52 Poems
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somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself
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Now, when you've read this poem, before you say or think "Why did he post this miserable depressing little poem?!?" read my comments following it. * HOME IS SO SAD Home is so sad. It stays as it was left, Shaped to the comfort of the last to go As if to win them back.
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The collection of Phyllis McGinley's work called Times Three is organized by decade. This poem is from the "The Forties." * BALLAD OF FINE DAYS "Temperatures have soared to almost summer levels…making conditions ideal for bombing offensives." –Excerpt from B.B.C. news broadcast All in the summery weather, To east and south and north, The bombers fly together
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AS ONE LISTENS TO THE RAIN Listen to me as one listens to the rain, not attentive, not distracted, light footsteps, thin drizzle, water that is air, air that is time, the day is still leaving, the night has yet to arrive, figurations of mist at the turn of the corner, figurations of time at
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My first introduction to the poem I am writing about was in a novel I was reading about 30 years ago. An artist was talking to a young woman about poems that are pictures. The first poem was The Lady of Shalott, and then he quoted a more recent poem. He could only remember the
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TO CHARLES WILLIAMS Your death blows a strange bugle call, friend, and all is hard To see plainly or record truly. The new light imposes change, Re-adjusts all a life-landscape as it thrusts down its probe from the sky, To create shadows, to reveal waters, to erect hills and deepen glens. The slant alters. I
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The time may not be very far away when this poem will need a footnote explaining that the speaker is reading a "newspaper," and how they worked. The New York World-Telegram was a daily that ran from 1867 until 1966, and is probably the paper referred to here. The poem was written in 1939. It is
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This is not one of my favorite poems. So why am I writing about it? Because it contains one bit, one clause of a sentence, that I think of at least once a week, possibly more often than that. The "land agitation" in the title was a series of efforts at land reform in Ireland
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THERE NEVER WAS TIME I wish, he said, the years would linger And fly less fast to make me old; My face is a mask that time’s swift finger Models, moulding wrinkle and fold In sagging flesh youth fashioned true To the ageless image engraved on brass, Of a young face Rome or Athens knew.
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I came across this poem because the high school literature discussion that my wife and I run was reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame (otherwise known as Notre-Dame du Paris). I wanted to find some Hugo poem and this one caught my fancy. It is very romantic, with a wistful nostalgia for the imagined innocence
Light On Dark Water 