Walking Around | Poem| by Pablo Neruda

Walking Around
by Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie

houses

dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt

steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse

sobs.

The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.

The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,

no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails

and my hair and my shadow.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous

to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,

or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.

It would be great

to go through the streets with a green knife

letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,

insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,

going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,

taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don’t want so much misery.

I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb,

alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,

half frozen, dying of grief.

That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming

with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,

and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,

and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the

night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist

houses,

into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,

and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines

hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,

and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,

there are mirrors

that ought to have wept from shame and terror,

there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical

cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,

my rage, forgetting everything,

I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic

shops,

and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:

underwear, towels and shirts from which slow

dirty tears are falling.

To My Wife – With A Copy Of My Poems | Poem| by Oscar Wilde

To My Wife – With A Copy Of My Poems
by Oscar Wilde

I can write no stately proem

As a prelude to my lay;

From a poet to a poem

I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals

One to you seem fair,

Love will waft it till it settles

On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden

All the loveless land,

It will whisper of the garden,

You will understand.

Love and Friendship | Poem| by Emily Bronte

Love and Friendship
by Emily Bronte

Love is like the wild rose-briar,

Friendship like the holly-tree

The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms

But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild-rose briar is sweet in the spring,

Its summer blossoms scent the air;

Yet wait till winter comes again

And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now

And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,

That when December blights thy brow

He may still leave thy garland green.

The Definition Of Love | Poem| by Andrew Marvell

The Definition Of Love
by Andrew Marvell

My love is of a birth as rare

As ’tis for object strange and high:

It was begotten by Despair

Upon Impossibility.

Magnanimous Despair alone

Could show me so divine a thing,

Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown

But vainly flapped its tinsel wing.

And yet I quickly might arrive

Where my extended soul is fixed

But Fate does iron wedges drive,

And always crowds itself betwixt.

For Fate with jealous eye does see

Two perfect loves, nor lets them close:

Their union would her ruin be,

And her tyrranic power depose.

And therefore her decrees of steel

Us as the distant Poles have placed

(Though Love’s whole world on us doth wheel)

Not by themselves to be embraced,

Unless the giddy heaven fall,

And earth some new convulsion tear;

And, us to join, the world should all

Be cramped into a planisphere.

As lines (so loves) oblique may well

Themselves in every angle greet:

But ours so truly parallel,

Though infinite, can never meet.

Therefore the love which us doth bind,

But Fate so enviously debars,

Is the conjunction of the mind,

And opposition of the stars.

The Dole of the King’s Daughter | Poem| by Oscar Wilde

The Dole of the King’s Daughter
by Oscar Wilde

Seven stars in the still water,

And seven in the sky;

Seven sins on the King’s daughter,

Deep in her soul to lie.

Red roses at her feet,

(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)

And O where her bosom and girdle meet

Red roses are hidden there.

Fair is the knight who lieth slain

Amid the rush and reed,

See the lean fishes that are fain

Upon dead men to feed.

Sweet is the page that lieth there,

(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)

See the black ravens in the air,

Black, O black as the night are they.

What do they there so stark and dead?

(There is blood upon her hand)

Why are the lilies flecked with red?

(There is blood on the river sand.)

There are two that ride from the south to the east,

And two from the north and west,

For the black raven a goodly feast,

For the King’s daughter to rest.

There is one man who loves her true,

(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)

He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,

(One grave will do for four.)

No moon in the still heaven,

In the black water none,

The sins on her soul are seven,

The sin upon his is one.

Love’s Philosophy | Poem| by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Love’s Philosophy
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The winds of Heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one spirit meet and mingle –

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high Heaven

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdained its brother;

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea –

What are all these kissings worth

If thou kiss not me?

Famous Among the Barn and Shed

Portrait-of-Jackson-unfinished
Portrait-of-Jackson-unfinished…Kyle Baker

Hello is anybody there are you listening at all what the hell’s wrong with you people, so the world is going crazy, it really is, it’s going crazy it can be and there’s nothing that you can do to stop it, I guess.

When I was born it wasn’t easier, even as the baby. The umbilical cord was still attached to me when I looked around I noticed that somebody was slapping me, and he turned out to be the doctor and he was holding me upside down. I was buck naked with everybody in that room looking at me, upside down and all.

It was certainly an ignominious beginning. It was November. They brought me home, put me in front of a coal stove, opened it up with the metal handle and threw some coal in it, smoke spit out and you could hear the coal in there cracking. That stuff was liable to crack and pop and knock a little piece of burning coal across the room. That stove would be red hot in the middle of the room, a wooden room, with newspapers glued to the wall. At about 2 AM, there would be no heat.

Well I guess since I’m talking to you, you might as well be listening, because everybody’s life is important, even mine, starting there in that little three room house with that fake brick asphalt siding . It was a little building my daddy got from Fort Campbell Kentucky. Three rooms, no water, no bathroom.

No bathroom was quite common back then. I can remember when going to school, there would be a role of outhouses all painted white and clean outside, go inside and there’d be the smell of lime. It wasn’t all that unsanitary at all, when it was done right. But the outhouse behind the little shack, or around most of the farmhouses, was a different story. You had to watch yourself in there. There is no telling what sort of critter could be in there with you, or looking up at you, so to speak. It was a cold run to the outhouse in the winter.

Well they brought me home that little three room house with the wooden porch and outhouse. I spent my young years playing in the dirt beneath the maple tree. Toys were scarce, you had to make your own. A horse was a tobacco stick with some twine. My leg I would sling high as I dismounted my horse and I would tie him to the post of the porch.

Those were my Dylan Thomas days as I was famous among the barn and shed.

 

David Michael Jackson