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Best Famous Louise Bogan Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Louise Bogan poems. This is a select list of the best famous Louise Bogan poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Louise Bogan poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Louise Bogan poems.

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by Louise Bogan |

Man Alone

 It is yourself you seek
In a long rage,
Scanning through light and darkness
Mirrors, the page,

Where should reflected be
Those eyes and that thick hair,
That passionate look, that laughter.
You should appear Within the book, or doubled, Freed, in the silvered glass; Into all other bodies Yourself should pass.
The glass does not dissolve; Like walls the mirrors stand; The printed page gives back Words by another hand.
And your infatuate eye Meets not itself below; Strangers lie in your arms As I lie now.


by Louise Bogan |

The Alchemist

 I burned my life, that I may find
A passion wholly of the mind,
Thought divorced from eye and bone
Ecstasy come to breath alone.
I broke my life, to seek relief From the flawed light of love and grief.
With mounting beat the utter fire Charred existence and desire.
It died low, ceased its sudden thresh.
I had found unmysterious flesh-- Not the mind's avid substance--still Passionate beyond the will.


by Louise Bogan |

The Dream

 Love, if I weep it will not matter,
 And if you laugh I shall not care;
Foolish am I to think about it,
 But it is good to feel you there.
Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking,— White and awful the moonlight reached Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere, There was a shutter loose,—it screeched! Swung in the wind,—and no wind blowing!— I was afraid, and turned to you, Put out my hand to you for comfort,— And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew, Under my hand the moonlight lay! Love, if you laugh I shall not care, But if I weep it will not matter,— Ah, it is good to feel you there!


by Louise Bogan |

Sonnet

 FLESH, I have knocked at many a dusty door, 
Gone down full many a midnight lane, 
Probed in old walls and felt along the floor, 
Pressed in blind hope the lighted window-pane, 
But useless all, though sometimes when the moon 
Was full in heaven and the sea was full, 
Along my body's alleys came a tune 
Played in the tavern by the Beautiful.
Then for an instant I have felt at point To find and seize her, whosoe'er she be, Whether some saint whose glory doth anoint Those whom she loves, or but a part of me, Or something that the things not understood Make for their uses out of flesh and blood.


by Louise Bogan |

Epitaph For A Romantic Woman

 She has attained the permanence 
She dreamed of, where old stones lie sunning.
Untended stalks blow over her Even and swift, like young men running.
Always in the heart she loved Others had lived, -- she heard their laughter.
She lies where none has lain before, Where certainly none will follow after.


by Louise Bogan |

Knowledge

 Now that I know
How passion warms little
Of flesh in the mould,
And treasure is brittle,--

I'll lie here and learn
How, over their ground
Trees make a long shadow
And a light sound.


by Louise Bogan |

Medusa

 Off that landspit of stony mouth-plugs,
Eyes rolled by white sticks,
Ears cupping the sea's incoherences,
You house your unnerving head -- God-ball,
Lens of mercies,
Your stooges
Plying their wild cells in my keel's shadow,
Pushing by like hearts,
Red stigmata at the very center,
Riding the rip tide to the nearest point of
departure,

Dragging their Jesus hair.
Did I escape, I wonder? My mind winds to you Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable, Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous repair.
In any case, you are always there, Tremulous breath at the end of my line, Curve of water upleaping To my water rod, dazzling and grateful, Touching and sucking.
I didn't call you.
I didn't call you at all.
Nevertheless, nevertheless You steamed to me over the sea, Fat and red, a placenta Paralyzing the kicking lovers.
Cobra light Squeezing the breath from the blood bells Of the fuchsia.
I could draw no breath, Dead and moneyless, Overexposed, like an X-ray.
Who do you think you are? A Communion wafer? Blubbery Mary? I shall take no bite of your body, Bottle in which I live, Ghastly Vatican.
I am sick to death of hot salt.
Green as eunuchs, your wishes Hiss at my sins.
Off, off, eely tentacle! There is nothing between us.


by Louise Bogan |

The Dream

 I have a dream
to fill the golden sheath
of a remembered day.
.
.
.
(Air heavy and massed and blue as the vapor of opium.
.
.
domes fired in sulphurous mist.
.
.
sea quiescent as a gray seal.
.
.
and the emerging sun spurting up gold over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay.
.
.
.
) But the day is an up-turned cup and its sun a junk of red iron guttering in sluggish-green water-- where shall I pour my dream?


by Louise Bogan |

The Dream

 I WOKE to find my pillow wet
 With the tears for deeds deep hid in sleep.
I knew no sorrow here, but yet The tears fell softly through the deep.
Your eyes, your other eyes of dream, Looked at me through the veil of blank; I saw their joyous, starlit gleam Like one who watches rank on rank.
His victor airy legions wind And pass before his awful throne— Was there thy loving heart unkind, Was I thy captive all o’erthrown?


by Louise Bogan |

Portrait

 A child draws the outline of a body.
She draws what she can, but it is white all through, she cannot fill in what she knows is there.
Within the unsupported line, she knows that life is missing; she has cut one background from another.
Like a child, she turns to her mother.
And you draw the heart against the emptiness she has created.