======================================== SAMPLE 1 ========================================
"An Culmination", by William Collins [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Men & Women]
There is no word to look at. The paper levels: on and on the clock jerks its handwith sixty sizes of striking clauses in time. Or: Reaching, it aggravated: the one by calling,
will throw a lifetime,
then bleed if the blow
could bring that person.
<|endoftext|>
"The New York Movie", by William Collins [Living, Coming of Age, Activities, Indoor Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life]
for Billie Holiday

Billie Holiday is dead. I am unhappy,
standing there like a gray stone,
standing there in my sweater,
thinking I can’t kill you: I would like to be a big, red dog
with snow. I wish you a good night
with your face, your cheek and your legs, your legs.
I want to throw away this falling Sunday
with your face, my ugly body, my ugly body.
Nothing to give my body to,
nothing to give my heart to.
<|endoftext|>
"The Great Form", by William Collins [Living, Death, Activities, School & Learning, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire]
When the viola droops,
I'll not be surprised to say
Hey the grinning glass ball.
Laughing and cooing,
I won’t be the one
To tell the tragic scene.
My young friends are both men and women.
They joke and sneer,
Just like lovers.
They both think it prudent
Just to bathe in red bruises.
They hate at recesses
While I’m eating my collars.
<|endoftext|>
"On Beholding the Poet", by Wallace Stevens [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
But be you the poet
And I the last poet.Be you the perfect poem.Be you meer of the man and woman
And I the superior poem.Be you meer of the endless poem
And I the perishable’s real writing.Be you meer of the unfathom
======================================== SAMPLE 2 ========================================
"The Night Piece", by Lynn Emanuel [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, War & Conflict]
A local anaesthetic was calling one day,
Tottering the country pavement, ticking like
The clattering, high-crested cars going down,
Marching, stumbling,
Marching men with their wives.
The psychotherapy, April 9, 1930

The night drive you to the BrooklynBridge
And find yourself weeping,
The night land lost in the west,
The theft of the town, the hell-sick lives,
The boy with the baby,
The idiot with the woman.
You remember the church,
Almost empty, almost empty?
There’s nothing to newly deliver.
The drunk hardly remembers.
The cars so full they go galloping by
There’s nothing to do. You give them your moment
To come and continue,
If you still hear there’s not there for you
The singular fog of a season, the exquisite,
The scent of life in the heart of the town.
The men standing galloping to the railroad bridge
Murmuring of miles of happiness, walking,
Step-dance, blow a trumpet, or keep the form.
The woman seizes her arms. She’s sick
Running down the road and coughing glass,
Her eyes. The cars are emptied of light.
Behind the truck there’s nothing to do,
Except for the man holding watch. You can’t wait
Till the news arrives, to let it go.
You can wait till the train arrives.
You can wait until the train arrives.
You can wait till the train arrives.
The train breaks. The women have arms about children.
The trains fall. The shadow of the dark clouds
Gave way to a sky. The man standing next to them
Saw the long wake beyond the valley, the train
Of cars speeding faster and faster in the ground.
The train stopped at its stop there, turning,
And the man paused. He called for help. They called.
And the train stopped in at the station,
Beyond the truck, far up the road.
The man was exhausted.
He called for help. All the
======================================== SAMPLE 3 ========================================
"Autumn Shade, American", by Geoffrey Chaucer [Living, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Nature, Winter]
1.

Half that I would be a segmented universe
on a paper airplane, and my mind

is accidental. And the first time
I play possible,
my mind’s a vacuum, and mind
is eternal.
2.
It’s autumn again, yes,
but the end of it’s blinding,
and theircatuana
of lack.

3.

There’s enoughTavern in the world to eat the slop of Ca Pais

or curdle the Kalmose Tea.

The one electron penis

will bring years to my head
in shrug. Car-voo to the Daughters

I recently learned to Write the poem

that teaches Nikki Giovanni
how to re-create the

realm of grace. Car-voo

After he exploded with a few

kips, I was undone. Car-u-de

I also wrote the poem.
4.

It does not have to be wondered
At breakfast, at wrestling, in three-

Polishingemies. Pygmalion

Or remarkable Jew.

He has gone into the absolute
and whelmed the difficult cupboard,

where he can find the soul-

labour it should be difficult
to obtain the understanding.

There’s no dissolutions.
The sweat
and sweat intoxicate

the leather-soured bones.

There are no crowns but one strophe.

I lie down on my back

and sing a song about wallpaper.

I just drink from my cup
and sing to myself
about paradoxically
I have some work to do.

5.

A migration at Sardinia. Micah
Romeo. Car-mâch, car-limb.

Car-limb. Eloh. Gallipseo. Eloh. Eloh.

Tsuji. Eloh. Gallipseo.

Tsuji. Justine. Gallipseo.
Tiro. Justine. Poppy. Gallipseo.
Tiro. Poppy-to-get.

Tiro. Just
======================================== SAMPLE 4 ========================================
"Lives of the Playwright’s Birthday, 1685", by David Yezzi [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Sports & Outdoor Activities, Social Commentaries, Class]
Never yet was whole world designed
But that which now is dust and mind—
That deathless spirit whose high design
Had made earth’s dust the worlds of human kind;
Whose highest thought, creating mind, and eye,
Might fashion any man his epitaph.

We build within ourselves, we nurse, we strive,
Our little cells of learning-craft and mind
Are compass'd by a heaven-appointed eye
To measure blessings; working souls advance
Like cockle taps against the evening sky;
We know how human life depends. I see
The root of husbandry; the sturdy germ
Of manhood in the ground, and thrives at large—
Mere ditties and plain brown earth of early manhood.
A spring there is that slim prefer, whose air
Is life and motion; not the old Earth’s breath,
But the new Adamantine tree, whose boughs,
Majestic as yon blade of ocean, show
At last their promise of fresh fruit. The sum
Of Earth's good gifts send raptures never near.
O Earth! wide spaces, hear me where I pace!
The voices of the storm come thin and clear
About me; distant ripples come and stay
The pines that shake the valleys. I must pass
All scenes; I pass, and vanish without any cheer.

I yearn to breathe the airs that stir the grass
All round me; to feel fresh, undimmed the sun
Among the meadows purple, and am won
To share the pleasures that no change can bring.
I still am strong and resolute; the wind
Is up and rushing—till I seem content
With nothing in it, and I cease to be.
A little space beyond the prison bars
I hold my little captive in my chain,
And there is free access unto the stars.
There is no room for any fear or pain
In all the city, distant, deep, and vast,
To breathe in on itself and me. For sum,
(If grisps, I hold these corners wronged and tight)
Whether the happenings of two men, apart,
Had bound us betw
======================================== SAMPLE 5 ========================================
"Heads Scribbt", by Pope Knart [Religion, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire]
Seems just some sleep was broken 
by the wakeful fact,
There are hints between the folds
of holy meaning and of faith. . . .
What we hold as proselype for the bodily
dazzle of the eye,
We cannot reconcile the mental
yes, but it is certain,
Those saints who are only real enough
to understand,
The devout, fervent, medullious Bible
--that they have also done well enough,
their liberalgiving,
--shaking the keys for centuries and years,
talking in tongues that can but fall
into eternal calm,
--shaking the chair for the bosom-
garden of the soul,
--shaking the valleys with the silver
crown of the cloisters,--shaking the
silence of the waters with the silver
crown of the sea.
<|endoftext|>
"Dear Sirs, oh, dear cousin", by William Shorel Knapport [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Home Life]
I've been at the door all day. How long I've stayed in
ash or on the stair? How long I've waited,
hunched before and since, on fancy's pin-a-t-e no bars have been
en-spilled down the wall. Dear cousin mine, come hither;
break it across the years that my house you built,
and your house you will never again make a foot into,
while I have a word to say. Dear cousin kitten, come
and light your heart's wound. Dear cousin kitten, though it
is long, I must go on my way. I must find word
around that healing store. I must press the balm of its honey
from the wound that you gave me before I passed that door,
and it's enough for me now, too. But the good brown baby,
you're not permitted to come back to me. I must work out my mind's
not the thing that you did, but whatever place you
keep; it's a pleasure to work.
<|endoftext|>
"Love's Alchemy", by Allison Adelle Hedge Coke [Relationships, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics
======================================== SAMPLE 6 ========================================
"Shore Lounge", by Elizabeth Arnold [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Men & Women]
For once, the pain seems sleeping, and anon the sharp olections check the lung. We can’t be sure how things will be becoming, or the changes of the body. But this I know, an Aeolian island adds to the body’s controulus to the body. Later, toward the beginning of the body, there is a painful gust. The gum now has to be made, the peach skinny. The frame, unconscious. Sugar, terrible.

The world has a yellow zone for some, some for some.Magic zone, panther, panther.

The uncertain uncertain rumor, the curious gasp for which you pose, the perturbative chore. The illusions of the brain. Delirium's unwavering sky reflecting phantom stars. These objects later: postage before the onion; suburb of the weak sex. These objects, once common to most, at their edges. Instead of the stifling, not essential to the present day, not to the past, gargoyles, not people, persons, people, empires.

Where are you? You never returned, you shining thing.
<|endoftext|>
"To a History Store", by Yehuda Amichai [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall]
How hard it is for the living to die
holding only memory, and then to study the minutes
how like a trumpet of the future it sounds.

Gentlest of birds, patient as a body, cautious,
clear as the tongues of previous vervain birds.

Perhaps you are close to it, beautiful world.
<|endoftext|>
"Lines", by Eugénio Amichai [Living, Death, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated]
Those whom you like, your own blood, how you go.
Scared, you cannot describe the dead’s amazement
or weigh the earth with gore, in terrible turns
from itself, compared to that living, how you freeze in
renthe wood, then how I cling to your body
and find you different.

When our bodies meet,
the boy in the face is still but a boy.

How much
======================================== SAMPLE 7 ========================================
"Before the Mirror", by Joseph Tybris
Were there a bottom, or a bottom, or a bottom?
You all have got to stand in the corner
And throw a towel back there on your lap.
But it won't help. There's someone
Standing in the corner, trying to say
That his script is good, careless, serious,
And that hispolitical position
Is not the right thing, even a trifle.
This is not the part I like

But it's my affection that keeps you with me

For my sake.
You all love poetry, even I.

I let you know that I am affectionate.

Does this want to be a goddess,
Or does it cost me a cast of paper?
I only asked the minor half

What it is, and I wanted it to be

What.... And it's finally. You all get to be

Modest, or only solemn.
Says anybody?

That's what the mean.
—I never understood, nobody understood.

You can tell by yourindependent and ultrasound route,
You can buy what you want,
But not what you want.
Something, you know. And it's your own Last Birth.

And I'm only holding up my collection

In a perfect piece, before it is too late.
No, it's too late for me,
Because you get so close.
My final letter back to your co-author, is pissed.

It's time now, and I can be safe.
I can buy a couple of new lambs
And eat stacks of them, while you have the asylum

Of one last survivor whom you can remember

Half through each night,
And half during the month.
And if you were here
Because you have here the asylum for your own gender,
And have the practice of tender children,
Do try to smother them in their gizzard

By telling them they cry,
Being so very careful, even they are blamied
For making them ashamed of other girls.
But they don't see why it is that we can talk,
And we can't hear what is happening to us.
You told them, though, that it had come to be a lie,
And you had said shame to them, I know what,
And got the lie to bed, being as half your
======================================== SAMPLE 8 ========================================
"Kate Miró", by Aphra Behn [Living, Disappointment & Failure, The Body, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, War & Conflict]
“It can’t be told,” Sarah said, “in our family, not even me, That we, her mother, need to cut a cord to draw it to the woman’s blood, Because with us It is decided we are wedded.”
It may be said that Anti-Aeolian folk were pioneers for the career of our nation through the drumming of the drumming drumming drumming enemy in Germany’s southern end, “Breathe your cones on Belgium’s mountains,” which is, “Breathe your . . . Your . . .”
It may be said that after the sigil years fought over, the High Sex Forces, “Breathe your . . .”
This was one of the great lamentations for Anti-Aeolian folk, as the years passed through, Censorious for their dying. It may be said that bad women perished in war, probably produced the semen of an ancient race, lived also with the word august, that they were timorous, and put them off, in the civil war of their kind. This may be perhaps the sum of their minor adjustments. But it may be certain, and may be easily told by many others, the personal occasion of choice and abjection of choice to one of these game-laws is determined by Electric mutations. Exercive not only per se’pa with the Brahm monks, but also voraciously acquire the severness of suffering and ague. Take care of all experienced folk, who look not back, perhaps on all indifferent men, Who look not back to their faults in helping you.
The Bráhmans, Saint, are those who tend your bodies, the pious and the fearful, for whom we groan, Or tear their hearts to sympathize with yours, But who look back? All men bend homeless to their brags, But those who war with your fundive stuff Look on, and if you let it from their memories Know that you were born to give them up.
This too is all.
But still there lies Precise, who seeks the
======================================== SAMPLE 9 ========================================
"The Taxis", by Amy Lowell [Living, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
Is to be useful looking at? How did you get here in the show? Fig, I know.
<|endoftext|>
"My First Best About Everyone", by Amy Lowell [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
The rib-chain in my head? That bald belt
around my finger proves a prize. How can I tell you
my new shoes are my toes. I want to step
my feet, to taste the biscuit-bruises
all around you. The floor is Turkish lacquered
with lacquered grapes, from my old rock-hoary
leg-banded lap, the farthest front of it
of all the girls I have ever seen. The glint
from my shoe, a sunbeam borrowed from my eye,
seems that they are the vanishing points
of the bewildered twilights of my tZ-T, L —d—torying over with love.It's a sin to see clear water,
from the pool of your eye, and to smell the curl
of your yielding sand. The day is my own.
From afar does my glances wander,
as from the house of my dream. Each morning,
for you I break up the perfect gift
you had, when I had said good-bye.
<|endoftext|>
"Grove", by David Purcell [Living, Growing Old, Activities, Gardening, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture]
Dramatic news — it fades like a lastExercive of late April fading with the quick
fall, while everything is blinkingor busy with its latest prints.
By the time you get the breakfast table it is soggyand misplac'd by some old literaryist. It is useless to fantasize of the late flabby picturesque abandon, where everything nibs, and everything nibs, and everything nibs, and everything, flecks, and blades of grass. But these are writing, and though they are not magazine, gaping at the new made contact I still want to
======================================== SAMPLE 10 ========================================
"From “Canyted”", by Nousavik [Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Animals]
The Arab Gaze

Like a monstrous jungle
from whence rushes grow tall
the naked ramparts of the desert
turn away from the Gaze
and the water resembles a bath
with all the new words
sculpted in the marble of a house
in the Getch water the taxonomy
is where it has to lave itself
among sunplastered flowers
under glass and in water—
the G'mhis G'mhis G'm’s
name resembles an O for size
like Pforcha’s honeycomb
in my juice my hair
became the O for size
in my eyes, jewels, seas, the stone
an amethystine under glass
I am
the South Pacific where the dollar-poms
go to heat the air
rising from the sea
where as trees fertilise as they’ve put off
the bullg provoke from the paddock
the katy-fuin and the paddock
backside the swimmina
backside the dog irons
baref and a goat
fire from the gunner the G'm landing from the net
the K16 air-front named
the K16 air-front named
the steam in front of India
pulling the tree-foot logs into the boil
I am borne by the wind
carrying the others
in a temple of my people
under the olive trees
facing the image of our island
under the hollowed voice
of a hostess
head to the wind
burns the trees
and the shrubs
and the beech leaves
stacks the ashes
burn all their wood
and the light barks the fire
now we are borne
by the wind
the lake by the wind
the trees sway and the slow water
in its heavy folds
cutting up
the roots of the roof
above the roof
the clouds which are falling
on that tower
cry converge and interweave
together from cloud knots
as clouds do
back through the wind
le dissolving
mella on the earth
regardless of its structure

The wind awhile I waited
the student came late
with his garment jitter
adrift down to the shore
lost
in the rigging up the
======================================== SAMPLE 11 ========================================
"Mirror", by Zack Strait [Living, Death, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
He opened the door:
Like a screen of live oaks in the public road
He swept the ruins.
A hachaak blazed, a dyed canopy roasted the moon.
He shouted, “Oblis, Oblis.”
A wild lamb stepped into the desolate leaflets,
It vanished and stayed.
A humming owl hopped into the bougainville singing.
<|endoftext|>
"Snake", by Todd Boss [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire]
The empty cage is not an old room,
Filled with sand and hues,
Its roof is a somber house
Where owls and I can see
One’s voice putting a button by.
The others listen only to the wind,
But I will not, I do not think so loud
Should I be told what is behind.
How patiently I have to wait!
I have a date to go, a date to not,
If it shall be that I forgot.
<|endoftext|>
"Bacalao Go", by Todd Boss [Nature, Animals, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, The Spiritual]
A bacalao bends above the rice fields
As if alive. Where the cottonwoods
Had earlier stirred the weight of liquid flame
The object was the object of a crowd.
The sun had long been let down
When at his setting, some angel, bright,
Had chosen his noon’s work at the water’s edge,
The other three following after me
Along the sandy road to Peoria—
Any pathway that even a downfall can know.
The morningMeanwhile had beenenta-
Solitary angel dismounting the speed
Of his bright, joyful back. Now here, now there,
On the last morn of the long day, the hawk
Stood pointing toward him from the high cliff,
Where the ridge line stood clear. He gazed intent
On the horizon before him, and saw,
Far off, the constellation constellation,
The axes of flashing wood. He saw the glow
Of the pine-trees beyond the tamarind,
The tiniest trillium of the cloven soil.

======================================== SAMPLE 12 ========================================
"Passingaway", by Max Mendelsohn [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Animals, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams]
“The longing for the Lost Land immediately awakened me in the dream I had left behind. A sound I cannot do without ears to hear; it is too much. The piers have chosen for the melody.”Albert Strick Mensay is about the salt Atlantic and a part of America.

She asked me to tell her about my father. He was on the expedition and had a price.He paid it in advance. I was on the boat with the blind.He was playing “There’s something you can’t bring back.”Optilessness a conflict in water currents.Beautifulness meas where you are winding your way.Meaning So long without you coming back.
<|endoftext|>
"Binking", by Nina Julia [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Trees & Flowers]
Two young beets fed from the black earth and they ate of them. One of them borrowed his mouth and soon taken it away.Was an old man not too old to say “I told you. I said it is you who buy bread for it.”How is he a young person being told that not to be ashamed is not concerned at all. Nobody has no ambition but you for one job and you for another.3 Then she told me that in your youth, in your longer life you saw the greens on the wall.I was amazed to see what she had to tell. It was strange how you could wait longer together longer alone. It was strange how you could wait longer together longer alone.4 Then you felt like leaving a body whose panther and its cold, hungry air that cannot stay.5 Then you left the room. It was strange how you could not stand with your body when you felt it.
But strange how strange. With four young beeches you entered the forest and were walking hand in hand after they saw you.But you thought to yourself, “Have I seen its power?” geometricize on that, in that.I had come slowly and still through time, and have seen it.
But you still have your image.6 Then you turn your back to find it.

======================================== SAMPLE 13 ========================================
"A Graveyard", by William Poe [Living, Death, Life Choices, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets]
The great answer

is:

Pieri di Caspero press Capacius

Civi’s pose an ape
<|endoftext|>
"Whitehair", by William Poe [Living, Life Choices, Midlife, The Body, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets]
After the storia

When a man comes
from the Pyrenz into Italy

He’s a novice

operating in an inner panel

he’s a one-man

He’s a loose man

in a church

and God knows (with

humid civility) whom

He especially wants

to be popular.

He drives his horses

through the gate- Closed

peaks door-opened

which way

he drives.

How converse

with those whom

he calls out

with:

the lily

and the cup

of life

which gives.
<|endoftext|>
"Snake Villanue", by Fatimah Asghar [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Youth, Arts & Sciences, Music, Philosophy, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books]
I was—though I will not

decline with.

The cruellest bides
you devise
in lisping like the hooks

of their hooks,

touch lightly as they threaten

with the clutch

of their hearts.

A world of nights

at the dore

and the comrade whom

I remember as I write

about it, the moonlight

blown abroad

by curbs of sunlight

on the comer

hanging the neck

in the new world.
<|endoftext|>
"The Lake Has You In Your Name", by Khaled Mattawa [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, The Body, Love, Desire, Nature, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams]
You were the same

as me.

The daily

attic on the
======================================== SAMPLE 14 ========================================
"The Palestinianpha", by Tony Hoagland [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams]
in my dream those flowers blossomed into my dreams
it is so set and rinsed and pale
the place glittered and glittered
this is the day of the starshower
whose dog trimmed the bay in patent leather
every time a happy tinge glowed
from my dusty dreams of starshine
forgetting the toil I had for stewing
so I kissed a nigger set free
and bid the dog eat his stew if he slept
he would not hunger more
smoke is an old woman with one leg barely clutching
knobbed new flowers from a dead man's hand
buried her last tomatoes the maze all self-slabbing
and giving her a rose and wreath
this is the day of the starshine
the day of the pollination.
and said a servant:
I took out my fan from a hollow tree
and blew by its air—a starving flower
take out this bellied bee
in the white of New York’sKnowings—
take my hand and sink to the sea
there is no one to tell me about roses
what an arm, what a mind, what company it is
we will say: we will drink nothing but Popsies
we will speak of the flowers
so you reed out to the lake’s blue margin
then you will see forests, your fields, your ceilings
filled with herbs and parsley and parsley and parsley
I will give you this song at the time in the morning
and you will have to leap to the floor
of the village and bed in a man-o-my-room
for you will become—slick schemes
we will be—stunned by the monoclast
consolations of other men-folk drowning
in white water, in their true
white water, in their tried sea joys
beside each other
we will tighten our arms
out of vote: we will fight in the darkness
between banks and shoals
and men in blind houses, tied
to things over their hot tides, will
beat back the blood and strike
new men, shoot to the rock, break
your creeds with the precision of dissolving chemicals
iron, grind soap, and grind time
into lines over and
======================================== SAMPLE 15 ========================================
"Teetum luctant", by Natasha Trethewey [Religion, Christianity, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology]
There’s teeter-wine on yer see-through sweeth(“we mickle” polypylos”) and teeter-wine(“Odiousis,” says Telemachus)
“Aunt Vidal.” The liquid flavor girds
Thee and the vines and Bacchus round,
And makes a pretty serpent of
“To taste the rose”. Trippandros in
Arachne’s coat and orange stockings.
There kneeled Adam, Eve, and prayed
For Isid all the riverside,
Cooed with Bacchus at his side
And fish’s countess, grass, and vine (tis true),
And grapes, and ivy, and the rest,
And all white figs in summer-time,
And post-hogs happy with our rhymes,
And all the painted rose in love
And time—and all the grape-garland
Frost-awfle with the jimmines,
And lady-smocks and hollyhocks
Go round the world in white arrayed,
There wedding bands on high repair,
And then there wedding-nightingales
And then and then the kindling tent
All as of old are made for man,
Plants bud, or white buds sets him up,
And he sings the song with which the god
Has led his lips, and hearkens dumb:
Some nymph, chorister of the din,
To whom he prays as if her eyes
Were made to weep, a virgin-pin
For Pan himself and for his sain,
Although at last they take no pain
For anything at all. But when
He pipes to flutes (this fine thing!) he
Taps horizontal, pipes to thee.
And for the burden: though he flits
Back with the Pan, he’ll not go home
To dance with learned rooks on his hands
The peril, and to make his prayer
Only a passing flute and flute
Sings to the hither end of the woods
’Neath shady trees. Or when he pours
The fluted wine among the b
======================================== SAMPLE 16 ========================================

"[Sonnets]", by Lorine Niedecker
A man may find his own ways
chattering, “The light and darkness
gone again so far
that it will turn night into day.”
Cold weather rising in the Dead Sea,
lonely, as is your source.

What shall I tell you
when the Yours and Griefs will turn your days to come,
those silver mornings, golden days, when all the world will be
a story?

pulses the air.
A boy may hear the surf on the shore,
your hand on my book,
your breath in a chain
for I love you,
and I have a blessing for you.
<|endoftext|>
" — Lying Dream", by Lorine Niedecker [Love, Desire]
soon, at last, when I think
in the night he will come,
following Egyptian night
and will watch from the wood,
nothing I have to say, not
will he say.
And when he calls for me,
I give him a strand of my hair
and a boat to take him
to the sea, and he will tell you
I am really a place to sail
on a watery loch,
and marry a man
on the same snow as I'm now.
<|endoftext|>
"The Notary", by Lorine Niedecker [Living, The Mind, Time & Brevity]
I do not know. It seems
to me as well,
far as I, as I, and you,
it seems, that we,
or some other place, were hidden beneath
that mist, and we,
and then, suddenly, suddenly,
our eyes did close,
and we were alone,
and, suddenly, we knew not why,
the world seemed bread and wine,
but, suddenly, we knew
no more where we were led.

In that other place
we lost the beloved way we lost,
simplicity and grace,
and some rose-fed apple on the apple-trees
returning again to the land.
<|endoftext|>
"boundary", by Lorine Niedecker [Activities, Jobs & Working, Travels & Journeys, Social Commentaries, History & Politics]
down in the valley
======================================== SAMPLE 17 ========================================
"Dark flour", by Karen J. Ford [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Trees & Flowers]
We were once hurt
in the beginning
before this amber weather
stirring the rose petals
from the white
dusty floor
on our feet.
The sky today was vistaed
with azalea and the hydrangeas.
It came in like the wind
or like blossoming
of a May morning late,
when rubies on our footsteps were trimm'd
obsom and frail as may suit pinkiness
into a tulip. Or like a screen
of violets, or like the sound
of raindrops on my tongue, or like our names
bonding ourselves to listen. Or like a dish of porcelain,
or like the heart-in-the-dust of lunch, or like a flower
drunk by a tongu-hyring rind. Or like a ribald
youth
distrusting the form
of his own speech, which should rise
like the tripe, or one of saints
circling the throne. Or like a mother
laughing at her students, or like a friend
of wrangling schools, or like a botanist
whose voice is an old god, or like an instrument
lifeline fawning beside the window. Or like a self-appointed
household life, wherein the ghost of her whom
sits pale at night with a curse, or like an exile's
wandering life, but like a little stair,
robe that dreams the lightest
while she lies there.
So wept the Princess. So wept the Princess.
And wept the Princess. Now at midnight,
troubled by a new disaster, we lie and let
us lie alone. Our blood once warm'd my blood,
all life long,
and there's nothing left of the fragrant
touch.
The heat rises slowly in the arms
of some of the flowers.
We sleep together in our mouths,
unfolding each a tiny moment.
None are like this.
But they watch each with different eyes
and different minds.
You two drank tulips. I will not speak
of one till this sudden
intimate place where everything
is turn'd into solid earth
======================================== SAMPLE 18 ========================================
"My Love Sent Me a List", by Gerrit Lansing [Living, Coming of Age, Philosophy]
for Gerrit Lansing

Romans’ “A Regina is not missing”

Romans“An Regina is not missing”
Romans use the word “so fucking”

Romans, so beauty's something
That just short distance a minute
If, while re-affers-goating,
They discharge their hearts at last
A moment more will get across them,
So, more, more I pine for you, most people
<|endoftext|>
"Don’t Seem School Teacher", by Gerrit Lansing [Living, Youth, Philosophy]
A little girl, with a fresh, fresh voice
And a tiny, fresh-cut face, asks one question:
Why are you running outside? Three of us wish
To tell her that you’re a pretty baby
She keeps on asking through the high and low voices
Of the world with her. We’re just ordinary,
But we don’t pop and we don’t pop and we sneak.
We have just a notion: we look like children,
We’re young, we’re happy, but we don’t pop and we sneak.
All day we’re running, nor yet a bit happens.
We’re going to sell our pockets and so buy a book
With all the public charity and a wine-crazy,
And in it come the poor mother sorrowing, with
That place in her hand and look how it trembled!
Poor thing, she’s given in another man’s hand,
But when the years decide to die she’s only from him
She’s taken in her hand and given him hers
And will again be happy.
No matter where they go,
In the next room they’re dancing.
Then, when the children’s chorus
Has a last lingering in it,
Back to the dolls, all three,
They take up keys and, shepherding them
And tell them to a garden;
And some go home to bed, to light them fires
In the new minuet, their hearts afraid of
The goat-bear and the camomot,
The zebrunt and the kettle;
Others
======================================== SAMPLE 19 ========================================
"Culture Class: An Appeal to States", by John Logan [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Popular Culture]
The country they call August….Wast thou not, kind, Grass-briikin?A grim-visaged business would decline,With a placid and soothing surpriseAs of one that has sinned--or has blundered awayTo a sweet submission, unsmoothed, unmissed regret;Summer passes, autumn comes on.Yet for thee, neither flower nor fruitIn garden nor garden shall pass;Red spotblank of your agédes,And fallen fruit-gardens ofOctober.It shall keep the Winter's self in their scowling,In bloom and in fruit when the season shall glowThen, with the gourds and the swill and the wild-breathing Rose,White and humid and wet, shall endureTill the mournful tale be told, in the height of their wandering.Then, with the gourds and the swains,
With the leaves of the scented Mignonette!The time that they lived in a place half desolate,They drained the cup that made the sweet airSo silence and glory, so joy and mirth.
<|endoftext|>
"Dream", by John Logan [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Life Choices, Love, Desire]
The ghost, that is younger than he,Has heard the songs that I made from him;And mine, too, the claim to beStruck up by the magical arrow he drank from the crystal sea;And mine, by the years that have glided and glumSince heaving and wandering and aching and sick of the past,Hath called to a dreaming of days that are over at last.
<|endoftext|>
"The Lovely", by John Logan [Living, Separation & Divorce, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Activities, Jobs & Working]
Oh, are you coming, Author of this great scene?Proufore you have vainly striven to move me.I here once walked; I now am queen of shadows.But oh, the dusky nights! My spirit struck with poetic patterns!Not always pallid as the blood was flung From the pierced marble as I looked on it,Nor ever fading from the toil's persistence; Alas, the melancholy days! Yet love may change this prison, change this prison.As in a foreign
======================================== SAMPLE 20 ========================================
"Book 1, Epigram 34: In the print remaining", by William Cullen Bryant [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
In the print remaining, the signature is not apparent.
In the print-marked beginning, a partial accposition is required.
These letters still flow along the space left by the creatures.
In the print-marked beginning the response is required.
Those letters still go by.
The words still go by.
The words still go by.
The words still go by.
<|endoftext|>
"Preface", by Mary Morning Hamilton [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
for Hugh FitzKaman

I take my pen from the writing table, I tap hard
the window, whatever it is, anything off.
You don’t have to put off writing, however,
my privacy could distract any man from
posterity. I would learn to let you finish the business,
and the words you understand are not only relevant, but succored
in execution.Okay, March 7, 2012, New Year,
Oak, Ghostpan, bran (wolf) Pill. All these books
are bullets, these rancorous tales of gore, of death,

or even black; but what’s more, you tell me.
I leave you to your own music and its vibrations.
You do not wish to go into the principal angel-bodies

of mistresses and copperbats. You are right,
you do not want to search the world through, but do.
You do not want to return to the media life
you went to, but the streets do not follow it, they lead you back

to the local life, so you are through. You do not want to walk

through New Year’s verandah. You want to walk

through New Hope in the morning, the daily bread and butter
and pie. When sorrow comes, you’ll walk alone
into the day. I don’t want to go so far
from home, though I have nothing to lose.
You want to lose your pen, so you are through.
<|endoftext|>
"Send Hannah to the world", by Mina Loy [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Gay,  Lesbian, 
======================================== SAMPLE 21 ========================================
"Prayer", by Hilda N. Elk [Living, Life Choices, The Body, Love, Relationships, Nature]
for Patience

Since we need your hand, although we need your eye, your eye,
We need you who have the inside of your hand,
We need you who have the outside of your shoulder—
We need you who have the outside of your back where
We need the white of your arm—
We need your softness and a warm caress
That presses over us, where we have loss and gain.
Where we need you who else is yours and who you have—
Is yours and yours and mine and the community ofWhatever man desires,
The insubstantial image of your light—
Here in a crowded room,
Free from the tattered thought of care
And withering.
Let us be splendid.
Here where you stand on your knee
There where you worship a friend who is your enemy always
The out of the beautiful,
Here in the tattered tent
Whose blue is the cloudy blue of the surface of troubled thought
And woe.
Come to the tattered tent
And there the dead that you've loved shall be eased.
Here for your gravity.
Here for your purity.
<|endoftext|>
"Lose Gone", by Hilda Raz [Living, The Body, The Mind, Love, Desire, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture]
For Susan and me and for Tom and Anne Ghühmans
The night before I came in my sleep a lure
Fell off the eyes. I remember midnight midnight,
The pitch, the time so loudly, the hour so suddenly
I could hear the midnight sound, the clock before it,
And all the sleepy clock, and all the chestnut leaves.
That night I dreamed of an old man I stooped to kiss,
Who said, like a man, I saw my love fly from his body
To fly to you, and then I sure was still unconcerned
Because he didn't want to come, but lay awake,
And it was not until he waked up, wakened, and woke
I waited, eyeing creatures that must be careful,
Not because we would sleep, but because I guessed
Something from amongst the stars, the one just sprung
From the sea, in the silence of the night.
The man was trembling
======================================== SAMPLE 22 ========================================
"Dioration", by Anne Winters [Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Desire, Realistic & Complicated, Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women]
After the funeral I would never forget

these tying me up to an hour

as my mother, having time, said to me

As long as I stayed in Paris, Connecticut,

that town of ourowned hunters rising up this summer

that could have been. I meant to call her down

if I would. But never forget

the fiftieth year her sweet
adonis beckoned me out of the house

as walking, beyond her window, through

the room, beyond, where light was never

like the light of the moon, to suchlike power.

Being small, she made the little place

which was not mine to see. Showing her smile
to me, then smiling down from heaven,

she told me what she had been. I could have

a sacrifice—one tree, in virtue, two,

and if the pile was off one longer month,

of my wedlock, I’d take home, leave over

its little prudence, the place of birth

might serve me for another tree.
<|endoftext|>
"Ars Poet", by Elizabeth Winters [Living, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
The hardest of all are met
in his justice as in the best:

not even him
to move a hand, and yet
to let the edge gallop because he was
the only freeman in the crowd.

I have a pain I wish—
go on being called

liberate, that another
intervention, of whose
heart I may take an oath—
the only light God grants you is his.
The heart that fails sure grows

o’er a sign for injuries
but I can see there the beam

of your flint, my own shadow.
<|endoftext|>
"Agony", by Bruce Weigl [Living, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism]
That is my brother,
that is my baby brother;
we and the company
of the immortal,
we
======================================== SAMPLE 23 ========================================
"Last Wish", by Emmy Pérez [Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women]
I wish to give him back my hair.

I'd like to be the man I'm now.

I'd like to be the German
who wouldn’t give a nickel, if it hadn’t.

No: I won’t let him come again.

I’ve lost my hair, anyway,

that wouldn’t have a lot of hair again.

A lot of hair, anyway, perhaps.

I don’t know.
I’m a partook of God & man,

and man, and woman.

I’d like to be the man

who wouldn’t know me.

I rarely go to mass

or serve in schools for hair today.

I gethered, grasp it, think about.

I want to be the woman

I made from earth. I move in unrest

around the little white bed

that cradle this new world

where my breasts will rest.

I need the patience

of the trees

so I can walk and stand.

I need the heart

to be so blind

and so sorry sometimes.

I need them, yes,

who took this world away completely.

I need them to be so wise and so proud of it.

I need them to be so proud

of things

they carried by the large, stupendous
sails

but always when they broke.

I need them to be so proud of these.

I need them to be so proud of these.

I need them to be so proud of this.

I need them to eat

and drink, and recline, and say

to my friends, “It’s just this, really.

We’re the epoch”

of this song. I need them

I need them to be so proud of this.

I need them to die

so body food, in a carpenter’s care,

that it be verse.

A month later I feel as if I’m just like

thet tomorrow, jest as I recall.

======================================== SAMPLE 24 ========================================
"The Conduct of the Poem", by James Shirley [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
I am a poet myself, and I willingly partake.
The one thing is, I haven’t read Marx:
No matter what the poem said. Just believe
while it lives, and while it lives, you’ll understand
your ignorance is one thing, too, of how it sees
the world, the world of weeds. Just believe,
while it sees the world, its children, its dirt,
the world of weeds. Not that those things do you mind—
not that these things have made a right kind.
When the poet illustrates, on what one day,
the string of the poem, you can’t begin anew,
"Let there be light!"...definitely so the way always.
I have the gift. It gets me. It crosses. It crosses. It regales.
The song, to seize and uniting, requires both
grates and claws. A gift's value is something I have
done, though done by accidents. A gift's value
escapes like that. I’m ruined through all the years,
mostly alone. I’m the ruined
but still it, the way that does.
<|endoftext|>
"Bride", by Alicia Ostriker [Living, Parenthood, Relationships, Men & Women]
A grateful little daughter covers
my arms. Her father laughed and threw his hands
into the bed. Her mother laughed and threw
the bed, while she carried
the screaming lamp, the strange oiled bed,
into the room, the strange witch’s dower,
the strange, witch’s parlor tower.
She took the bed, and while the bed was so
bright and dark, she threw back the door, and she
wrapped the window in a cloud of tiny bees,
seated at her wheel and closed the door.
<|endoftext|>
"On Removing the Wedding Band", by thousandsonse Kain [Activities, Eating & Drinking, Social Commentaries, Class]
The first seven rules were Elsa and Odette.
Zeno and discreet, then almost nothing to eat.
It was a fine way, at which ponies feel proud
of the new kind. The first rules were Elsa and Odette
and plum blossoms that their
======================================== SAMPLE 25 ========================================
"Bean Spasms", by Linda Lin [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets]
If I were to tell a story
I’d return to

Ca’enOnce-In-One

& none the

Tellenone

she’ll be a little
one,
& one—to run

from

Cabé

&
Didn’t

Cantasmata

awake

& blink

awake.I knew the way ageean
as this

Oak-heavy man.

What’s this
that’s left?

Why? Beat

I ain’t

lung
as this

minstrel
&

 john ut avowed

a
man lif

in

the

limn


alibi

as

every


cent to

man.

A
prior

everywhere

in
a
plum

be

cannin

what?

They
don’t

let
me
in
of
these
things I

craved
to

keep

a

way
away.

And so I did.
<|endoftext|>
"A Hymn to God the Father (2)", by Vachel Lindsay [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, God & the Divine, Judaism, The Spiritual, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, War & Conflict]
There’s a babe in our house the night. The Earth is emptied of the Manger. There’s a grey mantis in the kitchen, plump as crows. Both night and day we watch them safe by. (My sister’s alive on the living room.) There’s one to the holy sprinkling, one to the coffee markets, one to the flowers. We’re glad to have our parasol around the world. The earth has fallen beneath our horses, you see, a sow and its dregs. (My sister’s birthday, be the day or the night, I have to be either.) One of my legs in the basket. The earth has
======================================== SAMPLE 26 ========================================
"Father’s Day", by Jamaal Raza Raza Raza Partyea, New Jersey

I tell the tale
I watched him stumble
through the murky night
of smelly years of wire,
night of promises,
aloft in fire,
of memories
expectant amens,
aged in the Ghetto
to celebrate his evening—
as an ice god’s own angel
spoke in the familiar voice
of his victorious audience.
There we stay—and so it is
that in the heart of man
his dreams are as dead
as the wounds we breed
board or flood,
so our dreams no new stars can
or the dead rise to guide.

Always between night and night
the world is the same,
the same wrenched faiths of old or new
as the eternal poem I say,
floating here on forgotten filth
with the grass and bitter tears
of yesterday,
but now it is all in vain.
O fools, have you seen the light?
Is there no perfect peace in the dark
that silvers and swells,
now no more as a knife on my hand
that glares and glows,
sending nets, to mislead me
like the rasping of the shore.
O Sorrow of Woe, we have set
thee in Thorns and in Thorns a child,
in Thorns a foolish thing and wild.

Hence are we fleeing, fledged Ashes
because of the urge to pray,
hurried To Awe, to shun our play;
so we seek to thread the night
of Thorns and Isl, tortured with Light.

We implore the darkness to dispense
as we seek some strange place to share
with the one at the bottom of Slane;
we implore to abide at the Beauty’s call,
to hear, to shine, to be free, to wait.

There are shadows between the sun and sea,
thorns tangled in jewels,
light-forsaken, hiding Thee;
and light, Her face thrust in the close of night,
travers my soul over the stars.
<|endoftext|>
"The Years", by Robert Haight [Living, Growing Old, Health & Illness, The Body, The Mind]
I am stung, you are venomously
======================================== SAMPLE 27 ========================================
"Reminding the Virtues of Lovelock", by James K. Baxter [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Animals]
Reminding the Virtues of groves,
Of the merest butterfly’s belles and ides
In the enticement of this light,
Of this my fairest and best thoughts, that spot
Which I, with pain and travail and despite,
Have watchfully set down to write.
I conjure all morning mid my flowers,
And dream of heaven’s immortall anthers,
That nowhere I can hear th’expressing hours
As here together I rejoice.
To live and lack not aught else that’s fair
In this immortallest meditations,
In the access of kisses and air.
To be forgiven and confess
Such Loveliness is sometimes just a sign
Of Loveliness, which blooms sometimes:
But I shall send her forth once more.
Swallow, that plucks me unaware,
Behovel, wind me from thine hair,
Bewhixt thy opened-ben and handmaid
And those two sun-qualified hillside breasts
Where Love laid down his awe-less stains
To render me all lilies native,
I will not think that women are
So dignified by their pureness;
I will not think those roses red
More sweet than thou, beneath whose bed
The earth is steeped in thorny tear-lees,
Those frontlets in whose dark no footing shines
Of thorn-bed purpling. O'er the brims of rue
The stars sweat in a morn of wind.
Yet am I sullen: because the Sun
Beams not upon me with a saving light,
I will throw off my swathing hood of spines,
And all for that which is not black.

How do the birds in the branch and bough
Sneak a day-dream when they still can sing?
I will come back from sea-marsh, and I will tell the secret to you now.
<|endoftext|>
"The Hesperian Gardens", by George Eliot [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life]
From my window I watch the night pass
And the slow faint
======================================== SAMPLE 28 ========================================
"The reckon of the Robbers", by William Matthews [Nature, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams, Trees & Flowers, Mythology & Folklore, Heroes & Patriotism]
I’ve known the crimson anemone that lives And ripples on the thinning bone Of those that like rough seed are themselves, And all most beautifully carved and fast About the flesh of purple-eyed Elizabeth. I know The inexplicable sweetness of their going on The shore to take the island and the sea. I kneel beside their beauty and their beauty, And crave that by a hundred and two ways I should achieve the same success, And then come down and sometimes get the air, As from a tree. Day after day, one by one, The feeble thought of them with its excess And want of courage sinking back again Into a late strong sleep through lively days And dreams at night, then sleepily, with a will As bright as if it were the body of Ves Ovid, and the presence of those Muse-like flowers judging The hidden essence of the quiet sleep Whereby those blossom day-born birds had come To sing out sweetness, and give thanks Home in his own strange shipwreck.
<|endoftext|>
"Northern Clotho", by Robert Lowell [Religion, Judaism, Arts & Sciences, Architecture & Design]
I have sat by myself upon the dragon mast, And slid the anchor down across the gust, And lapped my shirt in brimming eucalyptus fast; And while the friar shouted, “Banish the nation lest the storm come on;”Wrinkled his beaks and spread his grinning teeth, And listened at the shore to all the din, And all the echoes cried, “We will escape no more—
We must away. He has come back, lad! Why should we stay?” And as they shouted to him, “Stay or be taken, King and Lord!” Lightly he answered, “Stay or be taken! Hush!” The moors came after and the knights flocked home; From field and castle rang his clanging knells— Now order was the cry, “We will escape no more—
We will escape no more!” Then I, “O caitiff, why reply not you?” “Why, sir, but you should quiet me, Because my blood runs hot. Your wrath is on your shoulders
======================================== SAMPLE 29 ========================================
"from Ephemera: On fire and wine", by Rodrigo Toscano [Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, Race & Ethnicity]
1

he never asked us if we'd have to talk
with him.

2

anything he craved
was his concern
to see what urchins gave.

I am his daughter,

He held her

and himself

is sweeter than his voice.
3

he never asked us if we'd have to talk
with him.

He never asked us if we'd have to talk
with him.

His ring would soften
better than his voice.

4

he never called us if we'd have to talk
with him.

We would not have him ride that night.
And we'd not be his wife
we'd have him break off suddenly, forget
all about the money he made.

5

he never called us in the best way
to be a attendant.

6

he never called us from behind
or through his presence.

7

he never called us from behind
until there was the bluest air
and music rare.

8

he never called us from behind
until there were birds in tree woods
or somewhere bright.

9

he never called us from that land.

10

he never asked us if we'd have to talk
with him.

11

he never called us from that land
until there were flowers in his mouth
or somewhere in my head.

12

he never called us from that land
until there were birds in his mouth
or somewhere in his head
and roses in his mouth.
<|endoftext|>
"cavatree, nightingale", by Bellina Gretton [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Men & Women]
by the ash-green foam of my words

by the parts flute-like and transparent lips

by the acrid, the quivering, white hands

by the acrid, the kisses and caresses

by the cold, rough, poisonous fingers

by the salt, wrinkled, saccharine tongues

by the grime of my hair
======================================== SAMPLE 30 ========================================
"Unrest", by Kay Ryan [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life]
I could wake my father sitting at the area store
among his own words and do not dream
that if his heart were only just a trifle r taller,
he'd make it perfect.

I could be happy now,
as tonight they all go to watter house, the men
practiced, two on a level in catision,
fearing to throw something that wants
only itself. Thinking so the next time
he'd let his fingers wander in his right hand
and over the left there'd be something
that would become him

i am not the first
from the threshold of my head,
pausing in its own way with the wind
and are one direction only; it's not my feeling
bare, just a man in bed
with my father standing,
right there at the window,
right on behind him
at the ending of the snow-shraped pane
opening the pigmy.
<|endoftext|>
"Reason Song", by James Tate [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine]
Reason song. The obstinate silence of the soliloquy. The beautiful,unknowable; the overfucker who cries in logic to his own Olympus.
Reason song. The old, old minds inRocky Chameleon. The young, the modest, and the middle class, who will step out in soft beds to mark
us, their incant furniture and god.
The new discoverer of dreams.
The cerulean, the owl, the wolf.
The new musician with his shell and drum. The dreamer who shakes the tune into his flesh and
palm, mumbling to himself that he is dead, the one condemned to the ugly
fishes. The new muse again used to personate this song.
The voice of the goldfish. A half-story.
The night wolves.

III

Dear America,
make your hills beautifully brick, brick the ways where it is that you can
see with.
I'm not sensible.
Do not run for cover
in front of the wars.
I want to run away from the fields because everything is
there
As you are.
I'd not afraid of being caught
in this America.
I want to run away from
======================================== SAMPLE 31 ========================================

From Pang’s Provision: My Bath in San Germentor.

The Bulfordshire, Gray Cloud Disputes.

The ten-cented nightshade, my Bath!

The Thud and the spillum, my Tumpkins, my Tumpkins, the Paunch!

The Puffer of Fortune, the Fuffer of Flattery.

A feathery explosion in Breccan’s Alley.

Noir I no hand-wills unless I watch.

The Firebrank of D crush the dust!

The Baffil-brews!

The flour and the bag:—all's right.

Its G at the mouth—

It spoils the soup.

Its chills. Mud rolls.

Its chills. The bread it fills.

It spoils. The coals.

Now smells of blacker hizziness.

It fills the throat. Flashed into the fat.

The K of notices Rector, his mother,

has gone. The brother sits at the fire-place

in his chair at the window.

The rain slates, the brother’s feet.

The rain is dark.

It makes unreadable sounds.
<|endoftext|>
"At Tulpit", by Mary Margaret Fisna vocateto [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Class, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity]
1

1

An English translation: “The Wreath”
(Gibbert)

“In hearing of the Wreath”

2

My house must have

sought my bread

2

Tulpit:

A Paws

two more cups,

and she pours

and pours

a P Anna Ca’ the Flats

and Pineballs

3

In speaking of the Wreath

My statue of Pessynge,

 Vienna’s surrender

she waves to the A

dogged, and her Œs

twins to the Flattening Herd

4

The orphan whose verse shows Wit

gets Death’s a-grin

5
======================================== SAMPLE 32 ========================================
"As", by John Henry Boker [Living, The Mind, Nature, Animals, Religion, God & the Divine]
. . . I remember how one day it happens with all those years, one girl, a face of a mother's wanting to be born. Every day is the same faces. Every day is the same hanker for apples. Each has her own particular employments, his own hanks and his own face. Every day is the same faces, almost always. The hanks to the hanks, olives to the elbows. Everything, where the hanks are, must be a dream. Sometimes I am sometimes an eagle, almost a hawk, and hover close enough to see through the target. And before I know the point, my name spreads out over all. It’s a game. And already, I note in my life whether I’m hounded, drowned, or mistaken. I am a turtle, but who can tell? Why are you doing what you’re talking, jack? A cry came on the waking from the turtle: I awoke because you lay awake, or waking up. Tell me, trout people, what you’ve been doing at this time, why will you turn all your attention into the cold water that comes from them? I don’t know. I was the first time taken in for a flight of ducks over a rotten harvest field. Every day I’ve been wrapping two of my feathers in a fridge of egg so you don’t want to see them. I threw off the rags of my body over the leaves and left it for another world. Our rain makes a lot of armpit. Each pull over the other alphabet but let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me disappear, let me arise above the trees,
that I might hold my breath till morning, rising from bed, when you were gone. Your wife, too, is someone gone up into life, then pulling a tight slash through her
hair, an ambuscade, a slash through blood, pulling away from her eyes. You are someone already, who survived you, an interlocutor, pulling far from her, leaving her side on the private path to her body, pulling the world. I am taking off my own
======================================== SAMPLE 33 ========================================
"The Crowd Isassembling the Lost Born", by Richard Emil Braun [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Winter]
1.

From the enormous mountain
crested with mountains
resting, the giant
has spent great pain, having walked on the earth
and believed he is but one
better presence, seeing the rain pour over him
like glass, and his face shin with beauty,
his mouth with flame,
his blue eyes glistening with labor.

2.

In the field between the mountains
shines the bronze moon over the whole city
in slow motion. With cunning passes
her mouth curls beneath the stone
of the olive trees. There the olive trees
are motionless;
their branches sheetted with glass.

3.

Mid-torches, with the citron and urn cup, the slender
palings of this deity appear;
wreathed with vines of marvellous Maenology—
like the leaves on the tree—
are flung on the earth 
undecorated by the centuries.

The divine image
has passed from earth to heaven, leaving only

the seven of thy number,
into the ocean called “mythology,” in accordance with the

earthquake — the seven in the motionless dark
surround of ocean, that could produce a faery rumor,
caught, but the goat showed a humanusa, a human maiden, a man, and a young

earthquake, but only a beautiful woman, her belly a weapon and she a weapon.
5.

The famed crocodile really received a fiery kernel in high season,
in the hot fall of its face. Its head is turned backwards, its tail extended
sweeping; its little body wounded, and mangled by too great weight

of all that seems to fill it, the navel of this eye with the shining waters
wet with drips of dew. This is my son who lives at the table; I look down
from the celestial to God’s throne.
<|endoftext|>
"The Late Blessed", by Patrizia Borghese [Living, Growing Old, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, Christianity, Faith & Doubt, Philosophy]
======================================== SAMPLE 34 ========================================
"The Infant", by Eleanor Wilner [Living, Time & Brevity, Nature, Trees & Flowers]
1. THE Chamber of Jay.*
The laws of the King’s liege, fingers and nails,
Of the learned and invisible,
Of the President and the pity of those
Whom their folly has tempted
To betray their general sin.
Look, when we looked up at the cloudshadowed moon,
Over which the wide-yawning of clouds
Sprang like ravenlight and fell
From the clouds, and the wind stole
Through him pallid and cold,
Then was not the silver of silver for dross
To the heart of the lake;
So when love was not with us, and in our dreams
We served the unforgetters, I trembled
And was fearful of wiles
I snared in the cloisters.
When the gray rats swept the walls
My slippers and shirt took a ting
To get off the nails,
And my slippers and shavings,
Just as the eavesdroppers sing
The requiems of the king.
When the grey rats swept the walls
My slippers and shavings were broken,
And my shavings and shavings turned to birds.
Now the gray rats reel
Round and round as the worms.
When the gray rats crawl
In a hole, to their feet,
And the old folks grin,
They will stretch their clawed backs
And will claw their soft skin
To get into the safe air.
My heart laughed as the house ached.
A man’s voice simply entered:
“God, old witch!
Hither they come, these dwarfed dogs,
To their meat like a show.”
The wind shook the curtains, and the moonlight
Grew bright in the distance.  A postulat murmurs:
“No, my friends, not one feature of pig, or decorative hat;
But a whole wig hardly worth aroll of American art:
Ovid, the parson, threw by in scorn two black shavings
Last night, when they lifted the lid to the right,
And asked “What this fuss about?”
My heart laughed as loud as it liked him—
I could never make one of it,—
But I found myself against their tune.
<|end
======================================== SAMPLE 35 ========================================
"Of the Lakesaught", by William Meredith [Nature, Animals, Seas,  Rivers,  & Streams, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
Of the Lakesaught is the great, save for what leaves of fighting grow, The glory that is greater, the dethroneless blow; And less than water is the glory that is more than sea, And earth is more than man, and heaven than sands counted o’er and o’er.
<|endoftext|>
"Waste Imbecile", by William Meredith [Nature, Animals, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire]
Waste Imbecile,Waste Imbecile,Waste Unbecoming,Waste Italia’s every springFlower of the Thamesis like a vineGathering Water from recent showers.It is a sovereign blissTo live, twice squandered, twice exchanged—both what makes life,Two only, and but each:Whose double fruits are ripened.Who can count the worst,Whose cruel pleasure strays.Who cannot name the sadness of a wishFrom mouldy springs or flowers?Such is the BondLove threw, which never shall forgetLate must have lost its power.Yet fortune smilesNor time can change it;Women lose their leaven;And minds cannot make oursGave it to hearts esteem’dSuch as from hers retire.Such fate’s decrees approve;We cannot blame, whilst bright,Our bright and brilliant heads descryThe low sun’s sink or rise.
<|endoftext|>
"Days", by William Meredith [Living, Time & Brevity]
Days! when my life was in the womb and life of men,

When in my womb the manlyakespeare’s lay rang and cribbed

Unwonted clings were wont to coo across my breast;

And yet the times have changed since first my flesh began,

And still the clings are withering, and the streams are dumb.

And yet it is a prophecy. A fallen prey is still the same;

A straggling leopard clinging round the beast to hide his shame.

And yet to-day my heart grows young again and fills;

Again I gasp upon the plain—a weird convulsion fills

The full, warm blood, and coldens heart and face; and yet again
======================================== SAMPLE 36 ========================================
"Van Gogh's Prayer", by C. K. Chesterton [Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine]
For some minutes we want to ask if there are no answers for our answers, it’s only for us from our bedrooms, candles that we no longer need, our bedrooms in temporary trailers that we no longer need, our bedrooms of a twelve-hour rate, small rectangular declivity that we are missing, expectance we are the one who will sell our souls in some other restaurant, the one who bought our souls, the one who bought our souls, the one who drove our husbands out of their mothers to be serious, the chief of us, in the middle of the Roundel castle, the only room to be featured on the face of God in every life crossing our hearts but ours on the one instead of the lordup vinyl perched in the corner of the loft for us to stare at the impersonal pageant of the saint and Christian without a nose. The committee at the northern edge of 
cloaked bedrooms and lawns, the hundredants in the corner who are either deficient or resolve, are either degraded or mistaken and forbidden, their miseries are destroyed or improvised for evil only by eating too much, which is important to the twelve children. The children want to be pursued and hunted and hunted and shot. That is, the lesson of the saint who taught these children the laws to be Godlike and innocently amused, a story of an offended woman hurt by a wild animal or a murdered child. Litheless, all unrequited, torn and disheartened, we submit. Halberg's authority, not the majestic city and its hieroglyphics, abridgment of nameless crimes.
<|endoftext|>
"American Roots for a Grave", by C. K. Chesterton [Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries]
Give us a pronoun If “Peace, peace,” O pirate lad

Give us a sword, give us the kingdom

Give us a sword

“Over” bed’s smovel kites

Give us a craven sword, give us

A sword, a sword

“Over this wide shield”
“To our King and Queen”
“To our daughter”
“Yes,”
“Your wife’s white soul�
======================================== SAMPLE 37 ========================================
"After the Happiness of the Protestants", by John Fuller [Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict]
Obstinately held his purple thrones in imitation of the broken? And where would we begin?—no golden cities, no melting stars. No beauty trees, no melody. No people killed in one of those. No innocence: the guns say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the tell the say the say the say the say the say the say the say the tell the say the kal, no taku a
======================================== SAMPLE 38 ========================================

IN LITTLE ROADEDEN, 4 vol. 16moons
THREE Pines cling to their sides.
I hanker to smell their perfume

in my soul’s pure taint.
The smell of their fragrance

lures me back to the room
where my spirit’s lassitude sippes,

a cadger’s song in the gloom.
<|endoftext|>
"Hafitt", by Leactiv Bird [Living, Coming of Age, Life Choices, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity]
Forsythia, Virginia:
I collect extra bucksitza,

store them on The Shard.
Bitch’s work has its lamb.
Finke’s dogcartwheels
have made a mistake.
Finke, by sienna, has

carved, marks for your friends.
Strab, look. Your cat
has been snoring in the orchard.
Garb these morning.
Garb these morning.
Not for me. I have
left
a second chance. I love you.
Razzle of color.
Set your yellow teeth a-rank in my cup.
Have done with your nothing.
I resisted thirst.
Finke was the cauldron.
Razzle and squalor cried out against you.
I resisted thirst
until I was shamed,
tried to stay the first time.
If you had stopped,
I would still have the itch itch itch.
Set your pink teeth tight
up so you’d let me in.
Somewhere, yes.3, there is no use in asking,
it must be an exception.
If you had stayed,
that would have proved a very pleasant one.
Let’s drink to the Queen.
It’s all over now.

WELL, what use is this drink?
Goddamn you. Drink it up.
<|endoftext|>
"From “The Galley”", by Katia Kapovich [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Romantic Love, Nature, Animals]
I
I was pointing at a low door of a Kyoto shop in Breda,

where
======================================== SAMPLE 39 ========================================
"Dora Their Swagmen and Private", by Linda Pastan [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
"It had to be", by Linda Pastan [Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets]
It had to be a year’s vacancy. Small, yet acute. Look how much I like colliding in small pages to make the way out: the natural English of small lives. The book in which I see myself donning its texts, March 13, 1963, with the way the wind cooled.

I look up at the classroom and read
ten reading by the window
to find some novel. I cannot imagine how
you bring books that are misty. A far off and large enough to carry out a theft or conceal a secret, far from friends. I try to see them. A year or two out of small life. A year or two out of everything. Some or other. Some or other out of this. More than a mile with a library book. *

* *

* Over this page
no one who used to read
read all I could see—and what I could see
down the road—along glass-glint of paths
my eyes with ins of places in it.
*

*

* Over this page
no one who likes to read
lifts his head and willing I write
two words down the page.
<|endoftext|>
"Here Is the Best", by Linda Pastan [Relationships, Home Life]
Here is worst enough.
Here is all I have to drink.

*

Here is worst life.
Here's best fortune gets first to get it.
Here's the worst fate is the one
that says “I won” and then
asks what's left of home.

*

*

*

* Over this, too,
who gets to choose,
how was “houselight sidled”
when I took it?

*

*

*

*

*

* How did I like it when I could see it?
How it killed it!
How it killed me! how it taught
how to hate and fight—
how to live from thought to thought,
how to give the entire night
that stares at me and says
to all that will
======================================== SAMPLE 40 ========================================
"Culture", by Karen An-hwei Lee [Nature, Animals]
No, no, no, no, my buzzing memories stack up shapes of plumbing and profitable,
& as to cocoanuts some finches are asemblance to the community, not only give us a birdhouse of your closest look,
the choir of your birds whose caller and sameness are the pitches of the race,
messengers swarm around you like dark leaves, they flutter over you as they are now too high.
Do not surprise me in your phone calls, pluck them from the front row like fluttering girls.
Let them float above us like swallows; then we’ll not be too late; then what’s an answer, too, will come from me then,
such as never arrive on the world’s all-bodied breast.
<|endoftext|>
"The Architecture of the Venet", by Karen An-hwei Lee [Nature, Religion, The Spiritual]
 Architecture of the Venetaton
You have to believe you’re surrounded at the very point
here?
The walls are built of brick? & not enough to look
in upon you with a look. Have you encountered an awful handful
of phenomenon you want to mention?
& have you ever mentioned what a tradition is?
& suddenly you forget to tell me you’re up high in the palace
reading the newspapers? & holy, & imperial,
light a high thoughts outlook into a vista
& a chorus of banditos loud with their demands on praise
for the charming skein of episodes aboutatched and drowned in the confluence
of the racking up-tide of clouds that passed away
in gloss shoes and in shading the corner of the playhouses
of landscapes behind the sun's course there were real dresses
at the Melbourne whirling, & glorious leather shoes
holding bunches of white-spotted pageants & made shoes
fit for the gundoned shuffle of brick balls