Autumn Rain by D.H. Lawrence

The plane leaves
fall black and wet
on the lawn;


the cloud sheaves
in heaven’s fields set
droop and are drawn


in falling seeds of rain;
the seed of heaven
on my face


falling — I hear again
like echoes even
that softly pace


heaven’s muffled floor,
the winds that tread
out all the grain


of tears, the store
harvested
in the sheaves of pain


caught up aloft:
the sheaves of dead
men that are slain


now winnowed soft
on the floor of heaven;
manna invisible


of all the pain
here to us given;
finely divisible
falling as rain.

The Tennis Court Oath by John Ashbery

What had you been thinking about
the face studiously bloodied
heaven blotted region
I go on loving you like water but
there is a terrible breath in the way all of this   
You were not elected president, yet won the race   
All the way through fog and drizzle
When you read it was sincere the coasts
stammered with unintentional villages the   
horse strains fatigued I guess . . . the calls . . .
I worry

All the Difficult Hours and Minutes by Jane Hirshfield


A ll the difficult hours and minutes
are like salted plums in a jar.


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Poem Written with Bashō [“A photograph”] by Matthew Rohrer

A photograph
on the back of a hand mirror
resembles someone you knew
who sang themselves utterly away.

Death Fugue by Paul Celan

Black milk of morning we drink you at dusktime
we drink you at noontime and dawntime we drink you at night
we drink and drink
we scoop out a grave in the sky where it’s roomy to lie

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Fire by APCrumlish

The fire was started by a spark
igniting coconut husk
fiber in a cushion maker’s house.

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Easter, 1916 by William Butler Yeats

I have met them at close of day   
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey   
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head   
Or polite meaningless words,   
Or have lingered awhile and said   
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done   
Of a mocking tale or a gibe   
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,   
Being certain that they and I   
But lived where motley is worn:   
All changed, changed utterly:   
A terrible beauty is born.
 

Not Ideas About the Thing but the Thing Itself - Wallace Stevens

At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.


The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

To A Poor Old Woman by William Carlos Williams

munching a plum on   
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand

The New Colussus by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer by John Keats

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
   And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
   Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
   That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
   Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
   When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
   He star'd at the Pacific—and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise—
   Silent, upon a peak in Darien.