On Donne's Poetry

Related poetry:

1. Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat? Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat? Then crouch within the door Red is the Fire’s common tint But when the vivid Ore Has vanquished Flame’s conditions, It quivers from the Forge Without a color, but the light Of unanointed Blaze. Least Village has its Blacksmith Whose Anvil’s even ring Stands symbol for […]...
2. To the Muse of Poetry EXULT MY MUSE! exult to see Each envious, waspish, jealous thing, Around its harmless venom fling, And dart its powerless fangs at THEE! Ne’er shalt THOU bend thy radiant wing, To sweep the dark revengeful string; Or meanly stoop, to steal a ray, E’en from RINALDO’S glorious lay, Tho’ his transcendent Verse should twine About […]...
3. Tu m'as donnè une arme Poem by Anne-Marie Derése. Tu m’as donnè une arme Dans le troupeau humain, Tu as lancè tes mots Commes des pierres. Les blessures furent Bonnes lècher. Tu as rèveillè le feulement. Tu t’es donnè comme on prend....
4. Introduction To Poetry I ask them to take a poem And hold it up to the light Like a color slide Or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poem And watch him probe his way out, Or walk inside the poem’s room And feel the walls for a light switch. I […]...
5. The Oldest Song “These were never your true love’s eyes. Why do you feign that you love them? You that broke from their constancies, And the wide calm brows above them! This was never your true love’s speech. Why do you thrill when you hear it? You that have ridden out of its reach The width of the […]...
6. About My Poetry I have no silver-saddled horse to ride, No inheritance to live on, Neither riches no real-estate A pot of honey is all I own. A pot of honey red as fire! My honey is my everything. I guard My riches and my real-estate my honey pot, I mean From pests of every species, Brother, just […]...
7. To England There are no postage stamps that send letters Back to England three centuries ago, No postage stamps that make letters Travel back until the grave hasn’t been dug yet, And John Donne stands looking out the window, It is just beginning to rain this April morning, And the birds are falling into the trees Like […]...
8. Poetry And Religion Religions are poems. They concert Our daylight and dreaming mind, our Emotions, instinct, breath and native gesture Into the only whole thinking: poetry. Nothing’s said till it’s dreamed out in words And nothing’s true that figures in words only. A poem, compared with an arrayed religion, May be like a soldier’s one short marriage night […]...
9. Goodbye To The Poetry Of Calcium Dark cypresses The world is uneasily happy; It will all be forgotten. Theodore Storm Mother of roots, you have not seeded The tall ashes of loneliness For me. Therefore, Now I go. If I knew the name, Your name, all trellises of vineyards and old fire Would quicken to shake terribly my Earth, mother of […]...
10. Love, the Soul of Poetry WHen first Alexis did in Verse delight, His Muse in Low, but Graceful Numbers walk’t, And now and then a little Proudly stalk’t; But never aim’d at any noble Flight: The Herds, the Groves, the gentle purling Streams, Adorn’d his Song, and were his highest Theams. But Love these Thoughts, like Mists, did soon disperse, […]...
11. The Poetry Of Life “Who would himself with shadows entertain, Or gild his life with lights that shine in vain, Or nurse false hopes that do but cheat the true? Though with my dream my heaven should be resigned Though the free-pinioned soul that once could dwell In the large empire of the possible, This workday life with iron […]...
12. Politics ‘In our time the destiny of man prevents its meanings In political terms.’ Thomas Mann. How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here’s a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there’s a politician That has read and thought, And […]...
13. Dream Song 82: Op. posth. no. 5 Maskt as honours, insult like behaving Missiles homes. I bow, & grunt ‘Thank you. I’m glad you could come So late.’ All loves are gratified. I’m having To screw a little thing I have to screw. Good nature is over. Herewith ill-wishes. From a cozy grave Rainbow I scornful laughings. Do not do, Father, me […]...
14. Apollo Musagete, Poetry, And The Leader Of The Muses Nothing is given which is not taken. Little or nothing is taken which is not freely desired, freely, truly and fully. “You would not seek me if you had not found me”: this is true of all that is supremely desired and admired… “An enigma is an animal,” said the hurried, harried schoolboy: And a […]...
15. Screw-Guns Smokin’ my pipe on the mountings, sniffin’ the mornin’ cool, I walks in my old brown gaiters along o’ my old brown mule, With seventy gunners be’ind me, an’ never a beggar forgets It’s only the pick of the Army that handles the dear little pets ‘Tss! ‘Tss! For you all love the screw-guns the […]...
16. Song of the Forge The forge-fire sets a glow in the heavens, The hammer thunders, showering the smoke with sparks. A ruddy smithy, the white face of the moon, And the hammer, ringing down cold dark canyons....
17. A Morning Dream This morning I dreamed I followed Widely spaced bells, ringing in the wind, And climbed through mists to rosy clouds. I realized my destined affinity With An Ch’i-sheng the ancient sage. I met unexpectedly O Lu-hua The heavenly maiden. Together we saw lotus roots as big as boats. Together we ate jujubes as huge as […]...
18. Ballad of the Moon The moon came into the forge In her bustle of flowering nard. The little boy stares at her, stares. The boy is staring hard. In the shaken air The moon moves her amrs, And shows lubricious and pure, Her breasts of hard tin. “Moon, moon, moon, run! If the gypsies come, They will use your […]...
19. POETRY GOD to his untaught children sent Law, order, knowledge, art, from high, And ev’ry heav’nly favour lent, The world’s hard lot to qualify. They knew not how they should behave, For all from Heav’n stark-naked came; But Poetry their garments gave, And then not one had cause for shame. 1816....
20. The Uses Of Poetry I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion presently, For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy bay, Hid deep in rushes, where at random play The glossy black winged May-flies, or whence flee Hush-throated nestlings in alarm, Whom we have idly frighted with our boat’s […]...
21. Poetry In the same way that the mindless diamond keeps One spark of the planet’s early fires Trapped forever in its net of ice, It’s not love’s later heat that poetry holds, But the atom of the love that drew it forth From the silence: so if the bright coal of his love Begins to smoulder, […]...
22. In Dispraise Of Poetry When the King of Siam disliked a courtier, He gave him a beautiful white elephant. The miracle beast deserved such ritual That to care for him properly meant ruin. Yet to care for him improperly was worse. It appears the gift could not be refused....
23. Poetry For Supper ‘Listen, now, verse should be as natural As the small tuber that feeds on muck And grows slowly from obtuse soil To the white flower of immortal beauty.’ ‘Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil That goes like blood to the poem’s making? Leave it to nature and the verse […]...
24. Poetry I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it after all, a place for the genuine. Hands that can grasp, eyes that can dilate, hair that can rise if it must, these things are important not because […]...
25. Some Like Poetry Write it. Write. In ordinary ink On ordinary paper: they were given no food, They all died of hunger. “All. How many? It’s a big meadow. How much grass For each one?” Write: I don’t know. History counts its skeletons in round numbers. A thousand and one remains a thousand, As though the one had […]...
26. The Spirit of Poetry There is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where’er the gentle south-wind blows; Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When […]...
27. Eating Poetry Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry. The librarian does not believe what she sees. Her eyes are sad And she walks with her hands in her dress. The poems are gone. The light is dim. The dogs are on the basement stairs […]...
28. The New Poetry Handbook 1 If a man understands a poem, he shall have troubles. 2 If a man lives with a poem, he shall die lonely. 3 If a man lives with two poems, he shall be unfaithful to one. 4 If a man conceives of a poem, he shall have one less child. 5 If a man […]...
29. The Art Of Poetry To gaze at a river made of time and water And remember Time is another river. To know we stray like a river And our faces vanish like water. To feel that waking is another dream That dreams of not dreaming and that the death We fear in our bones is the death That every […]...
30. Poetry Of Departures Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand, As epitaph: He chucked up everything And just cleared off, And always the voice will sound Certain you approve This audacious, purifying, Elemental move. And they are right, I think. We all hate home And having to be there: I detect my room, It’s specially-chosen junk, The good books, the good […]...
31. The Poetry Reading at high noon At a small college near the beach Sober The sweat running down my arms A spot of sweat on the table I flatten it with my finger Blood money blood money My god they must think I love this like the others But it’s for bread and beer and rent Blood money […]...
32. Poetry it Takes A lot of Desperation Dissatisfaction And Disillusion To Write A Few Good Poems. It’s not For Everybody Either to Write It Or even to Read It....
33. Poetry Sometimes I tremble like a storm-swept flower, And seek to hide my tortured soul from thee. Bowing my head in deep humility Before the silent thunder of thy power. Sometimes I flee before thy blazing light, As from the specter of pursuing death; Intimidated lest thy mighty breath, Windways, will sweep me into utter night. […]...
34. AN EVENING OF POETRY Arriving for a reading an hour too early: Ruefully, the general manager stopped putting out the chairs. “You don’t get any help these days. I have To sort out everything from furniture to faxes. Why not wander round the park? There are ducks And benches where you can sit and watch.” I realized it was […]...
35. HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR Only a little more I have to write: Then I’ll give o’er, And bid the world good-night. ‘Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay, Or linger in it: And then I must away. O Time, that cut’st down all, And scarce leav’st here Memorial Of any men that were; How many lie forgot […]...
36. The Progress of Poetry The Farmer’s Goose, who in the Stubble, Has fed without Restraint, or Trouble; Grown fat with Corn and Sitting still, Can scarce get o’er the Barn-Door Sill: And hardly waddles forth, to cool Her Belly in the neighb’ring Pool: Nor loudly cackles at the Door; For Cackling shews the Goose is poor. But when she […]...
37. Of Modern Poetry The poem of the mind in the act of finding What will suffice. It has not always had To find: the scene was set; it repeated what Was in the script. Then the theatre was changed To something else. Its past was a souvenir. It has to be living, to learn the speech of the […]...
38. 328. Poem on Pastoral Poetry HAIL, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv’d! In chase o’ thee, what crowds hae swerv’d Frae common sense, or sunk enerv’d ‘Mang heaps o’ clavers: And och! o’er aft thy joes hae starv’d, ‘Mid a’ thy favours! Say, Lassie, why, thy train amang, While loud the trump’s heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang To death […]...
39. Unlyric Love Song It is time to give that-of-myself which I could not at first: To offer you now at last my least and my worst: Minor, absurd preserves, The shell’s end-curves, A document kept at the back of a drawer, A tin hidden under the floor, Recalcitrant prides and hesitations: To pile them carefully in a desparate […]...
40. Poetry Is A Kind Of Lying Poetry is a kind of lying, Necessarily. To profit the poet Or beauty. But also in That truth may be told only so. Those who, admirably, refuse To falsify (as those who will not Risk pretensions) are excluded From saying even so much. Degas said he didn’t paint What he saw, but what Would enable […]...