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greatpoetryPoems about Spring coming coming coming !!!
Thank you:)
And here's the poem:
I almost went to bed
without remembering
the four white violets
I put in the button-hole
of your green sweater
and how i kissed you then
and you kissed me
shy as though I'd
never been your lover
("I almost went to bed ...") from "The Spice-Box of Earth"
by Leonard Cohen
Thank you:)
And here's the poem:
I almost went to bed
without remembering
the four white violets
I put in the button-hole
of your green sweater
and how i kissed you then
and you kissed me
shy as though I'd
never been your lover
("I almost went to bed ...") from "The Spice-Box of Earth"
by Leonard Cohen
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no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 03:55 pm (UTC)The force that through the green fuse drives the flower by Dylan Thomas
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 06:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-27 05:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 03:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 04:00 pm (UTC)Alice George
but then she comes climbing out the manhole wreathed in steam mouth a red message and she’s sobbing like a siren for mama. When I pin spring close her breasts press like yeast rolls and somehow daffodils still wet from their low prison insist between us and she must be bleeding from somewhere because I taste iron and honey. When she starts to talk my ears learn such a wild high humming I forget almost everything got wrecked when she was away.no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 06:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 04:01 pm (UTC)May Sarton
The days are cold and brown,
Brown fields, no sign of green,
Brown twigs, not even swelling,
And dirty snow in the woods.
But as the dark flows in
The tree frogs begin
Their shrill sweet singing,
And we lie on our beds
Through the ecstatic night,
Wide awake, cracked open.
There will be no going back.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 04:02 pm (UTC)Reginald Shepherd
When I look down, I see the season’s blinding flowers,
the usual mesmerizing and repellent artifacts:
the frat boy who turns too sharply from my stare,
a cardinal capturing vision in a lilac bush
on my walk home. I’m left to long
even for simple dangers. From the waist up
it’s still winter, I left world behind
a long time ago; waist down it’s catching
up, a woodpecker out my window is mining grubs
from some nameless tree squirrels scramble over.
When I turn back it’s gone, I hadn’t realized
this had gone so far. (Everywhere I look
it’s suddenly spring. No one asked
if I would like to open drastically. Look up.
It’s gone.) Everywhere fruits dangle
I can’t taste, their branches insurmountable,
my tongue burnt by frost. White boys, white flowers,
and foul-mouthed jays, days made of sky-blue boredoms
and everything is seen much too clearly:
the utterance itself is adoration, kissing
stolid air. I hate every lovely thing about them.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 04:06 pm (UTC)W.S. Merwin
They know so much more now about
the heart we are told but the world
still seems to come one at a time
one day one year one season and here
it is spring once more with its birds
nesting in the holes in the walls
its morning finding the first time
its light pretending not to move
always beginning as it goes
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 04:07 pm (UTC)Al Young
for Nana
What’s most fantastical almost always goes
unrecorded and unsorted. Take spring.
Take today. Take dancing dreamlike; coffee
your night, creameries your dream factories.
Take walking as a dream, the dearest, sincerest
means of conveyance: a dance. Take leave
of the notion that this nation’s or any other’s earth
can still be the same earth our ancestors walked.
Chemistry strains to correct our hemispheres.
The right and left sidelines our brain forms
in the rain this new world braves—acid jazz.
The timeless taste her tongue leaves in your mouth,
stirred with unmeasured sugars, greens the day
the way sweet sunlight oxygenates, ignites
all nights, all daytimes, and you—this jumps.
Sheer voltage leaps, but nothing keeps or stays.
Sequence your afternoon as dance. Drink spring.
Holding her hard against you, picture the screenplay.
Take time to remember how to get her spells together.
Up jumps the goddess gratified; up jumped spring.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 04:09 pm (UTC)Margaret Atwood
Winter. Time to eat fat
and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat,
a black fur sausage with yellow
Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries
to get onto my head. It’s his
way of telling whether or not I’m dead.
If I’m not, he wants to be scratched; if I am
He’ll think of something. He settles
on my chest, breathing his breath
of burped-up meat and musty sofas,
purring like a washboard. Some other tomcat,
not yet a capon, has been spraying our front door,
declaring war. It’s all about sex and territory,
which are what will finish us off
in the long run. Some cat owners around here
should snip a few testicles. If we wise
hominids were sensible, we’d do that too,
or eat our young, like sharks.
But it’s love that does us in. Over and over
again, He shoots, he scores! and famine
crouches in the bedsheets, ambushing the pulsing
eiderdown, and the windchill factor hits
thirty below, and pollution pours
out of our chimneys to keep us warm.
February, month of despair,
with a skewered heart in the centre.
I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries
with a splash of vinegar.
Cat, enough of your greedy whining
and your small pink bumhole.
Off my face! You’re the life principle,
more or less, so get going
on a little optimism around here.
Get rid of death. Celebrate increase. Make it be spring.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 04:48 pm (UTC)Now comes the long blue cold
Now comes the long blue cold
and what shall I say but that some
bird in the tree of my heart is singing.
That same heart that only yesterday
was a room shut tight, without dreams.
Isn’t it wonderful—the cold wind and
spring in the heart inexplicable.
Darling girl. Picklock.
- Mary Oliver
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 06:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 06:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 07:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-26 12:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-26 01:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 05:42 pm (UTC)and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)
when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)
when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)
-e.e. cummings
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 06:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 06:42 pm (UTC)April - Herbert Read
To the fresh wet fields
and the white
froth of flowers
Came the wild errant
swallows with a scream
Catullus 46
Iam ver egelidos refert tepores,
iam caeli furor aequinoctialis
iucundis Zephyri silescit aureis.
Linquantur Phrygii, Catulle, campi
nicaeaeque ager uber aestuosae:
ad claras asiae volemus urbes.
Iam mens praetrepidans avet vagari,
iam laeti studio pedes vigescunt.
O dulces comitum valete coetus,
longe quos simul a domo profectos
diversae varie viae reportant.
Now spring brings back the balmy warmth,
Now the rage of the equinoctal sky is stilled
By the pleasant breezes of the west wind.
Let the Phrygian plains be deserted, Catullus,
And the rich land of burning Nicaea!
Let us fly to the shining cities of Asia!
Now my mind, trembling in eagerness, longs to stray,
Now my happy feet grow keen and strong.
O sweet band of comrades, farewell,
You who started off together from a far-off home,
Whom different paths in diverse ways bring back again.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-25 07:06 pm (UTC)A Color of the Sky
Tony Hoagland
Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn't make the road an allegory.
I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I'd rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.
Otherwise it's spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.
Last summer's song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,
which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.
Last night I dreamed of X again.
She's like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I'm glad.
What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.
Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;
overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,
dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,
so Nature's wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It's been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more.
no subject
Date: 2011-02-26 11:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-02-26 01:33 am (UTC)Coming into the high room again after years
after oceans and shadows of hills and the sounds
after losses and feet on stairs
after looking and mistakes and forgetting
turning there thinking to find
no one except those I knew
finally I saw you
sitting in white
already waiting
you of whom I had heard
with my own ears since the beginning
for whom more than once
I have opened the door
believing you were not far