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A Poet on a Magical Journey Home
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Tina Blue's Beginner's Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading.
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Save Point 0.8.1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug. 13-Sept. 5, 2004, at Disjecta.
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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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On a Subway Express, by Chester Firkins
I, who have lost the stars, the sod,
For chilling pave and cheerless light,
Have made my meeting-place with God
A new and nether Night --
Have found a fane where thunder fills
Away, by Kenneth Sorenson
She pass by him, thinking
He feels her, yes
ahh, what a sculpture!
inhale her
She feel his eyes
Spring Song, by William Griffith
Softly at dawn a whisper stole
Down from the Green House on the Hill,
Enchanting many a ghostly bole
And wood-song with the ancient thrill.
Gossiping on the country-side,
The Holy Tide, by Frederick Tennyson
THE days are sad, it is the Holy tide:
The Winter morn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song:
And through the sunset of this purple cup
If you should tire of loving me, by Margaret Widdemer
If you should tire of loving me
Some one of our far days,
Oh, never start to hide your heart
Or cover thought with praise.
For every word you would not say
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
PART I
An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding feast,
and detaineth one.
IT is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
The Outlaw of Loch Lene, from the Irish, by Jeremiah Joseph Callanan
O MANY a day have I made good ale in the glen,
That came not of stream or malt, like the brewing of men:
My bed was the ground; my roof, the green-wood above;
And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my Love.
Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,
Willie and Helen, by Hew Ainslie
'WHAREFORE sou'd ye talk o' love,
Unless it be to pain us?
Wharefore sou'd ye talk o' love
Whan ye say the sea maun twain us?'
'It 's no because my love is light,
The Relapse, by Thomas Stanley
O TURN away those cruel eyes,
The stars of my undoing!
Or death, in such a bright disguise,
May tempt a second wooing.
Punish their blind and impious pride,
White Paper, by Sydney Jephcott
Smooth white paper 'neath the pen;
Richest field that iron ploughs,
Germinating thoughts of men,
Though no heaven its rain allows;
Till they ripen, thousand fold,
To Mistress Margery Wentworth, by John Skelton
WITH margerain gentle,
The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
Is of your maidenhead.
Plainly I cannot glose;
My Cimmerian Closet, by William August Kobs
There's a place I go to
When the world isn't right,
When the black hounds of day
Start to put up a fight.
A place that's well hidden
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The authors of poetry and other material appearing on DayPoems retain full rights to their work. Any requests for publication in other venues must be negotiated separately with the authors. The editor of DayPoems will gladly attempt to assist in putting interested parties in contact with the authors.
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