Cold Blooded Creature by Elinor Wylie

Man, the egregious egoist,

(In mystery the twig is bent,)

Imagines, by some mental twist,

That he alone is sentient

Of the intolerable load

Which on all living creatures lies,

Nor stoops to pity in the toad

The speechless sorrow of its eyes.

He asks no questions of the snake,

Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom

Where lidless fishes, broad awake,

Swim staring at a night-mare doom.

In A Station of the Metro by Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:

Petals on a wet, black bough.

The Day Lady Died by Frank O'Hara

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
three days after Bastille day, yes
it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine
because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton 
at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner
and I don’t know the people who will feed me

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The Solitude of Night by Li Po (Trans: Shigeyoshi Obata)

It was at a wine party—

I lay in a drowse, knowing it not.

The blown flowers fell and filled my lap.

When I arose, still drunken,

The birds had all gone to their nests,

And there remained but few of my comrades.

I went along the river—alone in the moonlight.

To Doctor Empirik by Ben Jonson

When men a dangerous disease did 'scape,
Of old, they gave a cock to Æsculape :
Let me give too, that doubly am got free ;
From my disease's danger, and from thee.

Oh, For A Bowl of Fat Canary by John Lyly

Oh, for a bowl of fat Canary, 

Rich Palermo, sparkling Sherry, 

Some nectar else, from Juno’s dairy; 

Oh, these draughts would make us merry! 

Oh, for a wench (I deal in faces, 

And in other daintier things); 

Tickled am I with her embraces, 

Fine dancing in such fairy rings. 

Oh, for a plump fat leg of mutton, 

Veal, lamb, capon, pig, and coney; 

None is happy but a glutton, 

None an ass but who wants money. 

Wines indeed and girls are good, 

But brave victuals feast the blood; 

For wenches, wine, and lusty cheer, 

Jove would leap down to surfeit here.

Jolly Good Ale and Old by Anonymous

ACK and side go bare, go bare,
Both hand and foot go cold;
But, belly, God send thee good ale enough
Whether it be new or old.

But if 1 that I may have truly         
  Good ale my belly full,
I shall look like one, by sweet Saint John,
  Were shorn against the wool.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
  I am nothing a-cold;         
I stuff my skin so full within
  Of jolly good ale and old.

I cannot eat but little meat,
  My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I could drink         
  With him that weareth an hood.
Drink is my life; although my wife
  Some time do chide and scold,
Yet spare I not to ply the pot
  Of jolly good ale and old.         

I love no roast but a brown toast,
  Or a crab in the fire;
A little bread shall do me stead,
  Much bread I never desire.
Nor frost, nor snow, nor wind, I trow,         
  Can hurt me if it wolde;
I am so wrapped within, and lapped
  With jolly good ale and old.

I care right nought, I take no thought
  For clothes to keep me warm;         
Have I good drink, I surely think
  Nothing can do me harm.
For truly than I fear no man,
  Be he never so bold,
When I am armed and throughly warmed         
  With jolly good ale and old.

But now and than I curse and ban,
  They make their ale so small!
God give them care, and evil to fare!
  They strye 2 the malt and all.         
Such peevish pew, 3 I tell you true,
  Not for a crown of gold
There cometh one sip within my lip,
  Whether it be new or old.

Good ale and strong maketh me among         
  Full jocund and full light,
That oft I sleep, and take no keep
  From morning until night.
Then start I up and flee to the cup,
  The right way on I hold;         
My thirst to stanch I fill my paunch
  With jolly good ale and old.

And Kit, my wife, that as her life
  Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinketh she that ye may see         
  The tears run down her cheek.
Then doth she troll to me the bowl
  As a good malt-worm should,
And say, “Sweetheart, I take my part
  Of jolly good ale and old.”         

They that do drink till they nod and wink,
  Even as good fellows should do,
They shall not miss to have the bliss
  That good ale hath brought them to.
And all poor souls that scour black bowls,         
  And hath them lustily troll’d,
God save the lives of them and their wives,
  Whether they be young or old!
      

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

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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.

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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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