Tag Archives: Poetry

What Kind of Times Are These

“What Kind of Times Are These” by Adrienne Rich There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted who disappeared … Continue reading

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Postcard from a volcano

“A Postcard from the Volcano” by Wallace Stevens Children picking up our bones Will never know that these were once As quick as foxes on the hill; And that in autumn, when the grapes Made sharp air sharper by their … Continue reading

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To Any Reader

A Child’s Garden of Verse, Robert Louis Stevenson, illustrations by Brian Wildsmith  

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October : The rain falls like dirty string

Tom Clark October  

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Literature Is An Invention

Adagia Sara Nicholson Literature is an invention; it was Written by men to praise war. Economy is tragic; the economy Comedy. What the heart feigns The mind rehearses, circles A river on the map, as if to say “Voilà! Now the … Continue reading

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September 1, 1939

September 1, 1939 W.H. Auden I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands … Continue reading

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NYC: Poetry on the Street

h/t Nitzan Mintz  

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August, you’re just an erotic hallucination

“Here in the electric dusk your naked lover tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth. It’s beautiful Susan, her hair sticky with gin, Our Lady of Wet Glass-Rings on the Album Cover, streaming with hatred … Continue reading

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The summer night is like a perfection of thought

The House Was Quiet and The World Was Calm BY WALLACE STEVENS The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book. The house was quiet … Continue reading

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Train in the Rain

The Book of Questions, III Pablo Neruda – 1904-1973 III. Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress? Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots? Who hears the regrets of the thieving automobile? Is … Continue reading

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