...
36. From Tsigan: The Gypsy Poem In Warsaw, blackbird girls Swoop down in flocks The old town square A swirl of dark-eyed dark-haired girls In brilliant skirts who circle Laughing at my waist Throw up their arms To beg for sweets Who know among the tourists Whom to choose (how do they know?) So being chosen, being glad In any language […]...
37. Crazy Jane Grown Old Looks At The Dancers I found that ivory image there Dancing with her chosen youth, But when he wound her coal-black hair As though to strangle her, no scream Or bodily movement did I dare, Eyes under eyelids did so gleam; Love is like the lion’s tooth. When She, and though some said she played I said that she […]...
38. White Ash THERE is a woman on Michigan Boulevard keeps a parrot and goldfish and two white mice. She used to keep a houseful of girls in kimonos and three pushbuttons on the front door. Now she is alone with a parrot and goldfish and two white mice… but these are some of her thoughts: The love […]...
39. The Final Poem A forge burns in my heart. I am redder than dawn, Deeper than seaweed, More distant than gulls, More hollow than wells. But I only give birth To seeds and to shells. My tongue becomes tangled in words: I no longer speak white, Nor utter black, Nor whisper gray of a wind-worn cliff, Barely do […]...
40. Notice What This Poem Is Not Doing The light along the hills in the morning Comes down slowly, naming the trees White, then coasting the ground for stones to nominate. Notice what this poem is not doing. A house, a house, a barn, the old Quarry, where the river shrugs How much of this place is yours? Notice what this poem is […]...