Random Poems of interest:

Stevie Smith - 1902-1971
Anne Bradstreet - America, 1600s
Christina Rossetti - England, 1800s
Emily Dickenson - America, 1800s
Anonymous - France, 1500s
Lady Ise - Japan, 800s
Amy Lowell - America (1874-1925)
Adrienne Rich - America (1929- )

*
Stevie Smith

Not Waving but Drowning

*
Anne Bradstreet

(America's first poet. 1612?-1672)

The Author to Her Book

Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true
Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view;
Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudg,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judg)
At they return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i'th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam
In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;
And take thy way where yet thou art not known,
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.

Christina Rossetti

(1830 - 1894) Born in London, the daughter of Gabriel Rosetti, an Italian poet and political refugee who was a professor at King's College. Her brothers, pre-Raphaelites like herself, were the editor of The Germ, William Michael Rossetti, and poet and painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti. All three contributed to the magazine. Christina was best known for Goblin Market, published in 1862, and Prince's Progress and Other Poems, in 1866.

In Progress

Ten years ago it seemed impossible
That she should ever grow so calm as this,
With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she had some fact to tell,
Silent with long-unbroken silences,
Centered in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
Patient at pastime, patient at her work,
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

Emily Dickenson

(1830-1886) Born and died in Amherst, Mass. She was known as The Myth, the woman who wore white and never left The Homestead (the family estate). She was reluctant to publish her poems, and discouraged from it by her literary editor, because her poems defied the standard forms of the times. Many of the poems that were published after her death were altered and "fixed" by those who considered her poetry to have "a startling disregard for poetic laws."

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so--
'Tis living -- hurts us more--
But Dying -- is a different way --
A Kind behind the Door --
The Southern Custom -- of the Bird --
That ere the Frosts are due --
Accepts a better Latitude --
We -- are the Birds -- that stay.
The Shiverers round Farmers' doors --
For whose reluctant Crumb --
We stipulate -- till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.

****

Much Madness is divinest Sense --
To a discerning Eye --
Much Sense -- the Starkest Madness --
'Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail --
Assent -- and you are sane --
Demur -- you're straightway dangerous --
And handled with a Chain --
****

There is a pain -- so utter --
It swallows substance up --
Then covers the Abyss with Trance --
So Memory can step
Around -- across -- upon it --
As one within a Swoon --
Goes safely -- where an open eye --
Would drop Him -- Bone by Bone.

****

My life closed twice before its close --
It yet remains to see
If Immortality
unveil
A third event to me
So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.
****

To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,
One clover, and a bee.
And revery.
The revery alone will do,
If bees are few.

Anonymous

(14th-15th century)

Song of the Ill-Married

In an orchard a little fountain flows,
Shadowless ripples over white stones,
There a king's daughter, her head bowed low,
Remembers her sweet love and her sorrows.
Alas, Count Guy, my friend!
Without you I'll never know joy again.
Count Guy, my love, how cruel is my fate!
The old man my father gave me for a mate
Keeps me in his house and locks every gate,
Nor can I leave it early or late;
Alas, Count Guy, my friend!
Without you I'll never know joy again.
The cruel husband hears her, and soon
Appears in the orchard, his belt removes,
And belts her until she is so badly bruised
She falls at his feet in a deathlike swoon.
Alas, Count Guy, my friend!
Without you I'll never know joy again.
The lady arose from her faint to pray
That God in pity her grief allay,
"Let me not be forgotten! Oh, may
I see my love before vespers today."
Alas, Count Guy, my friend!
Without you I'll never know joy again.
And Our Lord listened to her lament,
Her lover consoled the chatelaine.
Beneath a great tree whose branches bend,
Many tears for their love have fallen.
Alas, Count Guy, my friend!
Without you I'll never know joy again.

Lady Ise

(875?-938?) Lady Ise is considered a representative poet of the Kokinshu ("A Collection of Ancient and Modern Poems"), the first imperial anthology of verses in 10th century Japan. She served as a lady-in-waiting for Emperor Uda's consort Onshi, and was active as an important literary celebrity throughout her life at court. She is distinguished as one of the Thirty-six Poetic Geniuses of Japan.

Seeing the Returning Geese

Lightly forsaking
the Spring mist as it rises,
the wild geese are setting off.
Have they learned to live
in a flowerless country?

Seeing the Plum Blossoms by the River

If again in the Spring
I take the flowing river
for a bed of flowers,
I will only wet my sleeve*
in impervious waters.
*traditionally the wet sleeve signified weeping.

****

Even in my dreams
I must no longer meet you.
Each day more clearly
my mirror offers
a face I am ashamed to show.

****

Because we suspected
the pillow would say "I know,"
we slept without it.
Nevertheless my name
is being bandied like dust.

Amy Lowell

(1874-1925) Born in Brookline, Mass, of a distinguished New England family. She was the first to employ "polyphonic prose" in English, mixing formal verse and free forms. The focus of the Imagist movement shifted from Erza Pound to Amy Lowell, which caused Pound to quip that the Imagists had become the "Amygists." She also translated from the Japanese and Chinese, bringing the predominance of images to the English-speaking literary world.

Carrefour

O you,
Who came upon me once
Stretched under apple-trees just after bathing,
Why did you not strangle me before speaking
Rather than fill me with the wild white honey of your words
And then leave me to the mercy
Of the forest bees?

Adrienne Rich

(1929- ) Born in Baltimore, she received her B.A. from Radcliffe College. She has been awarded many fellowships and awards. She is also known for her ardent feminist statements and lifestyle.

(The Floating Poem, Unnumbered)

Whatever happens with us, your body
will haunt mine -- tender, delicate
your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond
of the fiddlehead fern in forests
just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come --
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there --
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth --
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I have been waiting years for you
in my rose-wet cave -- whatever happens, this is.

XX

That conversation we were always on the edge
of having, runs on in my head,
at night the Hudson trembles in New Jersey light
polluted water yet reflecting even
sometimes the moon
and I discern a woman
I loved, drowning in secrets, fear wound round her throat
and choking her like hair. And this is she
with whom I tried to speak, whose hurt, expressive head
turning aside from pain, is dragged down deeper
where it cannot hear me,
and soon I shall know I was talking to my own soul.

send handwritten notes to my answering machine.