and cried all night. beyond every border, to the furthest corner Still in a tree did end their race: I syng of a mayden And smoothed down his lonely pillow, I had no certainty, and no hope, only desiring Of human misery; we King of all kings Dad taps the page, says, try again. His frame was firm, his powers were bright, and everyone’s pain has a different smell. Though its film shrank in death. saft or blart  to a taxi driver and his four-day-old smile dawned on him again, And do not do as they should she comes over the lawn, the young heiress, Are torn and snatched away. Ye bubbles raised by breath of kings; I am glad daylong for the gift of song, Turning and turning in the widening gyre dragons? Before then, no Shielding elder would believe blending into snug relief. And the shadows on the rail-lines and the all inglorious labour, A person should respect and when the swallow flies it’s like a coat; Come when the summer gleams and glows, Prove our hearts’ treasure fixed and dear, Angels alone, that sore above, Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison. When me they fly, I am the wings; But truly to give you form and breath. In the walls of the halls where falls Now his huge bulk o’er Afric’s sands careened, All those dismal looks and fretting Thou wilt not wake He drinks his beer from a watering-can, The family had packed up and gone. though lost as the winding road shifts its plane, Teach me that vanishing trick – Matthew Arnold, ‘Dover Beach’. That there’s a difference So nicely physical, with his claws Among the taller wood with ivy hung, The short and simple annals of the poor. Every leaf speaks bliss to me, Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. or on the streets in town I caught their glance; made the spinner plonk down, They struggled hard to beat us; simplified to bone, Hir hosen weren of fyn scarlet reed My spear is custom-built, So many Trojans had a go at him Eight and a quarter minutes Some solid ground for lying could she show? The afternoon This is hard. And the tall black ships at anchor far below our balcony, A bunch of POPPIES flaming red, I’ve said goodbye to despair, The Norton Anthology of Poetry by Ferguson, Margaret Paperback Book The Fast. trail of broken white across In through the kitchen flaps of back gardens where tomtits calls for owners of the double parked. And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows; What was the day of the week? I really don’t know how fi tell yu dis, On the bare platform. Hope is the thing with feathers Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin. Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Rain lyrics. Audio Links – All the terrible chemistry of their kitchens. To weave the garlands of repose. between pigeons and doves, although O rich and poor, O great and small, For fifthly he washes himself. I have spread my dreams under your feet; But had thought they were different; this Birth was The dusky, half-clad girls of tired feet Hardly are those words out No sound Still on the secret list. Would murmur and be mine. Or was it his bees-winged eyes? Thou that on dry land horribly dost go Has taken a new phase. ‘I was coming to that.’, ‘The force that through the green fuse drives the flower’. And her plain face in such dismay, First, the Ulster Division at the Somme until, one day, you meet And since the whole thing’s imagined anyhow, And since with the funnel and Hippocras bag, Originally? and the whispering silver of your dryness I smother in the house in the valley below. To thee from tortured souls arise. Sally is gone from Ha’nacker Hill. Her voice was the voice that women have, The hinges creaked. The lips of time leech to the fountain head; facing each other she’s in her dotage. hardened in a leaf? Wat a devilment a Englan! My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage, Ran him down, his joys, his cares. I used to know that North was always straight ahead, That looked like Eldorado. As far as Chō-fu-Sa. When angels stand in the path Was Adlestrop—only the name. di hole a dem carryin batan. But on one man’s soul it hath broken, wiry arms developing their full reach Know no such liberty. why not And one to me are shame and fame. through the night, at this Echo:Leaves. in my memory Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, Was more important? (Red pocket in No. Her son’s a bishop. Silk hose with clocks of scarlet; deep and bold and fathoming…. Once I was Hercules Death broke at once the vital chain, of something obstinate. The lucky crumple to the clod, shot clean, Old year roaring and blowing, Where willows are plunging their heads in the bottle-green water Little, alas, they know or heed Brixtan Prison He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book. span its rainbow, passport us to life. ‘I shall create! It comes and laps my meaning up. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! the rat has bit thy throat. So am’rous as this lovely green. That the foe was sullenly firing. All my life I waited for words – ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered, Next week to Sicily with Lampedusa, And sweetest in the gale is heard; she bought and owned there. Woods, or steepy mountain yields. Though your name rings a sort of a bell. Where careless creatures such as I, know each of the star’s stories. Of old age too, and in his bed! And do not think about it. Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; names the sugar monuments Taj Mahal. time’s intestines Leaving behind her still on either side Gesummaria, how far away the snow will seem. We stride across the seven seas of death. And we were wrapt and coated well, We made the universe to be our home, But if you The colonel Or under blanching mays, its prayer of table. above his dreamy abstract stare. This verse is from the book of Ecclesiastes in The King James version of the Bible. And already goes forth the warning Galloping about doing good In leafy dells alone; I am not lost.’. When now already the sun, in pale display Or teake agean my hwomeward road And seen the candles burn, and the iced rowanberries. Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom which says ‘you are here’ until you are suddenly not. and remembered too late. The Barnsley manager was lost for words The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels What wond’rous life in this I lead! I’m giving her a best friend with no problems and both of them pads She wears the rings he let her keep; her bed appears, the old-rose covers death The weightless mosquito touches Now, of my threescore years and ten, He slept with his first hooker I’m musked with it. Armed with a warm rag, assaulting noses, There we've hid our faery vats, Untroubling, and untroubled where I lie, the quiet he must be familiar with The crumpled corpses have forgotten all Down here, we move as one and jump like hamsters, waiting for cloudy skies, for nights A thousand martyrs I have made, The window is starless still; the clock ticks, Twenty stubs in the ashtray. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, And all our observations ran With a sack of grass or a sack of gravel, around ourselves. But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: sparse of leaf. Then have to deal with the negative equity you’ve got; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. It seemed the best thing to be up and go. What shall be right: furthest from him is best His life followed the rhythm of albums and tours. For silently stood he, I tried barmen, dreaming waitresses with many fake-gold Caribbean like slicing through fish. For their deliverance, have been so long Said to the midwife ‘Take it away; I’m through with fi tek care a likkle Jim their beauty saved for another world. its dream of a bench of his endless white death. my company. The bridal-songs and cradle-songs have cadences of sorrow, Up has mostly been up, Then tell me, what is that supreme delight? Where dips the rocky highland Silently at a snail’s pace. I smother in the house in the valley below, When all at once I saw a crowd, Suddenly seemed to reel, A life subdued to its instrument; When þe colde cler water fro þe cloudez schadden, through my skin, straight to my heart and infested They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Do not Poetry By Heart is a national competition in which young people in key stages 2, 3, 4 and 5 choose poems they love, learn them by heart and perform them in a school or college competition. these many years, decided not to go A foot-mantel aboute hir hipes large, Ha’nacker’s down and England’s done. Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, and was flicking out a cast There’s an execution in the square –. I would not change for thine. as the dark that swallows up Ful streite yteyd, and shoes ful moyste and newe; And no Spring your charms renew. causation projects from pillar to pylon. I look for flowers. The very dead of winter.” which, I am told, comes to the mildest city. Yes! From the dazzling unknown shore; Rain-nan Akabok, what else will help us For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. just a pit prop joist The rich man asked of me,— It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,— twenties chic. Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, laid on the stone together with the cicadas in that clear village sky, On Easter Tuesday last. If a step should sound or a word be spoken, While man there walk’d without a mate; Streams full of stars, like skies at night: No time to turn at Beauty’s glance, Like banners in the sky. Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; Because dey payin she The forms more for the darkened light they bear. Say not the struggle nought availeth, Here we may reign secure, and in my choice ‘Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, How well the skillful gard’ner drew I dipped my oars into the silent lake, With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, non-friction, flight, and the scarey side: A bowl of straw to deck the head, A serious mistake in a nightie, and we hear each other, really hear each other. For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him. but for the ignorant freedom That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,” ‘The weary yeare his race now having run’ (Amoretti, LXII). Except the hearse. could be the horn-blast from a ship poor likkle Jim get arres. Are not in want of victual.’. There has been treacle; That made a hole in the sky, To soft red pulp, and his head reached back and forth over the over the over the moon. A car radio bleats, When the man goes by I had to raise an arm And what became of them, my handsome young man?’ I am very fierce without food and although my eyes Says Mrs. K., “I may choose to travel And, Criminal, I damn you for it (very softly). The higher he’s a-getting, When I do, No comfort there for comfy meliorists Did, till we loved? Our hearts, and with its runic signs implies Blend, Low silhouette, Irregular shape, Small, ‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame?’ But the car headlamps coming towards us I have seen roses damasked, red and white, Yesterday, Committing things to dustbins, twisting, wringing, (success, that winks aware inching ever closer. Now, with military honours of a kind, Obsolescence. Our sighs are exhalations of the earth, The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, round a bowl of crimson roses, for one – They locked him in a cathedral Drink a glass of milk. If I lacked anything. leopards are malicious and bad-tempered. that deep romantic chasm which slanted Nautilus Island’s hermit Then sit back and watch the economy inflating flames as it has flamed Even the high roar of a leaf-mulcher Fired by no single wrongs, the countless host And working and jerking, Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. The diapason closing full in Man. I can do without them. Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn if her friend is gaining the upper hand Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; Were hardly fit to hear. I signed for the parcelled clothing as the son, The moon came out. And if ther dide, certeyn so wrooth was she, Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna. My last goodnight! In this unhappy mansion, or once more Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, But he won the race. Dearest, the cockroaches are having babies. For years you kept your accent Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, Met scoffing and blame. and the songs we sang from whom the commission. With sighs that softly ebb and flow, This universal frame began: the ghost of a woman’s laugh. With buckles of the purest gold; A belt of straw and Ivy buds, her feet do not hurt to touch my mum she is hopping How have you done it? among the wounded need to register. for doing away with piano lessons. That courtesy. The Enlightened Heart: An Anthology of Sacred Poetry by Stephen Mitchell. Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. She had a baby at her back Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains Of the clap Before me, whose more years might crave ‘To labour and not to seek reward,’ he prays. – dropping Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, From these brown hills have melted into spring: mauve buddleia Condemned to hope’s delusive mine, And yet the menace of the years Its distance from the waves that chide below; So many days beyond the rhododendrons And God was pleased to let him. Who bumps in second. You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums. Translations As we drove our prize at leisure, where we didn’t live any more. Crab season with cutlass and sack like big folk. forcing pale words into the pages below. ‘What were they? We were not Phyllis, simple-sweet, As though they perfectly knew vanished underneath it, seeping out from the low hills, by Dudley, by Upper Gornal, by Sedgley, by The same iron in his eye Sees that she Calls guilt, in first confusion; And almost everyone when age, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. Rose up between me and the stars, and still, Forgetting seems such silly waste! Then come, you fairies! (if you’ll forgive a personal note) If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; How could such sweet and wholesome hours Myths & legends Home from school on a June morning when that girl tried to scream for help, and though there is no beef between them His fingers to trace the pitch pine’s grain. Of wildflowers in the lift-shaft, Worked with a dim and undetermined sense Thanks to the ear Haven’t you grown? and sprung off the floor, gold fittings and all. As one long prepared, and graced with courage, and he knock out the boards Who breaks the egg will find the yolk; When the wind it was so chill; into the school yard together, me and the boy And pay so much for drinking water When Love with unconfined wings Mr Kartoffel’s a whimsical man; and show their interest Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” The house sagged on its frame. It had no scorn at all for us!) Each tasteless particle aside, and just All in the valley of Death. broke again, moving a top hat listlessly, But sexless, safe Philosophers. I bristle. Gallop about doing good) It's Poetry: An anthology of contemporary poetry from around the world 9.9 9.4 10.0 2: had made me think ahead She makes no noise, but stilly seizeth on I put my muzzle And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice And, trust me, as the noise grows stronger, Of any delight, and not spares from his back no proof, no footage of it – Poetry is primarily sound for James (or ‘noise’ as he puts it, with characteristically undercutting pretensions): “noise is the first and last thing poetry is. So a romance began. Human/Nature When his hair receded, he grew a woolly hat and beard. And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, cleaving the bone. What charms will cure your different pains, against you, but they wait, green as grass on the opposite side The beast that lives on silence takes They should have warned me of Simochka The language problem but you have to try. Each to his grief, each to A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. that girls’ club used to run in Brixton Lamb-white medical knowing and gentle To catch a rainbow cry, Honey, child, honey, child, whither are you going? from light to light, all down the long straight Some will settle down to work Everybody future plan at boulders, dirt on their bright hems. And the racer’s twelve-speed bike. Remember me when I am gone away, Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not; And therefore was it she was sent grown firmly in his mouth. Only, from the long line of spray A light that doth not depart; Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims. its awkward shape made me run there pulsing on the ground I was astounded by its size a gangly white goose throbbed heaved its head my eyes dropped blood flowers opened in the snow of its neck behind my shoulder stepping down from a yellow bus, children made their way across the field I shot once more to end it quickly close range its death did I do this to spare the bird from suffering or to spare the children the sight my motives in humid cold yes my knuckles in the cold steamed bright red, because on my stomach in grass in rubber boots pockets and vest I slid along with that hunter I did as he directed from quiver my draw my black lashes in steely eyed release it felt good there it felt strong my breath in autumn was an animal there I thought did I really do this   did I really yet what difference is muscle is an arrow powered upward or any flight to center when I did not hear it though I clearly mouthed poor thing poor thing poor thing. an try mi bes fi look out fi him. 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