I am not sorry for my soul
That it must go unsatisfied,
For it can live a thousand times,
Eternity is deep and wide.
I am not sorry for my soul,
But oh, my body that must go
Back to a little drift of dust
Without the joy it longed to know.
Funny -- to be a Century --
And see the People -- going by --
I -- should die of the Oddity --
But then -- I'm not so staid -- as He --
He keeps His Secrets safely -- very --
Were He to tell -- extremely sorry
This Bashful Globe of Ours would be --
So dainty of Publicity --
R S Thomas
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.
It was not the bone buckled;
You gave me enough food
To renew myself.
It was the mind's weight
Kept me bent, as I grew tall.
It was not your fault.
What should have gone on,
Arrow aimed from a tried bow
At a tried target, has turned back,
With questions you had not asked.
The air is dark, the night is sad,
I lie sleepless and I groan.
Nobody cares when a man goes mad:
He is sorry, God is glad.
Shadow changes into bone.
Every shadow has a name;
When I think of mine I moan,
I hear rumors of such fame.
Not for pride, but only shame,
Shadow changes into bone.
When I blush I weep for joy,
And laughter drops from me like a stone:
The aging laughter of the boy
To see the ageless dead so coy.
Shadow changes into bone.
Sorry, I almost forgot, but I don't think
Its worth the effort to become a Carcanet poet
With my mug-shot on art gloss paper
In your catalogue as big as Mont Blanc
Easier to imagine, as Benjamin Peret did,
A wind that would unscrew the mountain
Or stars like apricot tarts strolling
Aimlessly along the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
Why did Blake say
'Sunflower weary of time'?
Every time I see them
they seem to say
Now! with a crash
and absolutely delighting
in their own round brightness.
Now I see what you mean.
Storms and frost have battered
their bright delight
and though they are still upright
nothing could say dejection
more than their weary
I sit here, an arch-villain of romance,
thinking about you.
Gee, I'm sorry
I made you unhappy, but there was nothing
I could do about it because I have to be free.
Perhaps everything would have been different
if you had stayed at the table or asked me
to go out with you to look at the moon,
instead of getting up and leaving me alone with
Edna St Vincent Millay
I said,—for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,—
"I'll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in
But I'll never leave my pillow, though there be some
As would let him in—and take him in with tears!" I said.
I lay,—for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn,—
I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep;
And he found me at my window with my big cloak on,
All sorry with the tears some folks might weep!
In the democracy of daisies
every blossom has one vote.
The question on the ballot is
Does he love me?
If the answer's wrong I try another,
a little sorry about the petals
piling up around my shoes.
Bees are loose in the fields
where daisies wait and hope,
dreaming of the kiss of a proboscis.
We can't possibly understand
what makes us such fools.
I blame the June heat
and everything about him.
waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
I am so very sorry for
she will see this
shake it once, then
it's not my death that
worries me, it's my wife
left with this
I want to
let her know
that all the nights
even the useless
and the hard
I ever feared to
can now be
One night a woman's breast came to a man's room and
began to talk about her twin sister.
Her twin sister this and her twin sister that.
Finally the man said, but what about you, dear breast?
And so the breast spent the rest of the night talking about
It was the same as when she talked about her sister: herself
this and herself that.
Finally the man kissed her nipple and said, I'm sorry, and
the goldfish sing all night with guitars,
and the whores go down with the stars,
the whores go down with the stars
I'm sorry, sir, we close at 4:30,
besides yr mother's neck is dirty,
and the whores go down with the etc.
with the etc.
I'm sorry jack you can't come back,
I've fallen in love with another sap,
3/4 Italian and 1/2 Jap,
and the whores go
the whores go
from "All's Normal Here" - 1985
WITH Pegasus upon a day,
Apollo, weary flying,
Through frosty hills the journey lay,
On foot the way was plying.
Poor slipshod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes,
To get a frosty caulker.
Obliging Vulcan fell to work,
Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol’s business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a sonnet.
Ye Vulcan’s sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;
My Pegasus is poorly shod,
I’ll pay you like my master.
Dimitris P Kraniotis
(In honor of the dead unpublished poet)
You have won!
You should not feel sorry.
Your unpublished poems
have not been buried,
under the strength of time.
inside the soil
they never melt.
They may be late
but they will be given
to their people
to offer their sweet,
ONE man killed another.
The saying between them had been “I’d give you the shirt off my back.
The killer wept over the dead.
The dead if he looks back knows the killer was sorry.
It was a shot in one second of hate out of ten years of love.
Why is the sun a red ball in the six o’clock mist?
Why is the moon a tumbling chimney?… tumbling … tumbling … “I’d give you the shirt off my back” … And I’ll kill you if my head goes wrong.
BILBEA, I was in Babylon on Saturday night.
I saw nothing of you anywhere.
I was at the old place and the other girls were there, but no Bilbea.
Have you gone to another house? or city?
Why don’t you write?
I was sorry.
I walked home half-sick.
Tell me how it goes.
Send me some kind of a letter.
And take care of yourself.
David Herbert Lawrence
I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
'Twas sorry, that we were --
For where the Holiday should be
There publishes a Tear --
Nor how Ourselves be justified --
Since Grief and Joy are done
So similar -- An Optizan
Could not decide between --
Sorry, Writer in Residence on the Great North Run
The last thing I’d ever do is listen to your spin
“You risk losing potential allies in your war
against the philistines,
Astley, Armitage, Duffy, Sansom, unashamedly provincial,
Defiantly Un-Oxbridge, not the enemy!”
Sorry, Andy, arse-licking's not to my taste.
I always thought it wasn’t yours, my mistake!
A ring for
A love note
The lint from
Copyright © Kenn Nesbitt 2009. All Rights Reserved.
Here, where the Daisies fit my Head
'Tis easiest to lie
And every Grass that plays outside
Is sorry, some, for me.
Where I am not afraid to go
I may confide my Flower --
Who was not Enemy of Me
Will gentle be, to Her.
Nor separate, Herself and Me
By Distances become --
A single Bloom we constitute
Departed, or at Home --
I close the door of hope in my own face,
Nor sue for favours from good men, or base;
I have but ONE to lend a helping hand,
He knows, as well as I, my sorry case.
One hand with Koran, one with wine-cup dight,
I half incline to wrong, and half to right;
The azure-marbled sky looks down on me
A sorry Moslem, yet not heathen quite.
I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear,
To chafe o'er-much the virgin's cheek or ear;--
Beg for my pardon, Julia! he doth win
Grace with the gods who's sorry for his sin.
That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come,
And go with me to chuse my burial room:
My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies,
Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.