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
School & Learning
Showing 1-20 of 360
- PoemBy Zach CzaiaI'm sorry it wasn't till the end of the year
that I asked you to write about yourselves. You filled pages… - PoemBy William Butler YeatsI
I walk through the long schoolroom questioning;
A kind old nun in a white hood replies;
The children learn to cipher and to sing,
To study reading-books and history,
To cut and sew, be neat in everything
In the best modern way—the children's eyes
In momentary... - PoemBy Lev RubinsteinTranslated By Tatiana Tulchinsky & Philip Metres1
Well, what on earth is there to say?
2
He knows something, but won’t tell.
3
Who knows, maybe you’re … - PoemBy Cornelius EadyI’m here
to tell you
an old story.
This
Appears to be
my work.
I live
in the world,
Walk
the streets… - PoemBy Kevin PruferThe brutality of those two men
who broke into her apartment
and murdered her boyfriend,
... - PoemBy Tomás Q. MorínIn this life, there are stars
and there are stunt doubles.
Before I became one of those fathers
obsessed with memorizing his lines,
making peace with the Big Director
in the sky who doesn’t like ad libs,
before all that, I was the star
of my own... - PoemBy Solmaz SharifEverywhere we went, I went
in pigtails
no one could see—
ribbon curled
by a scissor’s sharp edge,
the bumping our cars
undertook when hitting
those strips
along the interstate
meant to shake us
awake. Everywhere we went
horses bucking
their riders off,
holstered pistols
or two Frenchies
dancing in black and white
in a torn-apart
living... - PoemBy Jim DanielsThe strongest boy in our high school
on the edge of Detroit did not play
sports—he would’ve had to cut
his long blond Samson hair
and put away his switchblade
and stop smoking dope.
The gone-to-seed coaches who taught
gym class hated him for the beauty
they could... - PoemBy George Moses HortonWhat summons do I hear?
The morning peal, departure’s knell;
My eyes let fall a friendly tear,
And bid this place farewell.
Attending servants come,
The carriage wheels like thunders roar,
To bear the pensive seniors home,
Here to be seen no more.
Pass one more transient night,
The... - PoemBy Lorine NiedeckerNothing worth noting
except an Andromeda
with quadrangular shoots—
the boots
of the people
wet inside: they must swim
to church thru the floods
or be taxed—the blossoms
from the bosoms
of the leaves
*
Fog-thick morning—
I see only
where I now walk. I carry
my clarity
with me.
*
Hear
where her snow-grave is
the You
ah you
of... - PoemBy Liv Mammone1. Let's just save time—Yes I have seen Rain Man, The Miracle Worker, My Left Foot, or, more recently, The Theory of Everything. I wanna fuck Daniel Day Lewis too but can we not?
2. If all the the Special Needs... - PoemBy Krystyna DąbrowskaTranslated By Karen KovacikProve that a person
is / is not
the smithy of his fate.
Topic of an assigned essay
I wrote for my brother.
He did math homework for me,
the smithy of my fate
in the hard sciences.
And I forged for him
a C in Polish class.
A difficult... - PoemBy Krystyna DąbrowskaUdowodnij, że człowiek
jest / nie jest
kowalem własnego losu.
Temat jednej ze szkolnych rozprawek,
które pisałam za brata.
On robił za mnie matmę.
Był kowalem mojego losu
w zakresie nauk ścisłych.
Ja wykuwałam dla niego
dostateczny z polaka.
Trudna sztuka: napisać najwyżej
na cztery mniej, nie wzbudzić podejrzeń.
On też musiał... - PoemBy Anne CarsonEventually Geryon learned to write.
____
His mother's friend Maria gave him a beautiful notebook from Japan
with a fluorescent cover.
On the cover Geryon wrote Autobiography. Inside he set down the facts.
Total Facts Known About Geryon.
Geryon was a monster everything about him was red.... - PoemBy L.A. JohnsonThe book from the archive
whispers with handwriting. A gold pen shines
the name of every man,
his every hand that closed it shut.
If girls ever read, they were crossed
out. The gilded slashes still burn
the wounded. In the right environment, they say,
every cell... - PoemBy Marianne ChanAyumi never spoke in class, never responded to anyone who talked to her, and I tried talking to her once, no reply, but I loved her fleecy hair, her pants too short, not in fashion, ahead of her time in...
- PoemBy Michaella Batteni.
i am sitting in sunday school
in a handsewn pink dress and white lace tights
i am putting my hand down when we
learn about david and jonathan
i am not asking if king david was bi
i am taking communion
i am bowing my head... - PoemBy Vievee FrancisI never remember the knuckles, though
his hand was bare, though their hands were bare.
I remember the impressions left on this skin, the
wilting and the welting. I don't remember the sound,
not one smack. I remember the falls, myself falling
to the floor...