Poetry

I've had a lot of trouble finding a good book of poetry in the library.  So here are a few of my favorites that I've found online, along with a link for a website where they can be found.

The Last Laugh

By Wilfred Owen

‘O Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and died. 

Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed,

                 The Bullets chirped—In vain, vain, vain! 

                 Machine-guns chuckled—Tut-tut! Tut-tut! 

                 And the Big Gun guffawed.

Another sighed,—‘O Mother,—mother,—Dad!’

Then smiled at nothing, childlike, being dead. 

                 And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud 

                 Leisurely gestured,—Fool!            

                 And the splinters spat, and tittered.

‘My Love!’ one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood, 

Till slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud. 

                 And the Bayonets’ long teeth grinned;

                 Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;

                 And the Gas hissed.

The Poetry Foundation website

Not Waving but Drowning

By Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larkinglarking Playing tricks, kidding, fooling around.
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.


Poetry Out Loud website

Grief

By Barbara Crooker

is a river you wade in until you get to the other side.

But I am here, stuck in the middle, water parting

around my ankles, moving downstream

over the flat rocks. I'm not able to lift a foot,

move on. Instead, I'm going to stay here

in the shallows with my sorrow, nurture it

like a cranky baby, rock it in my arms.

I don't want it to grow up, go to school, get married.

It's mine. Yes, the October sunlight wraps me

in its yellow shawl, and the air is sweet

as a golden Tokay. On the other side,

there are apples, grapes, walnuts,

and the rocks are warm from the sun.

But I'm going to stand here,

growing colder, until every inch

of my skin is numb. I can't cross over.

Then you really will be gone.

The Poetry Foundation website

The snow's/feet slip

By Marty Walsh

out from

under it

and down

the mountain

slope it comes

flat on its back

white skirt

and billowy

petticoats

blowing

back over

its head,

whiplashing

rickety

pine sapling

as it passes,

bowling boulders

left and right

until it comes

to a juddering

sudden heart-

thumping stop

just shy

of the little village

in the valley far below.

The Poetry Foundation website

My book of abandoned poetry

I find myself

wrestling with a poem again.

I wrote it four years ago

But it keeps coming back

To top of mind.

Work on me it whispers.

Finish me.

Polish my shoes.

It purrs.

Sometimes I change

a single word.

Or add a line.

Or remove a comma.

But it keeps

coming back for more.

It's relentless.

I think of the

great French poet

Paul Valery.

His quote imprisons me

To this groundhog day

Of working on the same

Group of stanza.

This poem is my jailer.

"A poem is never finished

It is only abandoned"

He said wisely.

So here I go again

My quill raised

one more time.

But I now understand why.

Thank you Paul?

Note: I found this poem on the Hello Poetry website, posted by a Jude kyrie - I'm not sure if that is the author, or just someone who posted the poem.

Impending

Ten black crows
in a red-budded
cottonwood tree
basking in the eerie
glow of the waning sun
bruised, livid sky
weighted air
waves shush, shush
on the receding tide
serenity reigns
but I can feel it
hovering offshore
a curled fist
wound tight
ready to strike

Note: I found this poem on the Hello Poetry website, posted by a Denel Kessler - once again, I'm not sure if that is the author, or just someone who posted the poem.