Poem
By Sri Chinmoy
Within, without the cosmos wide am I;
In joyful sweep I loose forth and draw back all.
A birthless, deathless…
In joyful sweep I loose forth and draw back all.
A birthless, deathless…
Category
Quatrain
Showing 1-20 of 158
- PoemBy Joyce KilmerNow by what whim of wanton chance
Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
And feet that shod in light should… - PoemBy Marwa Helalsay i ‘well
particular in one no to
backed ive time first the isnt this
disaster a of out us - PoemBy Emily BrontëO transient voyager of heaven!
O silent sign of winter skies!
What adverse wind thy sail has driven
To dungeons where a prisoner lies?
Methinks the hands that shut the sun
So sternly from this morning's brow
Might still their rebel task have done
And checked a thing... - PoemBy William BlakeSweet Mary, the first time she ever was there,
Came into the Ball room among the Fair;
The young Men & Maidens around her throng,
And these are the words upon every tongue:
“An Angel is here from the heavenly Climes,
Or again does return... - 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... - PoemBy Natalie E. IllumA swimming pool hotter than bathwater.
Chlorine haze. My mother along the edge
encouraging me, with my Curious George, to swim.
Though I liked the Man with the Yellow Hat better.
Chlorine hazy and my mother at the edge.
Swim teacher says my legs are... - AudioAudio Poem of the Dayby Emily Dickinson (read by Robert Pinsky)
- Poem
From the magazine:
Might Have Been July, Might Have Been December
By Robert WrigleyMore oblique the eagle’s angle
than the osprey’s precipitous fall,
but rose up both and under them dangled
a trout, the point of it all.
Festooned, a limb on each one’s
favored tree either side of the river,
with chains of bone and lace of skin
the... - PoemBy Langston HughesHold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
- PoemBy Ursula K. Le GuinAUTUMN
gold of amber
red of ember
brown of umber
all September
MCCOY CREEK
Over the bright shallows
now no flights of swallows.
Leaves of the sheltering willow
dangle thin and yellow.
OCTOBER
At four in the morning the west wind
moved in the leaves of... - Poem
From the magazine:
Back Up Quick They’re Hippies
By Lani O'HanlonThat was the year we drove
into the commune in Cornwall.
“Jesus Jim,” mam said,
“back up quick they’re hippies.”
Through the car window,
tents, row after row, flaps open,
long-haired men and women
curled around each other like babies
and the babies themselves
wandered naked across the grass.
I... - Poem
From the magazine:
Charlottesville Curriculum
By Sarah GambitoI am afraid of your transcendental death.
When people say think of a man. I think of a brown man.
Sometimes the earth grows khella because she can feel our suffering.
Yooooooing beneath Costco tikis.
When people say think of a man. I think... - Poem
From the magazine:
Sedition — a letter to the writer from Meri Mangakāhia
By Anahera GildeaHere’s what I had in mind, kōtiro, this
clipping at words like overgrown maikuku —
return the blankets of domestic life; don’t fold
washing or wear shoes, polish these rerenga kē.
Eh. But this world.
I s’pose neither of us planned to be in politics,
never did... - Poem
From the magazine:
Letter from the Estuary
By Erik KennedyTwo feet of snow at my parents’ place, in another season.
Here, the cicadas sing like Christian women’s choirs
in a disused cotton mill. Belief is a kind of weather.
I haven’t seen proper snow for three years.
The new urban forest for native... - Poem
From the magazine:
Agnus Dei
By Steven ToussaintMust be a stumbler, bleeder,
as some floccus remains here, carded
into ragged sleeves by barbed wire.
I’d believe in a God who can learn
to work new spindles, new pupils
uncomprehending the reasons
light rosins in winter, and still
spill clumsily, bleeding.
Now drizzle caught
in oily pockets...