SEE ALL TAGS & MOODS
These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
He wants to be
a brutal old man,
an aggressive old man,
Breathe dust like you breathe wind so strong in your face
little grains of dirt which pock around the cheeks peddling
against a dust-storm…
It was down that road he brought me, still
in the trunk of his car. I won’t say it felt right,
but it did feel expected. The way you…
What torture lurks within a single thought
When grown too constant, and however kind,
However welcome still, the weary mind
They said, ‘You have a blue guitar,
You do not play things as they are.’
The man replied, ‘Things as they are…
Down from the purple mist of trees on the mountain,
lurching through forests of white spruce and cedar,
stumbling through tamarack swamps…
Sometimes a voice — have you heard this? —
wants not to be voice any longer, wants something
whispering between the words, some
1
In view of the fading animals
the proliferation of sewers and fears
So I’m an alcoholic Catholic mother-lover
yet there is no sweetish nectar no fuzzed-peach
thing no song sing but in the word
I too, dislike it: there are things that are important
…
In the middle of the night Matt would fly to Vancouver so he could take a walk on the sea wall the next day, then go home.
Wouldnt tell anyone, no telephone call, just run a…
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying King;
Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow
Through public scorn, — mud from a muddy spring;
When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude;
There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and…
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
Living, I had no might
To make you hear,
Now, in the inmost night,
Mr. Kessler, you know, was in the army,
And he drew six dollars a month as a pension,
And stood on the corner talking politics,
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
“Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes, —
This debt we pay to human guile;
So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
All things within this fading world hath end,
Adversity doth still our joyes attend;
No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,
