Poem
By D. H. Lawrence
The Last Lesson
When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash…
When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash…
Category
Boredom
Showing 1-20 of 493
- PoemBy Yetta Rose SteinThe onion man at the farmer’s market
rants to me about preventative medicine.
I’m his captive audience… - ArticleBy Meghan O’Rourke
It is the voice of both our lives and our unled lives.
- PoemBy Lorna Dee CervantesWe were so poor.
The air was a quiver
of thoughts we drew from
to poise, unsaid
in the ineffable
world we lived in.
Sun, scarcely a penny
in that dreary setting,
every night gave up
to a smog-strewn avalanche
of searchlights, crossing
the heavens, a bicker
to buy a new used... - PoemBy Ya ShiTranslated By Nick AdmussenThe cardiac bang bang of literary fame and the bruising after,
you bang bang bang, I bruise for no reason at all.
A good guy, perched on the excavator, extends its metal arms
and the moment of exposure, of shame
condensed into a twinkling,... - PoemBy Ray DiPalmaOnce a flâneur— though no longer nimble or lively
but still eager—always a flâneur—
On the rue de la Femme-sans-Tête
a large room illuminated only at one end—
Serenity impeding density amends recollection—
Once knew–in preference to yet to know, have yet to say—
Extricate and... - PoemBy Caroline BirdThe 18th century bawd who sells her daughter’s virginity
to an Earl. The tired CIA operative who says, “just do it,”
then half a village dies. The plantation owner’s wife.
The lonely CEO of the pharmaceutical company
who screams like a banshee when an... - PoemBy Claire SchwartzYou learn to recognize beauty by its frame.
In the gilded hall, in the gilded frame, her milky neck
extended as she peers over the drawn bath. A target,
a study, a lesson: she requires you
to be beautiful. You should save her, no... - PoemBy Kathleen OssipTo have arrived here, weighed down with fistfuls
of calendar entries, unsuitably
boggle-eyed as if new—
so these are mountains,
there is horror, which is the subway line
where I may lay down my creed
and when will my breath stop
acidulating like this?
Exceed, said 27. In... - PoemBy Franny ChoiBefore the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse of boats:
boats of prisoners, boats cracking under sky-iron, boats making corpses
bloom like algae on the shore. Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse
of the bombed mosque. There was the apocalypse of the taxi... - PoemBy Sandra SimondsYou pick me up late
a viscous outflow
from the volcanic ledge
of my thinking.
Me in my duplex-hunger,
in my firestorm-astonished
dress, the pattern of crisp asphalt,
the pattern, simple condensed
nuclei, against my dry
lightning ache. You pick me up late
and we drive through
polyhedronated structures
of sound and... - PoemBy Christine Kanownikevery night
an ancient priest
gives me advice
and in the morning
I’m all alone
with nothing
a universe
I don’t want
to bother you
or to upend
the universe
but your realtors
are getting
a divorce
the dark
is the dark
the wind
the sound
of the ocean
all relative
to the sensitivity
of a tiny
chain of bones
leading up
to or... - PoemBy Richie Hofmannthe city not yet shielded in ice the harbor not yet
frozen enough to walk across trees without leaves
prismatic the thing no one
thought would happen happened in a vast hall
I... - PoemBy Rae ArmantroutOk, we’ve rendered
the rendition
how often?
What were we trying
to get rid of?
We exposed the homeless
character of desire
to the weather.
Shall we talk
about the weather
worsening four times
faster than expected,
eight times,
until the joy
of pattern recognition
kicks in?
Until the crest
... - PoemBy Carolyn GuinzioNeighbor, your mower
cast dust over the edge
where the field meets
the field, toy-sized ring-
necked snakes halved
and flattened by blades
among blades, and now
our things are mingled.
What do you covet
that is mine? Chigger-
riddled passion
blooms, a glint
of beetles loitering
under their anther eaves,
a car idling... - PoemBy Bruce BeasleyHave psalter and breviary. Have hymnbook. Have laid
fingers on rosary strings, plucked
like lyres their clatterwood. Coughed incense. Adored
precisely as instructed. Stood Passiontide vigil, then sexted
at noon. Cast bone die to prophesy
dyings, told
beads their more sorrowful mysteries. Rehallowed
insomnia to Compline then... - PoemBy Wendy XuSuch were they, a dumb stuffed thing
to say, if truth is we all grow old un-
observed, limbs flail only halfway up
a flight, where does dark begin settling
my little bones. I dream and do love
to have them, blue fish
in a lake,...