There are lots of poems I like, but here are just a few of them to whet your appetite.
by Patrick Kavanagh
We have tested and tasted too much, lover-
Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder.
But here in the Advent-darkened room
Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea
Of penance will charm back the luxury
Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom
The knowledge we stole but could not use.
And the newness that was in every stale thing
When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking
Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill
Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking
Of an old fool will awake for us and bring
You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins
And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.
O after Christmas we'll have no need to go searching
For the difference that sets an old phrase burning-
We'll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning
Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching.
And we'll hear it among decent men too
Who barrow dung in gardens under trees,
Wherever life pours ordinary plenty.
Won't we be rich, my love and I, and
God we shall not ask for reason's payment,
The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges
Nor analyse God's breath in common statement.
We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages
Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour-
And Christ comes with a January flower.
by Ernest Dowson
Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet,
On all the passages of sense,
The atoning oil is spread with sweet
Renewal of lost innocence.
The feet, that lately ran so fast
To meet desire, are soothly sealed;
The eyes, that were so often cast
On vanity, are touched and healed.
From troublous sights and sounds set free;
In such a twilight hair of breath,
Shall one retrace his life, or see,
Through shadows, the true face of death?
Vials of mercy! Sacring oils!
I know now where nor when I come,
Nor through what wanderings and toils,
To crave of you Viaticum.
Yet, when the walls of flesh grow weak,
In such an hour, it may well be,
Through mist and darkness, light will break,
And each anointed sense will see.
by George William Russell
We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire;
For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return
If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire,
As smoke we vanish though the fire may burn.
Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days:
Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath,
In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways,
By unnumbered ways of dream to death.
Sun of the Sleepless!
by Lord Byron
Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam grows tremulously far,
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel
How like art thou to joy remember'd well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with it's powerless rays
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold
Distinct, but distant - clear - but, oh how cold!
The Age of a Dream
by Lionel Johnson
Imageries of dreams reveal a gracious age:
Black armour, falling lace, and altar lights at morn.
The courtesy of saints, their gentleness and scorn,
Lights on an earth more fair than shone from Plato's page:
The courtesy of knights, fair calm and sacred rage:
The courtesy of love, sorrow for love's sake borne.
Vanished, those high conceits! Desolate and forlorn,
We hunger against hope for that lost heritage.
Gone now, the carven work! Ruined, the golden shrine!
No more the glorious organs pour their voice divine;
No more rich frankincense drifts through the Holy Place:
Now from the broken tower, what solemn bell still tolls,
Mourning what piteous death? Answer, O saddened souls!
Who mourn the death of beauty and the death of grace.
All for Love
by Lord Byron
O talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory:
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary--
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
O Fame! -- if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
by Emily Bronte
Cold in the earth and the deep snow piled above thee!
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my Only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-wearing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains on Angora's shore;
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
That noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring--
Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee
While the World's tide is bearing me along:
Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong.
No other Sun has lightened up my heaven;
No other Star has ever shone for me:
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given--
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perished
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine!
And even yet, I dare not let it languish
Dare not indulge in Memory's rapturous pain:
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
by Ernest Dowson
The fire is out, and spent the warmth thereof,
(This is the end of every song man sings!)
The golden wine is drunk, the dregs remain,
Bitter as wormwood and salt as pain;
And health and hope have gone the way of love
Into the drear oblivion of lost things.
Ghosts go along with us until the end;
This was a mistress, this, perhaps, a friend.
With pale, indifferent eyes, we sit and wait
For the dropt curtain and the closing gate:
This is the end of all the songs man sings.
Ballad of the Morning After
by Carol Rumens
Take back the festive midnight
Take back the sad-eyed dawn
Wind up that old work ethic
Oh let me be unborn.
After a night of travelling
How can it come to pass
That there's the same tongue in my mouth
The same face in my glass
Same light on the curtain
Same thirst in the cup
Same ridiculous notion
Of never getting up?
Cars stream above the city
The subway throbs below
Whirling a million faces
Like shapeless scraps of snow
And all these melting faces
Flying below and above
Think they are loved especially
Think they especially love.
This is a free country
The jails are for the bad
The only British dissidents
Are either poor or mad.
I put my classless jeans on
Open my lockless door
I breathe the air of freedom
And know I'm mad and poor.
Love is the creed I grew by
Love is the liberal's drug
Not Agape but Eros
With his Utopian hug.
And in the close, supportive
Environment of the bed,
He is liberty, equality,
Fraternity and bread.
That is the supposition
But I say love's a joke
Perhaps I'll believe in something
Like God or Politics
I'd build those temples wider
But there are no more bricks.
Some women believe in Sisterhood
They've rowed the Master's ship
Across the lustful silver sea
On his last ego-trip.
And some believe in Housework
And a few believe in Men.
There's only one man that I want
And I want him again and again.
He sat down at my table.
He finished all the wine.
'You're nothing, dear, to me,' he said,
But his body covered mine.
And stoked the fiery sickness
That's done me to a turn
-The fool that chose to marry
And also chose to burn.
Burning, burning, burning
I came to self-abuse,
Hoping I'd go blind, but no,
It wasn't any use.
I see a mother and her child
Both turn with starving face.
And that's the story of our lives,
The whole damned human race.
My conscience is a hangover,
My sex-life, chemistry;
My values are statistics,
My opinions, PMT.
Beside my rented window
I listen to the rain.
Yes, love's a ball of iron,
And time its short, sharp chain.
The middle-aged say life's too short,
The old and young say 'wrong',
I'll tell you, if you don't like life,
It's every day too long.
I Say I Say I Say
by Simon Armitage
“Anyone here had a go at themselves
for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists
with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark
at the back, listen hard. Those at the front
in the know, those of us who have, hands up,
let's show that inch of lacerated skin
between the forearm and the fist. Let's tell it
like it is: strong drink, a crimson tidemark
round the tub, a yard of lint, white towels
washed a dozen times, still pink. Tough luck.
A passion then for watches, bangles, cuffs.
A likely story: you were lashed by brambles
picking berries from the woods. Come clean, come good,
repeat with me the punch line 'Just like blood'
when those at the back rush forward to say
how a little love goes a long long long way.”
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