Category: Poetry

"Story of My Death" by Leopoldo Lugones:

I dreamed of death and it was quite simple:
a silk thread enwrapped me,
and each kiss of yours
with a turn unraveled me.
And each of your kisses
was a day;
and the time between two kisses,
a night. Death is quite simple.
And little by little the fatal thread
unwrapped itself. I no longer controlled it
but for a single bit between my fingers . . .
Then, suddenly, you became cold,
and no longer kissed me . . .
I let the thread go, and my life vanished.

(Translated, from the Spanish, by Ilan Stavans. Reprinted from The FSG Book of Twentieth-Century Latin American Poetry. Introduction and selection © 2011 by Ilan Stavans. Photo by Keller and Wittwer)

"White Spine" by Henri Cole:

Liar, I thought, kneeling with the others,

how can He love me and hate what I am?

The dome of St. Peter’s shone yellowish

gold, like butter and eggs. My God, I prayed

anyhow, as if made in the image

and likeness of Him. Nearby, a handsome

priest looked at me like a stone; I looked back,

not desiring to go it alone.

The college of cardinals wore punitive red.

The white spine waved to me from his white throne.

Being in a place not my own, much less

myself, I climbed out, a beast in a crib.

Somewhere a terrorist rolled a cigarette.

Reason, not faith, would change him.

("White Spine" from Pierce the Skin: Selected Poems: 1982-2007 © 2010 by Henri Cole. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Photo by Flickr user nkpl)

"Eros" by Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882):

The sense of the world is short,–
Long and various the report,–
    To love and be beloved;
Men and gods have not outlearned it;
And, how oft soe’er they’ve turned it,
    ‘Tis not to be improved.

(Photo of the Head of Eros, 2nd century AD. Museum of Ephesus, Turkey, by Ian W Scott)

"The Garden of Love" by William Blake (1757-1827):

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut
And Thou shalt not writ over the door:
So I turn’d to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore,

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.

(Photo by Wesley Norman)

“The Quiet Life” by Lucius Annaeus Seneca (4 BC-AD 65):

Climb at Court for me that will
Tottering favour’s pinnacle;
All I seek is to lie still.
Settled in some secret nest
In calm leisure let me rest,
And far off the public stage
Pass away my silent age.
Thus when without noise, unknown,
I have liv’d out all my span,
I shall die, without a groan,
An old honest country man.
Who expos’d to others’ eyes,
Into his own heart ne’er pries,
Death to him’s a strange surprise.

(Photo by Flickr user AlicePopkorn)

"Long Island Sound" by Emma Lazarus (1849-1887):

I see it as it looked one afternoon
In August,–by a fresh soft breeze o’erblown.
The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,
A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.
The shining waters with pale currents strewn,
The quiet fishing-smacks, the Eastern cove,
The semi-circle of its dark, green grove.
The luminous grasses, and the merry sun
In the grave sky; the sparkle far and wide,
Laughter of unseen children, cheerful chirp
Of crickets, and low lisp of rippling tide,
Light summer clouds fantastical as sleep
Changing unnoted while I gazed thereon.
All these fair sounds and sights I make my own.

(Photo by Flickr user 826 PARANORMAL)

“Leaves” by Gerald Stern:

He was cleaning leaves for one at a time
was what he needed, and a minute before the two
brown poodles walked by he looked at the stripped-down trees
from one more point of view and thought they were
part of a system in which the dappled was foreign
for he had arrived at his own conclusion and that was
for him a relief even if he was separated,
even if his hands were frozen,
even if the wind knocked him down,
even his cat went into her helpless mode
inside the green and sheltering Japanese yew tree.

(From In Beauty Bright by Gerald Stern © 2012 Gerald Stern. Used by permission of W.W.Norton & Company. Photo by Flickr user mksfly)

"The Offering" by James Laughlin:

He was reaching out to her
offering the best of his

old beaten-up furniture
from the rooms where so

many disappointments had
been enacted so many ri-

diculous little comedies
of frustration and folly

yes it would all be dif-
ferent now (he promised

her that) because they
would be her things too.

(From The Bird of Endless Time (Copper Canyon Press, 1989). Reprinted with permission of the Estate of James Laughlin. Photo by Flickr user Timm Suess)

"My Father" by Nina Cassian:

My father now fills the world
with his being. I presume
he grew immensely in approaching
the supreme hour, DOOM . . .

His baldness is the moon itself
as he steps from shore to shore.
He was never so saintly
and he’s more earthly than ever before.

My father abandons my flesh.
I keep his eyeglasses instead,
to wear them when the dream comes by,
not to be blinded or fall out of bed.

(From Continuum: Poems by Nina Cassian © 2008, Nina Cassian. Used by permission of W.W.Norton & Company. Photo by Flickr user photosteve101. Visit his site here.)

“The Crocodile” by Lewis Carroll (1832-1898):

How doth the little crocodile  
   Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile  
  On every shining scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,  
   How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in   
   With gently smiling jaws!

(Photo by Flickr user Tambako the Jaguar)