Poem
By Paisley Rekdal
You’d never call the branches
arms, though in certain
lights don’t pine and man
look like hands
conjoined…
arms, though in certain
lights don’t pine and man
look like hands
conjoined…
Category
Heartache & Loss
Showing 1-20 of 493 results
- PoemBy Magda PortalTranslated By Kathleen WeaverToday everything
in this smoky love
seems false to me
from the two glazed pools of your eyes
where… - PoemBy Countee CullenIf love be staunch, call mountains brittle
Love is a thing will live
So long, my dear,––oh, just the little
While water stays in a sieve.
Yea, love is deathless as the day
Whose death the stars reveal;
And love is loyal all the way,
If treachery... - PoemBy T.S. Leonardand it ends, of course, in fabulous heartbreak, like anything—
it’s not an if, but when—so the trick … - PoemBy Richard SikenThere are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.
I touch myself, I dream.
Wearing your clothes… - PoemBy SapphoTranslated By Anne CarsonDeathless Aphrodite of the spangled mind,
child of Zeus, who twists lures, I beg you
do not break with… - PoemBy Christian J. CollierWe were ravaged by our loss, our child.
In the shower, slightly past midnight,
after I’d covered the … - PoemBy Heather ChristleI did not know it was possible (your constancy
being among your chief characteristics)
and I, bereft… - PoemBy Ada LimónI pass the feeder and yell, Grackle party! And then an hour later I yell, Mourning dove afterparty! (I call the feeder the party and the seed on the ground the afterparty.) I am getting so good at watching that...
- PoemBy Cheryl ClarkeI could use a good ole R&B lyric
right about now to face this hard absence.
Only its terse verse can approximate
the testament.
Or the big arms of “these arms”
circling my wide waist
to close the space
after all the years
... - PoemBy K. IverAt my beloved’s burial,
I can’t see his body.
Only carnations. I hear
your name and my beloved’s
in the … - ArticleBy Sarah ArvioMetaphor in Lorca is a form of gorgeous shorthand.
- PoemBy Kush ThompsonYou will tell your babies, someday,
of the little house behind the wall clock.
They will love most the part about the window
sloped inside a six’s hollow, silhouettes
of Sundays, shadows having dinner.
How they walk along the edges of hands
at night, skipping pebbles... - PoemBy Countee CullenIf for a day joy masters me,
Think not my wounds are healed;
Far deeper than the scars you see,
I keep the roots concealed.
They shall bear blossoms with the fall;
I have their word for this,
Who tend my roots with rains of gall,
And... - PoemBy H.D.I know not what to do—
My mind is reft.
Is song's gift best?
Is love's gift loveliest?
I know not what to do,
Now sleep has pressed
Weight on your eyelids.
Shall I break your rest,
Devouring, eager?
Is love's gift best?—
Nay, song's the loveliest.
Yet, were you lost,
What... - PoemBy John TickhillTranslated By Eric WeiskottIn springtime, chief of all seasons,
in May when new joys rise and flourish,
the sun is lord and messenger at once and sends down to us
to rouse our bodies and be merry:
humankind to... - PoemBy John TickhillIn a sesone of somere þat souerayne ys of alle,
Þat was þe myry monþ of May when many myrthys spryng,
Þe sonne ys somnore and syre and sendyth tyl vs doun,
And byddyth vs bisy for to be oure bodys for to glade;
Man for to myrth hym in al maner wys,
Bestys for to buske ham on bentys tyl abyde, - PoemBy Salima RiveraDied: Our vows to love, honor, and cherish.
Time: Left suddenly on a bright summer day
Cause of Death: misgivings, duplicity
and lack of faith.
The dearly departed left behind
a discarded lover
who has inherited an estate of left over memories
and a grievous soul.
The deceased... - PoemBy Federico García Lorca1.
La cogida y la muerte
A las cinco de la tarde.
Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.
Un niño trajo la blanca sábana
a las cinco de la tarde.
Una espuerta de cal ya prevenida
a las cinco de la tarde.
Lo demás era muerte... - PoemBy Federico García LorcaTranslated By Sarah Arvio1
The Goring and the Death
At five in the afternoon
At the stroke of five
The boy brought the white sheet
at five o’clock
A basket of lime all ready
at five o’clock
The rest was death and only death
at five o’clock
Wind carried off the cotton balls
at...