For My Poems, Written So Early
For my poems, written so early
That I didn't even know I was a poet,
Hurled like drops from a fountain,
Like sparks from rockets,
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
The Popular Heart is a Cannon first—
The Popular Heart is a Cannon first-
Subsequent a Drum-
To The Whore Who Took My Poems
some say we should keep personal remorse from the
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
As The Poems Go
As the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
See the fur coats go by!
The morning is like the inside of a snow-apple.
I will curl myself cushion-shape
On the window-seat;
Mr. Hope Macniven, of Ingersoll, had the pleasure in his
younger days, during the first quarter of the present
century, of seeing and hearing many of the most eminent
men in Britain. He heard Doctor Chalmers and Edward Irving preach, before Irving went to London, where he became so famous ;
How I hate those modern Poems
Vaguer, looser than a dream!
Pointless things that look like poems
Only, to some held-back theme!
An Answer To The Rebus, By The Author Of These Poems
The poet asks, and Phillis can't refuse
To show th' obedience of the Infant muse.
She knows the Quail of most inviting taste
Fed Israel's army in the dreary waste;
On a mountain top above the clouds
That streamed like a sea below me
I said that peak is the thought of Buddha,
And that one is the prayer of Jesus,
Edgar Lee Masters
The Planet On The Table
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Spring has returned! Everything has returned!
The earth, just like a schoolgirl, memorizes
THE indications, and tally of time;
Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs;
Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts;
What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the pleasant company
Revolt In The Ranks
I have just spent one-hour-and-a-half
when am I going to get at the poems?
Io! Io! Tamuz!
The Dryad staiids in my court-yard
With plaintive, querulous crying.
(Tamuz. Io! Tamuz!)
Poems are holy things. Eternal Truth,
Borrowing the robes of song and lovely grown,
In them her glory unto man proclaims
And fills his longing soul. They softly speak
Freeman E. Miller
THIS IS IT
This Is It : Spoken Word Poem
Am no longer that kid,that bro,
No longer that pro,whom you expect to blow,No longer that man in the mirror,
I rife with symbolism,
The Cover of the Book
The cover of the book
is astral violet,
& within it
Poets—ended—Silver—perished—with her Tongue—
But Outer Space
But outer Space,
At least this far,
For all the fuss
Of the populace