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Guess that Poem

Go and Catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tel me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil’s foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy’s stinging
and find
what wind
Serves to advance an honest mind
Song: Go and Catch a Falling Star
If thou best born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return’st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And wear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair
Song: Go and Catch a Falling Star
If thou found’st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at net door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three
Song: Go and Catch a Falling Star
The glass has been falling all the afternoon
And knowing better than the instrument
What winds are walking overhead, what zone
Of grey unrest is moving across the land,
I leave the book upon a pillowed chair
And walk from window to closed window,
Boughs strain against the sky
Storm Warnings
And think again, as often when the air
Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting,
How with a single purpose time has traveled
By secret currents of the undiscerned
Into this polar realm. Weather abroad
And weather in the heart alike come on
Regardless of prediction
Storm Warnings
Between foreseeing and averting change
Lies all the mastery of elements
Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter.
Time in the hand is not control of time,
Nor shattered fragments of an instrument
A proof against the wind; the wind will rise,
We can only close the shutters
Storm Warnings
I draw the curtains as the sky goes black
And set a match to candles sheathed in glass
Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine
Of weather through the unsealed aperture.
This is our sole defense against the season;
These are the things we have learned to do
Who live in troubled regions
Storm Warnings
In ethics class so many years ago
our teacher asked this question every fall:
If there were a fire in a museum
which would you save, a Rembrandt painting or an old woman who hadn’t many
years left anyhow? Restless on hard chairs caring little for pictures or old age
we’d opt one year for life, the next for art
and always half-heartedly. Sometimes
the woman borrowed my grandmother’s face leaving her usual kitchen to wander
some drafty, half imagined museum.
One year, feeling clever, I replied
why not let the woman decide herself?
Linda, the teacher would report, eschews
the burdens of responsibility.
This fall in a real museum I stand
before a real Rembrandt, old woman,
or nearly so, myself. The colors
within this frame are darker than autumn, darker even than winter—the browns of earth, though earth’s most radiant elements burn through the canvas. I know now that woman and painting and season are almost one
and all beyond saving by children.
This is the one song everyone would like to learn: the song that is irresistible:
Siren Song
the song that forces men
to leap overboard in squadrons
even though they see beached skulls
Siren Song
the song nobody knows
because anyone who had heard it
is dead, and the others can’t remember. Shall I tell you the secret
and if I do, will you get me
out of this bird suit?
I don’t enjoy it here
squatting on this island
looking picturesque and mythical
with these two feathery maniacs,
I don’t enjoy singing
this trio, fatal and valuable.
Siren Song
I will tell the secret to you, to you, only to you.
Come closer. This song
Siren Song
is a cry for help: Help me! Only you, only you can, you are unique
Siren Song
at last. Alas
it is a boring song
but it works every time.
Siren Song
When Mother divorced you, we were glad. She took it and took it in silence, all those years and then
kicked you out, suddenly, and her
kids loved it.Then you were fired, and we
grinned inside, the way people grinned when Nixon’s helicopter lifted off the South
Lawn for the last time.We were tickled
to think of your office taken away,
your secretaries taken away,
your lunches with three double bourbons,
your pencils, your reams of paper.Would they take your suits back, too, those dark
carcasses hung in your closet, and the black
noses of your shoes with their large pores?
The Victims
She had taught us to take it, to hate you and take it until we pricked with her for your
annihilation, Father. Now I
pass the bums in doorways, the white
slugs of their bodies gleaming through slits in their
suits of compressed silt, the stained
flippers of their hands, the underwater
fire of their eyes, ships gone down with the
lanterns lit, and I wonder who took it and
took it from them in silence until they had
given it all away and had nothing
left but this.
The Victims
Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal- yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

READ:  My Boston massacre poem

What little town by river or sea shore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,- that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” – –
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
One Art
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
One Art
Then practice losing father, losing faster;
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster
One Art
I lost my mothers watch.And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
One Art
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continuant.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster
One Art
-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too had to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
One Art
The world is too much with us: late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The sea that bares her bosom to the moon:
The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
The World Is Too Much With Us
It moves us not.- Great God! I’d rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
The World Is Too Much With Us
This girlchild was born as usual
and presented dolls that did pee-pee
and miniature GE stoves and irons
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:
You have a great big nose and fat legs.
Barbie Doll
She was healthy, tested intelligent,
possessed strong arms and back,
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.
She went to and fro apologizing.
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs.
Barbie Doll
She was advised to play coy,
exhorted to come on hearty,
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.
Her good nature wore out
like a fan belt.
So she cut off her nose and her legs
and offered them up.
Barbie Doll
In the casket displayed on satin she lay
with the undertaker’s cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn’t she look pretty? everyone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.
Barbie Doll
The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy.
My Papa’s Waltz
We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother’s countenance Could not unfrown itself.
My Papa’s Waltz
The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle.
My Papa’s Waltz
You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.
My Papa’s Waltz
I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
‘Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
The Good-Morrow
And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
The Good-Morrow
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two better hemispheres, Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.
The Good-Morrow
At twenty she was brilliant and adored,
Phi Beta Kappa, sought for every dance; Captured symbolic logic and the glance
Of men whose interest was their sole reward.
Pathedy of Manners
She learned the cultured jargon of those bred
To antique crystal and authentic pearls,
Scorned Wagner, praised the Degas dancing girls,
And when she might have thought, conversed instead.
Pathedy of Manners
She hung up her diploma, went abroad,
Saw catalogues of domes and tapestry,
Rejected an impoverished marquis,
And learned to tell real Wedgwood from a fraud.
Pathedy of Manners
Back home her breeding led her to espouse
A bright young man whose pearl cufflinks were real. They had an ideal marriage, and ideal
But lonely children in an ideal house.
Pathedy of Manners
I saw her yesterday at forty-three,
Her children gone, her husband one year dead, Toying with plots to kill time and re-wed Illusions of lost opportunity
Pathedy of Manners
But afraid to wonder what she might have known With all that wealth and mind had offered her, She shuns conviction, choosing to infer
Tenets of every mind except her own.
Pathedy of Manners
A hundred people call, though not one friend, To parry a hundred doubts with nimble talk. Her meaning lost in manners, she will walk Alone in brilliant circles to the end.
Ellen Kay
Pathedy of Manners
Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
Constantly Risking Absurdity
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
paces his way
to the other side of day
performing entrechats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
Constantly Risking Absurdity
For he’s the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
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
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
The last Night that She lived It was a Common Night Except the Dying— this to Us Made Nature different
The Last Night She Lived
We noticed smallest things— Things overlooked before
By this great light upon our Minds Italicized— as ’twere.
The Last Night She Lived
As We went out and in
Between Her final Room
And Rooms where Those to be alive Tomorrow were, a Blame
The Last Night She Lived
That Others could exist While She must finish quite A Jealousy for Her arose So nearly infinite—
The Last Night She Lived
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 She Lived
She mentioned, and forgot—
Then lightly as a Reed
Bent to the Water, struggled scarce— Consented, and was dead—
The Last Night She Lived
And We, We placed the Hair— And drew the Head erect—
And then an awful leisure was
Our faith to regulate
The Last Night She Lived
The old woman across the way
is whipping the boy again
and shouting to the neighborhood
her goodness and his wrongs.
The Whipping
Wildly he crashes through elephant ears,
pleads in dusty zinnias,
while she in spite of crippling fat
pursues and corners him.
The Whipping
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
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
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
And the woman leans muttering against
a tree, exhausted, purged—
avenged in part for lifelong hidings
she has had to bear.
The Whipping
“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
“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
“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
“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
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
The mother smiled to know that her child
Was in the sacred place,
But that smile was the last smile
To come upon her face.
Ballad of Birmingham
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
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
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
I wandered Lonely as a Cloud
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
I wandered Lonely as a Cloud
The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed- and gazed- but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
I wandered Lonely as a Cloud
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.
I wandered Lonely as a Cloud
A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit,
As old medallions to the thumb,
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
A poem should be motionless in time As the moon climbs,
Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,
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
A poem should be equal to: Not true.
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea–
A poem should not mean But be.
Ars Poetica
so much depends

READ:  Elizabeth Bishop Poems

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a red wheel

glazed with rain

beside the white

The Red Wheelbarrow
When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.
When My Love Swears That She is Made of Truth

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Guess that Poem
Go and Catch a falling star, Get with child a mandrake root, Tel me where all past years are, Or who cleft the devil's foot, Teach me to hear mermaids singing, Or to keep off envy's stinging and find what wind Serves to advance an honest mind
Song: Go and Catch a Falling Star
2017-12-28 11:10:09
2018-01-04 11:35:51
Guess that Poem
$ 13.900 2018-12-31
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