Poem Poems
The Nightingale
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
A Conversation Poem, April, 1798
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently.
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still.
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
......
The Country Of Marriage
by Wendell Berry
I.
I dream of you walking at night along the streams
of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs
of birds opening around you as you walk.
You are holding in your body the dark seed of my sleep.
II.
This comes after silence. Was it something I said
......
Beware: Do Not Read This Poem
by Ishmael Reed
tonite, thriller was
about an old woman, so vain she
surrounded herself with
many mirrors
it got so bad that finally she
locked herself indoors & her
whole life became the
mirrors
one day the villagers broke
into her house, but she was too
......
Here
by Betsy Sholl
Wharves with their warehouses sagging
on wooden slats, windows steamed up
and beaded with rain—it's a wonder
weather doesn't wash them away. In time,
they seem to say, you'll be gone too,
your belongings left on a quay for the taking . . .
What's there to do, but stroll over cobbled streets,
listing letters you owe, books, food, anything solid—
......
An Almost Made Up Poem
by Charles Bukowski
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it' all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I' not jealous
......
once again
by Rikske Kessner
there was a time
when thoughts
were pencilled in
by flashlight or nightlight
well after the house
has shut down for the night
there was a time
when poems
were extensions
......
sword or pen?
by Rikske Kessner
When a poet takes up arms
their quill is orphaned quick
though the pen is mightier
the sword some bards will pick
however just the cause may be
forsake their weapon true
to lose what makes them free
sad the day when all is through
a miscreant yearns
by Rikske Kessner
A soul’s cry, released in words—
chosen, picked, woven in quiet longing.
And there, in articulation, beauty finds its form...
The soul, unbound, bridges a gap, touching both heart and mind.
the endless thread
by Rikske Kessner
There is always a poem waiting—
an understudy, breathless in the wings,
shadowed by today’s centre stage,
its lines trembling, yearning to be heard.
This poem, however, holds its ground.
It stands, distinct as a fingerprint,
etched with the soul of its unwritten forbears—
the lived and the whispered, but never fully spoken.
......
not to the swift
by Rikske Kessner
They cling to the weight of their quill,
the tactile sensation, grounding them,
yet, the digital tide pulls at their resolve,
urging them to adapt or be left behind.
Nostalgia blooms in the scent of old books,
memories of applause, now distant echoes,
the poet's dilemma, a struggle within,
to honour tradition or embrace the new.
......
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Delmore Schwartz (12 poems about Poem)
8 December 1913 - 11 July 1966 / Brooklyn / New York / United States -
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