Written by
Raymond Carver |
So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.
When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.
They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.
I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.
They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.
Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.
Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.
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Written by
Anne Sexton |
There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.
But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.
The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.
Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.
I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.
Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.
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Written by
John Milton |
OH how comely it is and how reviving
To the Spirits of just men long opprest!
When God into the hands of thir deliverer
Puts invincible might
To quell the mighty of the Earth, th' oppressour,
The brute and boist'rous force of violent men
Hardy and industrious to support
Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue
The righteous and all such as honour Truth;
He all thir Ammunition
And feats of War defeats
With plain Heroic magnitude of mind
And celestial vigour arm'd,
Thir Armories and Magazins contemns,
Renders them useless, while
With winged expedition
Swift as the lightning glance he executes
His errand on the wicked, who surpris'd
Lose thir defence distracted and amaz'd.
ALL is best, though we oft doubt,
What th' unsearchable dispose
Of highest wisdom brings about,
And ever best found in the close.
Oft he seems to hide his face,
But unexpectedly returns
And to his faithful Champion hath in place
Bore witness gloriously; whence Gaza mourns
And all that band them to resist
His uncontroulable intent.
His servants he with new acquist
Of true experience from this great event
With peace and consolation hath dismist,
And calm of mind all passion spent.
O FOR some honest lover's ghost,
Some kind unbodied post
Sent from the shades below!
I strangely long to know
Whether the noble chaplets wear
Those that their mistress' scorn did bear
Or those that were used kindly.
For whatsoe'er they tell us here
To make those sufferings dear,
'Twill there, I fear, be found
That to the being crown'd
T' have loved alone will not suffice,
Unless we also have been wise
And have our loves enjoy'd.
What posture can we think him in
That, here unloved, again
Departs, and 's thither gone
Where each sits by his own?
Or how can that Elysium be
Where I my mistress still must see
Circled in other's arms?
For there the judges all are just,
And Sophonisba must
Be his whom she held dear,
Not his who loved her here.
The sweet Philoclea, since she died,
Lies by her Pirocles his side,
Not by Amphialus.
Some bays, perchance, or myrtle bough
For difference crowns the brow
Of those kind souls that were
The noble martyrs here:
And if that be the only odds
(As who can tell?), ye kinder gods,
Give me the woman here!
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Written by
Du Fu |
Fu (this) duke old guest Finish wine drunk sing open gold halberd Ride horse suddenly remember youth time Scatter hoof pour fall Qutang stone Baidicheng gate water cloud outside Lower body straight down eight thousand feet Whitewashed battlements lightning pass purple loose reins East gain level ridge out heaven cliff River village country hall fight enter eye Hang whip droop bridle approach purple road Always hoary head startle 10,000 people Self count on red face ability ride shoot How know burst chest chase wind foot Red sweat chariot horse black horse like spurt jade Not expect one stumble end injure Human life happy much that shame Must now sad lie quilt pillow Situation now late dusk increase bother demand Well know come ask hide my face Stick pigweed strong rise lean servant Speech end still manage open mouth smile Guide support go sweep clear stream bend Wine meat like mountain again one time Start feast sad silk move brave bamboo Together point west sun not together lend Noisy sigh then tip cup in filtered Why must hurry horse come to ask You not know Xi Kang life nourish meet kill I, Du Fu, the duke's elderly guest, Finished my wine, drunkenly sang, and waved a golden halberd. I mounted my horse and suddenly remembered the days of my youth, The flying hooves sent stones pouring down into Qutang gorge. Baidicheng's city gates are beyond the water's clouds, Bending over, I plunged straight down eight thousand feet. Whitewashed battlements passed like lightning, the purple reins were loose, Then east, I reached the level ridge, out past heaven's cliff. River villages and country halls vied to enter my eyes, The whip hung down, the bridle drooped, I reached the crimson road. All the ten thousand people amazed by my silver head, I trusted to the riding and shooting skills of my rosy-cheeked youth. How could I know that bursting its chest, hooves chasing the wind, That racing horse, red with sweat, breathing spurts of jade, Would unexpectedly take a tumble and end up injuring me? In human life, taking pleasure often leads to shame. That's why I'm feeling sad, lying on quilts and pillows, Being in the sunset of my life only adds to the bother. When I knew you'd come to visit, I wanted to hide my face, With a bramble stick I manage to rise, leaning on a servant. Then, after we've finished talking, we open our mouths and laugh, Giving me support, you help to sweep by the clear stream's bend. Wine and meat are piled up like mountains once again, The feast starts: sad strings and brave bamboo sound out. Together, we point to the western sun, not to be granted us long, Noise and exclamations, then we tip the cup of clear wine. Why did you have to hurry your horses, coming to ask after me? Don't you remember Xi Kang, who nourished life and got killed?
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Written by
Erica Jong |
Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb---
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:
And there, there overhead, there, there hung over
Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes,
There in the starless dark the poise, the hover,
There with vast wings across the cancelled skies,
There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing --- nothing at all.
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Written by
Michael Drayton |
Calling to mind, since first my love begun,
Th'uncertain times oft varying in their course,
How things still unexpectedly have run,
As it please the Fates, by their resistless force.
Lastly mine eyes amazedly have seen
Essex' great fall, Tyrone his peace to gain;
The quiet end of that long-living Queen;
This King's fair entrance; and our peace with Spain,
We and the Dutch at length ourselves to sever.
Thus the world doth and evermore shall reel;
Yet to my Goddess am I constant ever,
Howe'er blind Fortune turn her giddy wheel.
Though Heav'n and Earth prove both to me untrue,
Yet am I still inviolate to you.
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Written by
Lewis Carroll |
Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a
morsel of supreme Venison - whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!" - yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -
I NEVER loved a dear Gazelle -
NOR ANYTHING THAT COST ME MUCH:
HIGH PRICES PROFIT THOSE WHO SELL,
BUT WHY SHOULD I BE FOND OF SUCH?
To glad me with his soft black eye
MY SON COMES TROTTING HOME FROM SCHOOL;
HE'S HAD A FIGHT BUT CAN'T TELL WHY -
HE ALWAYS WAS A LITTLE FOOL!
But, when he came to know me well,
HE KICKED ME OUT, HER TESTY SIRE:
AND WHEN I STAINED MY HAIR, THAT BELLE
MIGHT NOTE THE CHANGE, AND THUS ADMIRE
And love me, it was sure to dye
A MUDDY GREEN OR STARING BLUE:
WHILST ONE MIGHT TRACE, WITH HALF AN EYE,
THE STILL TRIUMPHANT CARROT THROUGH.
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Written by
Emily Dickinson |
I'm saying every day
"If I should be a Queen, tomorrow" --
I'd do this way --
And so I deck, a little,
If it be, I wake a Bourbon,
None on me, bend supercilious --
With "This was she --
Begged in the Market place --
Yesterday."
Court is a stately place --
I've heard men say --
So I loop my apron, against the Majesty
With bright Pins of Buttercup --
That not too plain --
Rank -- overtake me --
And perch my Tongue
On Twigs of singing -- rather high --
But this, might be my brief Term
To qualify --
Put from my simple speech all plain word --
Take other accents, as such I heard
Though but for the Cricket -- just,
And but for the Bee --
Not in all the Meadow --
One accost me --
Better to be ready --
Than did next morn
Meet me in Aragon --
My old Gown -- on --
And the surprised Air
Rustics -- wear --
Summoned -- unexpectedly --
To Exeter --
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Written by
Michael Drayton |
Calling to mind since first my love begun,
Th' incertain times oft varying in their course,
How things still unexpectedly have run,
As t' please the fates by their resistless force:
Lastly, mine eyes amazedly have seen
Essex' great fall, Tyrone his peace to gain,
The quiet end of that long-living Queen,
This King's fair entrance, and our peace with Spain,
We and the Dutch at length ourselves to sever:
Thus the world doth and evermore shall reel.
Yet to my goddess am I constant ever,
Howe'er blind fortune turn her giddy wheel:
Though heaven and earth prove both to me untrue,
Yet am I still inviolate to you.
|
Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CCXX. Vive faville uscian de' duo bei lumi. A SMILING WELCOME, WHICH LAURA GAVE HIM UNEXPECTEDLY, ALMOST KILLS HIM WITH JOY. Live sparks were glistening from her twin bright eyes,So sweet on me whose lightning flashes beam'd,And softly from a feeling heart and wise,Of lofty eloquence a rich flood stream'd:Even the memory serves to wake my sighsWhen I recall that day so glad esteem'd,And in my heart its sinking spirit diesAs some late grace her colder wont redeem'd.My soul in pain and grief that most has been(How great the power of constant habit is!)Seems weakly 'neath its double joy to lean:For at the sole taste of unusual bliss,Trembling with fear, or thrill'd by idle hope,Oft on the point I've been life's door to ope. Macgregor.
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