Posts tagged ‘Poetry’

March 10, 2014

“Two Cures for Love” — Wendy Cope

by Biblioklept


About these ads
March 9, 2014

“Byzantium” — Malcolm Lowry

by Biblioklept


March 7, 2014

“Oscar Wilde” — Dorothy Parker

by Biblioklept

oscar wilde

March 6, 2014

“Asylum Product” — Charles Reznikoff

by Biblioklept


March 5, 2014

“Résumé” — Dorothy Parker

by Biblioklept


March 1, 2014

“To a Poet” — Alexander Pushkin

by Biblioklept


February 27, 2014

“Why Do They Prate?” — Helene Johnson

by Biblioklept


February 26, 2014

“On a Primitive Canoe” — Claude McKay

by Biblioklept


February 25, 2014

“Sonet in Orknay” — William Fowler

by Biblioklept


February 23, 2014

“Sonnet” — Elizabeth Bishop

by Biblioklept


February 22, 2014

“A Crazed Girl” — William Butler Yeats

by Biblioklept


Tags: ,
February 21, 2014

“Epitaph on a Tyrant” — W.H. Auden

by Biblioklept


February 19, 2014

“El Hombre” — William Carlos Williams

by Biblioklept


February 18, 2014

“Too Blue” — Langston Hughes

by Biblioklept


February 17, 2014

“Variation on a Theme by Wordsworth” — Marvin Bell

by Biblioklept


February 14, 2014

“When You Are Old” — W.B. Yeats

by Biblioklept


February 13, 2014

“Love Song” — William Carlos Williams

by Biblioklept

love song

February 11, 2014

“Sylvia’s Death” — Anne Sexton

by Biblioklept

“Sylvia’s Death” by Anne Sexton

O Sylvia, Sylvia,
with a dead box of stones and spoons,
with two children, two meteors
wandering loose in a tiny playroom,
with your mouth into the sheet,
into the roofbeam, into the dumb prayer,
(Sylvia, Sylvia
where did you go
after you wrote me
from Devonshire
about raising potatoes
and keeping bees?)
what did you stand by,
just how did you lie down into?
Thief -
how did you crawl into,
crawl down alone
into the death I wanted so badly and for so long,
the death we said we both outgrew,
the one we wore on our skinny breasts,
the one we talked of so often each time
we downed three extra dry martinis in Boston,
the death that talked of analysts and cures,
the death that talked like brides with plots,
the death we drank to,
the motives and the quiet deed?
(In Boston
the dying
ride in cabs,
yes death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
O Sylvia, I remember the sleepy drummer
who beat on our eyes with an old story,
how we wanted to let him come
like a sadist or a New York fairy
to do his job,
a necessity, a window in a wall or a crib,
and since that time he waited
under our heart, our cupboard,
and I see now that we store him up
year after year, old suicides
and I know at the news of your death
a terrible taste for it, like salt,
(And me,
me too.
And now, Sylvia,
you again
with death again,
that ride home
with our boy.)
And I say only
with my arms stretched out into that stone place,
what is your death
but an old belonging,
a mole that fell out
of one of your poems?
(O friend,
while the moon’s bad,
and the king’s gone,
and the queen’s at her wit’s end
the bar fly ought to sing!)
O tiny mother,
you too!
O funny duchess!
O blonde thing!

February 9, 2014

“After Publication of Under the Volcano” — Malcolm Lowry

by Biblioklept


February 6, 2014

“Life Is Motion” — Wallace Stevens

by Biblioklept



Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 18,576 other followers

%d bloggers like this: