Poem for the Day

Posted: 14 October 2014

Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,...
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place -
be glad your nose is on your face!

Be Glad Your Nose Is On Your Face
Jack Prelutsky

Poem for the Day

Posted: 13 October 2014

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink 
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; 
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink 
And rise and sink and rise and sink again; 
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, 
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; 
Yet many a man is making friends with death 
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. 
It well may be that in a difficult hour, 
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, 
Or nagged by want past resolution's power, 
I might be driven to sell your love for peace, 
Or trade the memory of this night for food. 
It well may be. I do not think I would.

Love Is Not All
Edna St. Vincent Millay

Poem for the Day

Posted: 12 October 2014

It may be misery not to sing at all, 
And to go silent through the brimming day; 
It may be misery never to be loved, 
But deeper griefs than these beset the way. 

To sing the perfect song, 
And by a half-tone lost the key, 
There the potent sorrow, there the grief, 
The pale, sad staring of Life's Tragedy. 

To have come near to the perfect love, 
Not the hot passion of untempered youth, 
But that which lies aside its vanity, 
And gives, for thy trusting worship, truth. 

This, this indeed is to be accursed, 
For if we mortals love, or if we sing, 
We count our joys not by what we have, 
But by what kept us from that perfect thing.

Life's Tragedy
Paul Laurence Dunbar

Poem for the Day

Posted: 11 October 2014

He loved her and she loved him. 
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to 
He had no other appetite 
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked 
She wanted him complete inside her 
Safe and sure forever and ever 
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains 

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away 
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows 
He gripped her hard so that life 
Should not drag her from that moment 
He wanted all future to cease 
He wanted to topple with his arms round her 
Off that moment's brink and into nothing 
Or everlasting or whatever there was 

Her embrace was an immense press 
To print him into her bones 
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace 
Where the real world would never come 
Her smiles were spider bites 
So he would lie still till she felt hungry 
His words were occupying armies 
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts 
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge 
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets 
His whispers were whips and jackboots 
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing 
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway 
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks 
And their deep cries crawled over the floors 
Like an animal dragging a great trap 
His promises were the surgeon's gag 
Her promises took the top off his skull 
She would get a brooch made of it 
His vows pulled out all her sinews 
He showed her how to make a love-knot 
Her vows put his eyes in formalin 
At the back of her secret drawer 
Their screams stuck in the wall 

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves 
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop 

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs 
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage 

In the morning they wore each other's face

Ted Hughes

Poem for the Day

Posted: 10 October 2014

I ask them to take a poem 
and hold it up to the light 
like a color slide 

or press an ear against its hive. 

I say drop a mouse into a poem 
and watch him probe his way out, 

or walk inside the poem's room 
and feel the walls for a light switch. 

I want them to waterski 
across the surface of a poem 
waving at the author's name on the shore. 

But all they want to do 
is tie the poem to a chair with rope 
and torture a confession out of it. 

They begin beating it with a hose 
to find out what it really means.

Introduction to Poetry
Billy Collins

106-110 of 841 blog entries

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