Best Famous Paula Poems

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

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• All Famous Paula Poems

Written by Adrienne Rich | Paula Becker to Clara Westhoff The autumn feels slowed down, summer still holds on here, even the light seems to last longer than it should or maybe I'm using it to the thin edge. The moon rolls in the air. I didn't want this child. You're the only one I've told. I want a child maybe, someday, but not now. Otto has a calm, complacent way of following me with his eyes, as if to say Soon you'll have your hands full! And yes, I will; this child will be mine not his, the failures, if I fail will all be mine. We're not good, Clara, at learning to prevent these things, and once we have a child it is ours. But lately I feel beyond Otto or anyone. I know now the kind of work I have to do. It takes such energy! I have the feeling I'm moving somewhere, patiently, impatiently, in my loneliness. I'm looking everywhere in nature for new forms, old forms in new places, the planes of an antique mouth, let's say, among the leaves. I know and do not know what I am searching for. Remember those months in the studio together, you up to your strong forearms in wet clay, I trying to make something of the strange impressions assailing me--the Japanese flowers and birds on silk, the drunks sheltering in the Louvre, that river-light, those faces...Did we know exactly why we were there? Paris unnerved you, you found it too much, yet you went on with your work...and later we met there again, both married then, and I thought you and Rilke both seemed unnerved. I felt a kind of joylessness between you. Of course he and I have had our difficulties. Maybe I was jealous of him, to begin with, taking you from me, maybe I married Otto to fill up my loneliness for you. Rainer, of course, knows more than Otto knows, he believes in women. But he feeds on us, like all of them. His whole life, his art is protected by women. Which of us could say that? Which of us, Clara, hasn't had to take that leap out beyond our being women to save our work? or is it to save ourselves? Marriage is lonelier than solitude. Do you know: I was dreaming I had died giving birth to the child. I couldn't paint or speak or even move. My child--I think--survived me. But what was funny in the dream was, Rainer had written my requiem-- a long, beautiful poem, and calling me his friend. I was your friend but in the dream you didn't say a word. In the dream his poem was like a letter to someone who has no right to be there but must be treated gently, like a guest who comes on the wrong day. Clara, why don't I dream of you? That photo of the two of us--I have it still, you and I looking hard into each other and my painting behind us. How we used to work side by side! And how I've worked since then trying to create according to our plan that we'd bring, against all odds, our full power to every subject. Hold back nothing because we were women. Clara, our strength still lies in the things we used to talk about: how life and death take one another's hands, the struggle for truth, our old pledge against guilt. And now I feel dawn and the coming day. I love waking in my studio, seeing my pictures come alive in the light. Sometimes I feel it is myself that kicks inside me, myself I must give suck to, love... I wish we could have done this for each other all our lives, but we can't... They say a pregnant woman dreams her own death. But life and death take one another's hands. Clara, I feel so full of work, the life I see ahead, and love for you, who of all people however badly I say this will hear all I say and cannot say.

Written by Carl Sandburg | June Paula is digging and shaping the loam of a salvia, Scarlet Chinese talker of summer. Two petals of crabapple blossom blow fallen in Paula's hair, And fluff of white from a cottonwood.

Written by Carl Sandburg | The Wind Sings Welcome in Early Spring (For Paula)THE GRIP of the ice is gone now. The silvers chase purple. The purples tag silver. They let out their runners Here where summer says to the lilies: “Wish and be wistful, Circle this wind-hunted, wind-sung water.” Come along always, come along now. You for me, kiss me, pull me by the ear. Push me along with the wind push. Sing like the whinnying wind. Sing like the hustling obstreperous wind. Have you ever seen deeper purple … this in my wild wind fingers? Could you have more fun with a pony or a goat? Have you seen such flicking heels before, Silver jig heels on the purple sky rim? Come along always, come along now.

Written by Carl Sandburg | Paula NOTHING else in this song—only your face. Nothing else here—only your drinking, night-gray eyes. The pier runs into the lake straight as a rifle barrel. I stand on the pier and sing how I know you mornings. It is not your eyes, your face, I remember. It is not your dancing, race-horse feet. It is something else I remember you for on the pier mornings. Your hands are sweeter than nut-brown bread when you touch me. Your shoulder brushes my arm—a south-west wind crosses the pier. I forget your hands and your shoulder and I say again: Nothing else in this song—only your face. Nothing else here—only your drinking, night-gray eyes.