Where's the Poet?

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1. The Comet at Valbury or Yell'ham I It bends far over Yell’ham Plain, And we, from Yell’ham Height, Stand and regard its fiery train, So soon to swim from sight. II It will return long years hence, when As now its strange swift shine Will fall on Yell’ham; but not then On that sweet form of thine....
2. For Jane 225 days under grass And you know more than I. They have long taken your blood, You are a dry stick in a basket. Is this how it works? In this room The hours of love Still make shadows. When you left You took almost Everything. I kneel in the nights Before tigers That will […]...
3. To A Poet, Who Would Have Me Praise Certain Bad Poets, Imitators Of His And Mine You say, as I have often given tongue In praise of what another’s said or sung, ‘Twere politic to do the like by these; But was there ever dog that praised his fleas?...
4. The Pannikin Poet There’s nothing here sublime, But just a roving rhyme, Run off to pass the time, With nought titanic in. The theme that it supports, And, though it treats of quarts, It’s bare of golden thoughts It’s just a pannikin. I think it’s rather hard That each Australian bard Each wan, poetic card With thoughts galvanic […]...
5. Death Of A Poet Laid now on his smooth bed For the last time, watching dully Through heavy eyelids the day’s colour Widow the sky, what can he say Worthy of record, the books all open, Pens ready, the faces, sad, Waiting gravely for the tired lips To move once what can he say? His tongue wrestles to force […]...
6. The Poet’s Corner Here where the end of bone is no end of song And the earth is bedecked with immortality In what was poetry And now is pride beside And nationality, Here is a battle with no bravery But if the coward’s tongue has gone Swording his own lusty lung. Listen if there is victory Written into […]...
7. The Poet as Hero You’ve heard me, scornful, harsh, and discontented, Mocking and loathing War: you’ve asked me why Of my old, silly sweetness I’ve repented My ecstasies changed to an ugly cry. You are aware that once I sought the Grail, Riding in armour bright, serene and strong; And it was told that through my infant wail There […]...
8. Profane Poet Oh how it would enable me To titillate my vanity If you should choose to label me A Poet of Profanity! For I’ve been known with vulgar slang To stoke the Sacred Fire, And even used a word like ‘hang’, Suggesting ire. Yea, I’ve been slyly told, although It savours of inanity, In print the […]...
9. The Seraph and the Poet THE seraph sings before the manifest God-One, and in the burning of the Seven, And with the full life of consummate Heaving beneath him like a mother’s Warm with her first-born’s slumber in that The poet sings upon the earth grave-riven, Before the naughty world, soon self-forgiven For wronging him, and in the darkness prest […]...
10. Mother and Poet I. Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me! II. Yet I was a poetess only last […]...
11. 42. A Poet's Welcome to his Love-Begotten Daughter THOU’S 1 welcome, wean; mishanter fa’ me, If thoughts o’ thee, or yet thy mamie, Shall ever daunton me or awe me, My bonie lady, Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me Tyta or daddie. Tho’ now they ca’ me fornicator, An’ tease my name in kintry clatter, The mair they talk, I’m […]...
12. INFAMOUS POET I never did fit in – at six or sixty one – I stand out in a crowd, too young or old And gather pity like a shroud. “Is that real silk?” A teenager inquired. “As real as Oxfam ever is For one pound fifty.” The vast ballroom was growing misty And blurred with alcohol […]...
13. Poet As Fisherman I fish for words To say what I fish for, Half-catch sometimes. I have caught little pan fish flashing sunlight (yellow perch, crappies, blue-gills), Lighthearted reeled them in, Filed them on stringers on the shore. A nice mess, we called them, And ate with our fingers, laughing. Once, dreaming of fish in far-off waters, I […]...
14. Tiger At noon thepaper tigers roar Miroslav Holub The paper tigers roar at noon; The sun is hot, the sun is high. They roar in chorus, not in tune, Their plaintive, savage hunting cry. O, when you hear them, stop your ears And clench your lids and bite your tongue. The harmless paper tiger bears Strong […]...
15. The Hero Mother, let us imagine we are travelling, and passing through a Strange and dangerous country. You are riding in a palanquin and I am trotting by you on a Red horse. It is evening and the sun goes down. The waste of Joradighi Lies wan and grey before us. The land is desolate and barren. […]...
16. Sonnets 02: Into The Golden Vessel Of Great Song Into the golden vessel of great song Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast Let other lovers lie, in love and rest; Not we,-articulate, so, but with the tongue Of all the world: the churning blood, the long Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed Sharply together upon the escaping guest, The common […]...
17. At the Zoo There are lions and roaring tigers, And enormous camels and things, There are biffalo-buffalo-bisons, And a great big bear with wings. There’s a sort of a tiny potamus, And a tiny nosserus too – But I gave buns to the elephant When I went down to the Zoo! There are badgers and bidgers and bodgers, […]...
18. A Poet's Death is His Life IV The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens. There in the suburb stood an old hut heavily laden with snow […]...
19. The Poet's Calendar January Janus am I; oldest of potentates; Forward I look, and backward, and below I count, as god of avenues and gates, The years that through my portals come and go. I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow; I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen; My frosts congeal the rivers in […]...
20. A Poet's Voice XV Part One The power of charity sows deep in my heart, and I reap and gather the wheat in bundles and give them to the hungry. My soul gives life to the grapevine and I press its bunches and give the juice to the thirsty. Heaven fills my lamp with oil and I place it […]...
21. 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 […]...
22. A Minor Poet “What should such fellows as I do, Crawling between earth and heaven?” Here is the phial; here I turn the key Sharp in the lock. Click! there’s no doubt it turned. This is the third time; there is luck in threes Queen Luck, that rules the world, befriend me now And freely I’ll forgive you […]...
23. To the Etruscan Poets Dream fluently, still brothers, who when young Took with your mother’s milk the mother tongue, In which pure matrix, joining world and mind, You strove to leave some line of verse behind Like still fresh tracks across a field of snow, Not reckoning that all could melt and go....
24. The Old Poet I will be glad because it is the Spring; I will forget the winter in my heart Dead hopes and withered promise; and will wring A little joy from life ere life depart. For spendthrift youth with passion-blinded eyes, Stays not to see how woods and fields are bright; He hears the phantom voices call, […]...
25. The Poet O hour of my muse: why do you leave me, Wounding me by the wingbeats of your flight? Alone: what shall I use my mouth to utter? How shall I pass my days? And how my nights? I have no one to love. I have no home. There is no center to sustain my life. […]...
26. The Poet Only on me, the lonely one, The unending stars of the night shine, The stone fountain whispers its magic song, To me alone, to me the lonely one The colorful shadows of the wandering clouds Move like dreams over the open countryside. Neither house nor farmland, Neither forest nor hunting privilege is given to me, […]...
27. The Poet Words flow onto paper like rain, forming giant rivers Of unseen lands. The very force guides us along a journey That holds of great adventure. We are the explorers of the literary world. We must find the courage to write what Others are unable to, with the greatest Of passion. A poet dreams. and then […]...
28. For A Poet I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth, And laid them away in a box of gold; Where long will cling the lips of the moth, I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth; I hide no hate; I am not even wroth Who found the earth’s breath so keen and cold; I […]...
29. To a Poet There is a lovely noise about your name, Above the shoutings of the city clear, More than a moment’s merriment, whose claim Will greater grow with every mellowed year. The people will not bear you down the street, Dancing to the strong rhythm of your words, The modern kings will throttle you to greet The […]...
30. The Poet What instinct forces man to journey on, Urged by a longing blind but dominant! Nothing he sees can hold him, nothing daunt His never failing eagerness. The sun Setting in splendour every night has won His vassalage; those towers flamboyant Of airy cloudland palaces now haunt His daylight wanderings. Forever done With simple joys and […]...
31. Two Years Later Has no one said those daring Kind eyes should be more learn’d? Or warned you how despairing The moths are when they are burned? I could have warned you; but you are young, So we speak a different tongue. O you will take whatever’s offered And dream that all the world’s a friend, Suffer as […]...
32. On – On – Poet I to the open road, You to the hunchbacked street – Which of us two Shall the earlier rue That day we chanced to meet? I with a heart that’s sound, You with sick fancies of pain – Which of us two Would the earlier rue If we chanced to meet again? I jingle homely […]...
33. This was a Poet It is That This was a Poet It is That Distills amazing sense From ordinary Meanings And Attar so immense From the familiar species That perished by the Door We wonder it was not Ourselves Arrested it before Of Pictures, the Discloser The Poet it is He Entitles Us by Contrast To ceaseless Poverty Of portion so unconscious […]...
34. The Poet The riches of the poet are equal to his poetry His power is his left hand It is idle weak and precious His poverty is his wealth, a wealth which may destroy him like Midas Because it is that laziness which is a form of impatience And this he may be destroyed by the gold […]...
35. A Tale of the Miser and the Poet A WIT, transported with Inditing, Unpay’d, unprais’d, yet ever Writing; Who, for all Fights and Fav’rite Friends, Had Poems at his Fingers Ends; For new Events was still providing; Yet now desirous to be riding, He pack’d-up ev’ry Ode and Ditty And in Vacation left the City; So rapt with Figures, and Allusions, With secret […]...
36. DEATH OF A POET for Wendy Oliver, who knew him I am the sick animal you dream you are caring for In the long avenues of night I cannot find a name For the sickness except the despair of a poet sensing his veins Silt up like the delta of a neglected river with none of the solace Sidney […]...
37. To A Poet That Died Young Minstrel, what have you to do With this man that, after you, Sharing not your happy fate, Sat as England’s Laureate? Vainly, in these iron days, Strives the poet in your praise, Minstrel, by whose singing side Beauty walked, until you died. Still, though none should hark again, Drones the blue-fly in the pane, Thickly […]...
38. Upon An Eunuch; A Poet. Fragment Nec sterilem te crede; Licet, mulieribus exul, Falcem virginiae nequeas immitere messi, Et nostro peccare modo. Tibi Fama perenne Praegnabit; rapiesque novem de monse Sorores; Et pariet modulos Echo repetita Nepotes....
39. A Poet at Twenty Images leap with him from branch to branch. His eyes Brighten, his head cocks, he pauses under a green bough, Alert. And when I see him I want to hide him somewhere. The other wood is past the hill. But he will enter it, and find the particular maple. He will walk through the door […]...
40. Browning Decides To Be A Poet in these red labyrinths of London I find that I have chosen The strangest of all callings, Save that, in its way, any calling is strange. Like the alchemist Who sought the philosopher’s stone In quicksilver, I shall make everyday words The gambler’s marked cards, the common coin Give off the magic that was their […]...