Written by
Sylvia Plath |
In the dour ages
Of drafty cells and draftier castles,
Of dragons breathing without the frame of fables,
Saint and king unfisted obstruction's knuckles
By no miracle or majestic means,
But by such abuses
As smack of spite and the overscrupulous
Twisting of thumbscrews: one soul tied in sinews,
One white horse drowned, and all the unconquered pinnacles
Of God's city and Babylon's
Must wait, while here Suso's
Hand hones his tack and needles,
Scouraging to sores his own red sluices
For the relish of heaven, relentless, dousing with prickles
Of horsehair and lice his horny loins;
While there irate Cyrus
Squanders a summer and the brawn of his heroes
To rebuke the horse-swallowing River Gyndes:
He split it into three hundred and sixty trickles
A girl could wade without wetting her shins.
Still, latter-day sages,
Smiling at this behavior, subjugating their enemies
Neatly, nicely, by disbelief or bridges,
Never grip, as the grandsires did, that devil who chuckles
From grain of the marrow and the river-bed grains.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
You'll know Her -- by Her Foot --
The smallest Gamboge Hand
With Fingers -- where the Toes should be --
Would more affront the Sand --
Than this Quaint Creature's Boot --
Adjusted by a Stern --
Without a Button -- I could vouch --
Unto a Velvet Limb --
You'll know Her -- by Her Vest --
Tight fitting -- Orange -- Brown --
Inside a Jacket duller --
She wore when she was born --
Her Cap is small -- and snug --
Constructed for the Winds --
She'd pass for Barehead -- short way off --
But as She Closer stands --
So finer 'tis than Wool --
You cannot feel the Seam --
Nor is it Clasped unto of Band --
Nor held upon -- of Brim --
You'll know Her -- by Her Voice --
At first -- a doubtful Tone --
A sweet endeavor -- but as March
To April -- hurries on --
She squanders on your Ear
Such Arguments of Pearl --
You beg the Robin in your Brain
To keep the other -- still --
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Written by
Robert William Service |
My Boss keeps sporty girls, they say;
His belly's big with cheer.
He squanders in a single day
What I make in a year.
For I must toil with bloody sweat,
And body bent and scarred,
While my whole life-gain he could bet
Upon a single card.
By Boss is big and I am small;
I slave to keep him rich.
He'd look at me like scum and call
Me something of a ***** .
.
.
Ah no! he wouldn't use that phrase
To designate my mother:
Despite his high and mighty ways,
My Boss is my twin-brother.
Conceived were we in common joy
And born in common pain;
But while I was a brawny boy
My brother stole my brain.
As dumb was I as he was smart,
As blind as he could see;
And so it was, bang from the start
He got the best of me.
I'm one of many in his pay;
From him I draw my dough;
But he would fire me right away
If he should hap to know
A week ago he passed me by;
I heard his wheezing breath,
And in his pouched and blood-shot eye
I saw, stark-staring - Death.
He has his women, cards and wine;
I have my beans and bread.
But oh, the last laugh will be mine
The day I hear he's dead.
Aye, though we shared a common womb
(I gloat to think of it)
Some day I'll stand beside his tomb
And loose my glob and .
.
.
spit.
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