Phrases

P

Arthur Rimbaud

When the world is reduced to a single dark wood for our two pairs of dazzled eyes—to a beach for two faithful children—to a musical house for our clear understanding—then I shall find you.

When there is only one old man on earth, lonely, peaceful, handsome, living in unsurpassed luxury, then I am at your feet.

When I have realized all your memories, —when I am the girl who can tie your hands,—then I will stifle you.

When we are very strong, who draws back? or very happy, who collapses from ridicule? When we are very bad, what can they do to us.

Dress up, dance, laugh. I will never be able to throw Love out of the window.

—Comrade of mine, beggar girl, monstrous child! How little you care about the wretched women, and the machinations and my embarrassment. Join us with your impossible voice, oh your voice! the one flatterer of this base despair.

* * *

A dark morning in July. The taste of ashes in the air, the smell of wood sweating in the hearth, steeped flowers, the devastation of paths, drizzle over the canals in the fields, why not already playthings and incense?

* * *

I stretched out ropes from spire to spire; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

* * *

The high pond is constantly streaming. What witch will rise up against the white sunset? What purple flowers are going to descend?

* * *

While public funds disappear in brotherly celebrations, a bell of pink are rings in the clouds.

* * *

Arousing a pleasant taste of Chinese ink, a black powder gently rains on my night,—I lower the jets of the chandelier, throw myself on the bed, and turning toward the dark, I see you, O my daughters and queens!

* * *

59

Rating:

Comment form:

Similar Poems:

Staggerlee wonders by James Baldwin

James Baldwin

1

I always wonder
what they think the niggers are doing
while they, the pink and alabaster pragmatists,
are containing
Russia
and defining and re-defining and re-aligning
China,

89

Rating:

The Fête by Charlotte Mew

Charlotte Mew

To-night again the moon’s white mat
Stretches across the dormitory floor
While outside, like an evil cat
The pion prowls down the dark corridor,
Planning, I know, to pounce on me, in spite
For getting leave to sleep in town last night.
But it was none of us who made that noise,
Only the old brown owl that hoots and flies

88

Rating:

Madeleine in Church by Charlotte Mew

Charlotte Mew

Here, in the darkness, where this plaster saint
Stands nearer than God stands to our distress,
And one small candle shines, but not so faint
As the far lights of everlastingness,
I’d rather kneel than over there, in open day
Where Christ is hanging, rather pray
To something more like my own clay,
Not too divine;

83

Rating:

Autobiography: New York by Charles Reznikoff

Charles Reznikoff

I

It is not to be bought for a penny
in the candy store, nor picked
from the bushes in the park. It may be found, perhaps,
in the ashes on the distant lots,
among the rusting cans and Jimpson weeds.
If you wish to eat fish freely,
cucumbers and melons,

78

Rating:

Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking by Walt Whitman

Walt Whitman

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wander’d alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,

76

Rating:

Andrea del Sarto by Robert Browning

Robert Browning

But do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.
You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?
I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own way,
Fix his own time, accept too his own price,
And shut the money into this small hand
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?
Oh, I'll content him,—but to-morrow, Love!
I often am much wearier than you think,
This evening more than usual, and it seems
As if—forgive now—should you let me sit
Here by the window with your hand in mine
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,

110

Rating:

The Cry of the Children by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

"Pheu pheu, ti prosderkesthe m ommasin, tekna;"
[[Alas, alas, why do you gaze at me with your eyes, my children.]]—Medea. Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years ?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, —
And that cannot stop their tears.

71

Rating:

Heart’s Needle by W. D. Snodgrass

W. D. Snodgrass

For Cynthia

When he would not return to fine garments and good food, to his houses and his people, Loingseachan told him, “Your father is dead.” “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “Your mother is dead,” said the lad. “All pity for me has gone out of the world.” “Your sister, too, is dead.” “The mild sun rests on every ditch,” he said; “a sister loves even though not loved.” “Suibhne, your daughter is dead.” “And an only daughter is the needle of the heart.” “And Suibhne, your little boy, who used to call you “Daddy”—he is dead.” “Aye,” said Suibhne, “that’s the drop that brings a man to the ground.”
He fell out of the yew tree; Loingseachan closed his arms around him and placed him in manacles.—AFTER THE MIDDLE-IRISH ROMANCE, THE MADNESS OF SUIBHNE

111

Rating:

Wildflowers by Richard Howard

Richard Howard

for Joseph Cady

Camden, 1882 Is it raining, Mary, can you see?

101

Rating: