By Rita Dove
late, in aqua and ermine, gardenias
scaling her left sleeve in a spasm of scent,
her gloves white, her…
scaling her left sleeve in a spasm of scent,
her gloves white, her…
Explore Poems: Consonance
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- By Ted HughesI climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark.
Evil air, a frost-making stillness,
Not a leaf… - By Cedric Tillmanyou know I ain’t mess w/you ’cause of yo’ friends
wouldn’t have you caught slummin’
know you hood 'cause… - By Tristan Tzarathen the clouds rolled in
young is the night that is to say
a cellophane softness ensued
which blew … - By Patti Smithpicture this. I’ll play the killer. 16 millimeter.
ebony and ivory. the purest contrast. iris closed… - By Leslie Contreras SchwartzA body must remind itself
to keep living, continually,
throughout the day.
Even at night while sleeping… - By Trevor Ketnerbleed bull (lip, hair, spine)—sad candy fad—
anon, i shave a dad, dig a staff into mud,
stir daddylevel… - By Lynne ThompsonBelle as beast
Eel as style
Bats testy
Best lastly
Bluely astute —
as bull
as beetle
as Bey
as butte… - By Wilfred OwenIt seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites… - By Robert PinskyFelicity the healer isn’t young
And you don’t look him up unless you need him.
Clown’s eyes, Pope’s… - By Deborah Paredezi.
here: our forsaken home
mesa breaks desert
dialing curve of mountain
territory of anthropology
… - By Marie PonsotThe big doll being broken and the sawdust fall
all scattered by my shoes, not crying
I sit in my dark… - By Wilfred OwenSit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell.
Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
Both… - By Wilfred OwenLet the boy try along this bayonet-blade
How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Blue with… - By Kevin YoungCrashing
again—Basquiat
sends fenders
& letters headlong
into each other
the future. Fusion.
AAAAAAAAAAA… - By Bernadette MayerUse a new conductor every time-out
you have sextet—before foreshore,
before pen name gets anywhere
near… - By Stanley PlumlyLike the waxwings in the juniper,
a dozen at a time, divided, paired,
passing the berries back and forth… - By Stanley PlumlyMyths of the landscape—
the sun going down in the mouths of the furnaces,
the fires banked and cooling… - By William BlakeLittle Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream… - By William BlakeNever seek to tell thy love
Love that never told can be
For the gentle wind does move
Silently invisibly…