CHapter 1-2 poems
When getting my nose in a book Cured most things short of school, It was worth ruining my eyes To know I could still keep cool, And deal out the old right hook To dirty dogs twice my size.
A Study of Reading Habits, Philip Larkin
For love The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea— A poem should not mean But be.
Ars Poetica, Archibald MacLeish
Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves, Memory by memory the mind— A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs.
Ars Poetica, Archibald MacLeish
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown— A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds.
Ars Poetica, Archibald MacLeish
'Tis true, 'tis day, what though it be? O wilt thou therefore rise from me? Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because 'twas night? Love, which in spite of darkness brought us hither, Should in despite of light keep us together.
Break of Day, John Donne
paces his way to the other side of day performing entrechats and sleight-of-foot tricks
Constantly Risking Absurdity (#15), Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
Ay the ball is flying, The lads play heart and soul; The goal stands up, the keeper Stands up to keep the goal.
Is my team plowing, A.E. Housman
Ay, she lies down lightly, She lies not down to weep: Your girl is well contented. Be still, my lad, and sleep.
Is my team plowing, A.E. Housman
Ay, the horses trample, The harness jingles now; No change though you lie under The land you used to plough.
Is my team plowing, A.E. Housman
Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite, "Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write."
Loving in truth, Sir Philip Sidney
The calm, Cool face of the river Asked me for a kiss.
Suicide's Note- Langston Hughes
When your soul is in my soul's stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day.
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
Why, if 'tis dancing you would be, There's brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
—I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old.
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
And remembering ... Remembering, with twinklings and twinges, As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.
The Bean Eaters, Gwendolyn Brooks
They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. Dinner is a casual affair. Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, Tin flatware.
The Bean Eaters, Gwendolyn Brooks
And We—We placed the Hair— And drew the Head erect— And then an awful leisure was Belief to regulate—
The Last Night That She Lived, Emily Dickinson
As We went out and in Between Her final Room And Rooms where Those to be alive Tomorrow were, a Blame
The Last Night That She Lived, Emily Dickinson
Don't read much now: the dude Who lets the girl down before The hero arrives, the chap Who's yellow and keeps the store Seem far too familiar. Get stewed: Books are a load of crap.
A Study of Reading Habits, Philip Larkin
Later, with inch-thick specs, Evil was just my lark: Me and my cloak and fangs Had ripping times in the dark. The women I clubbed with sex! I broke them up like meringues.
A Study of Reading Habits, Philip Larkin
A poem should be equal to: Not true. For all the history of grief An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
Ars Poetica, Archibald MacLeish
A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs, Leaving, as the moon releases Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
Ars Poetica, Archibald MacLeish
A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb,
Ars Poetica, Archibald MacLeish
"But, mother, I won't be alone. Other children will go with me, And march the streets of Birmingham To make our country free."
Ballad of Birmingham, Dudley Randall
"Mother dear, may I go downtown Instead of out to play, And march the streets of Birmingham In a Freedom March today?"
Ballad of Birmingham, Dudley Randall
"No, baby, no, you may not go, For I fear those guns will fire. But you may go to church instead And sing in the children's choir."
Ballad of Birmingham, Dudley Randall
"No, baby, no, you may not go, For the dogs are fierce and wild, And clubs and hoses, guns and jails Aren't good for a little child."
Ballad of Birmingham, Dudley Randall
For when she heard the explosion, Her eyes grew wet and wild. She raced through the streets of Birmingham Calling for her child.
Ballad of Birmingham, Dudley Randall
She clawed through bits of glass and brick, Then lifted out a shoe. "O, here's the shoe my baby wore, But, baby, where are you?"
Ballad of Birmingham, Dudley Randall
She has combed and brushed her night-dark hair, And bathed rose petal sweet, And drawn white gloves on her small brown hands, And white shoes on her feet.
Ballad of Birmingham, Dudley Randall
The mother smiled to know her child Was in the sacred place, But that smile was the last smile To come upon her face.
Ballad of Birmingham, Dudley Randall
And he a little charleychaplin man who may or may not catch her fair eternal form spreadeagled in the empty air of existence
Constantly Risking Absurdity (#15), Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Constantly risking absurdity and death whenever he performs above the heads of his audience
Constantly Risking Absurdity (#15), Lawrence Ferlinghetti
For he's the super realist who must perforce perceive taut truth before the taking of each stance or step
Constantly Risking Absurdity (#15), Lawrence Ferlinghetti
and other high theatrics and all without mistaking any thing for what it may not be
Constantly Risking Absurdity (#15), Lawrence Ferlinghetti
in his supposed advance toward that still higher perch where Beauty stands and waits with gravity to start her death-defying leap
Constantly Risking Absurdity (#15), Lawrence Ferlinghetti
the poet like an acrobat climbs on rime to a high wire of his own making and balancing on eyebeams above a sea of faces
Constantly Risking Absurdity (#15), Lawrence Ferlinghetti
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen
"Is football playing Along the river shore, With lads to chase the leather, Now I stand up no more?"
Is my team plowing, A.E. Housman
"Is my friend hearty, Now I am thin and pine, And has he found to sleep in A better bed than mine?"
Is my team plowing, A.E. Housman
"Is my girl happy, That I thought hard to leave, And has she tired of weeping As she lies down at eve?"
Is my team plowing, A.E. Housman
"Is my team ploughing, That I was used to drive And hear the harness jingle When I was man alive?"
Is my team plowing, A.E. Housman
Yes, lad, I lie easy, I lie as lads would choose; I cheer a dead man's sweetheart, Never ask me whose.
Is my team plowing, A.E. Housman
But words came halting forth, wanting invention's stay; Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows; And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way. Thus great with child to speak and helpless in my throes,
Loving in truth, Sir Philip Sidney
I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe; Studying inventions fine her wits to entertain, Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sunburn'd brain.
Loving in truth, Sir Philip Sidney
Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain,— Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain,—
Loving in truth, Sir Philip Sidney
But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day(Sonnet 18)- Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day(Sonnet 18)- Shakespeare
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day(Sonnet 18)- Shakespeare
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day(Sonnet 18)- Shakespeare
'TERENCE, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer.
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world's not.
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
And carried half way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad;
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
And down in lovely muck I've lain, Happy till I woke again. Then I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat;
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past: The mischief is that 'twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where,
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
And train for ill and not for good. 'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head:
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
He gathered all that springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store;
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.'
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man.
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew.
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would,
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white's their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt.
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time
Terrence, This is stupid stuff, A.E. Housman
Two who are Mostly Good. Two who have lived their day, But keep on putting on their clothes And putting things away.
The Bean Eaters, Gwendolyn Brooks
He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The Eagle- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
The Eagle- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
She mentioned, and forgot— Then lightly as a Reed Bent to the Water, struggled scarce— Consented, and was dead—
The Last Night That She Lived, Emily Dickinson
That Others could exist While She must finish quite A Jealousy for Her arose So nearly infinite—
The Last Night That She Lived, Emily Dickinson
The last Night that She lived It was a Common Night Except the Dying—this to Us Made Nature different
The Last Night That She Lived, Emily Dickinson
We noticed smallest things— Things overlooked before By this great light upon our Minds Italicized—as 'twere.
The Last Night That She Lived, Emily Dickinson
We waited while She passed— It was a narrow time— Too jostled were Our Souls to speak At length the notice came.
The Last Night That She Lived, Emily Dickinson
"But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place.
The Man He Killed, Thomas Hardy
"Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin!
The Man He Killed, Thomas Hardy
"He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, Off-hand like — just as I — Was out of work — had sold his traps — No other reason why.
The Man He Killed, Thomas Hardy
"I shot him dead because — Because he was my foe, Just so: my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although
The Man He Killed, Thomas Hardy
"Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown."
The Man He Killed, Thomas Hardy
so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.
The Red Wheelbarrow, William Carlos Williams
And the woman leans muttering against a tree, exhausted, purged- avenged in part for lifelong hidings she has had to bear.
The Whipping, Robert Hayden
My head gripped in bony vise of knees, the writhing struggle to wrench free, the blows, the fear worse than blows that hateful
The Whipping, Robert Hayden
She strikes and strikes the shrilly circling boy till the stick breaks in her hand. His tears are rainy weather to woundlike memories:
The Whipping, Robert Hayden
The old woman across the way is whipping the boy again and shouting to the neighborhood her goodness and his wrongs.
The Whipping, Robert Hayden
Wildly he crashes through elephant ears, pleads in dusty zinnias, while she in spite of crippling fat pursues and corners him.
The Whipping, Robert Hayden
Words could bring, the face that I no longer knew or loved . . . Well, it is over now, it is over, and the boy sobs in his room,
The Whipping, Robert Hayden
And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw
Winter- Shakespeare
Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Winter- Shakespeare
When Blood is nipped and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who: a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Winter- Shakespeare
When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
Winter- Shakespeare
When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail,
Winter- Shakespeare
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Winter- Shakespeare
