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The Crow

I have sat the wily beast
rode in the darkest night
eaten from the trough
of death;
lay down
and kissed
Evil's Lips.

Found myself screeching at night
distended hopes
lying all around;
and witch-like
cackles all in my ear
coming from
my own throat.

I rely upon
artifice
dark clothing
and obscured intent

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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Lament

To the Immortal Tenth (Irish) Division

Suvla, name of bitterness,
Myrrh and aloes in the mouth,
Salt as Dead Sea water is!
All that splendour, all that youth,
All that nobleness! Oh, waste
Of the dearest, loveliest!

Sands of Suvla, scarlet-dyed,
Where the Cross is down in shame
And the Crescent flaunts its pride!
Was it for this they went aflame,
The young shining sons we nursed,
For the fire and the fierce thirst?

Suvla, that is holy ground
Sown so thick with martyr's seed:
There's no Christ now, but Mahound,

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Bereft of Explication Proper...

Bereft of explication proper would I be to define,
Every aspect of your essence- of your presence, divine!
Remiss would I be yet, if but an attempt valiant, were not taken-
Alas, causative are thee- for my soul has awakened!

Most fitting, appareled are thee in locks aflame:
For I am enamored- and you are virtuously, to blame!
Coupled is this, with oculus the most resplendent blue:
I am enraptured replete, obligation owed their hue!

Serenity, beautificence- but two words toward articulation,
Many more needed still though for proper delimitation!
The Heavens surely smile upon thee, and all you touch-
Intimate not all do I, yet know surely do I this much!

Know not could I a more fitting homage than to expound,
The world- far more felicitous, because you are around!

Maurice Harris,21 March 2009

poem by Maurice Harris
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The Death Of Adonis

Fragments 108, 110, 115, 117, 116, 111, 114, and 113 combined.

This is the lamentation-song
For Adonis — woe for Adonis, woe!
Thus wailed Aphrodite in anguish-throe,
As she strove to hold him back from death:
'Let thine heart not faint, O love! Be strong!
O me, it burns me, thy failing breath!
It kindles through all my being a fire!
My heart is aflame with despairing desire!'
She calls to her Eros of golden wing,
She bids him steep in the ice-cold spring
Fine linen, and lay on Adonis' brow: —
'O love, let its coolness revive thee now! . . .
Vain, vain! — his eyes see me no more;
They are fixed in a gaze upon Hades' door!
They close — he sleeps — not the sleep of the dead!
Hush, stir not a pebble with heedless tread!
No, no! this is death! Now remaineth to me
No sweetness on earth — nor honey nor bee!'

poem by Sappho
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The Song Of Wandering Aengus

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands.
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;

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poem by William Butler Yeats
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Alone, With You

it's not that I'm
afraid
of losing you
there is no reason to explain
unless you're crying,
and I'm alone
still
wouldn't matter
my truth is muted,
deleted from your songs

your sightlines are not shrinking
you just don't see me
unless
it serves you
being alone does not crowd my
thinking
its
being
alone with you

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poem by TP Sage
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I saw young men keeping courage in the grim night (Villanelle)

I saw young men keeping courage in the grim night
burning, aflame before the end of day
bravely carrying on before the dying of light

raging in war busy with a almost endless fight
with no chance to ever again dance and play.
I saw young men keeping courage in the grim night

trying their utmost to do what’s right
challenging a outnumbering foe they
bravely carrying on before the dying of light

looking at enemy warplanes in their flight,
seeing bombs dropping down on their way.
I saw young men keeping courage in the grim night

seeing with blinded eyes far past sight
another world, a glassy sea and its bay
bravely carrying on before the dying of light

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poem by Gert Strydom
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Poetry Reading

To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds?
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare
it's time to start this cultural affair.
Half came inside because it started raining,
the rest are relatives. O Muse.

The women here would love to rant and rave,
but that's for boxing. Here they must behave.
Dante's Infemo is ringside nowadays.
Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.

Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet,
one sentenced to hard shelleying for life,
for lack of muscles forced to show the world
the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists
with luck. O Muse,
O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.

In the first row, a sweet old man's soft snore:

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poem by Wislawa Szymborska
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Care Free Bloke's Cigar

There's a little spark and a wisp of smoke
By the road where the tall gums are;
And a mile away a care-free bloke
Speeds onward in his car.
No thought of evil mars his day,
And he's well a hundred miles away
And safe at home, as skies grow grey,
With another fine cigar.

There's a spurt of flame in the breathless night
And a crackling in the scrub;
There's a withered mint-bush burning bright,
And a kindling dog-wood shrub.
For yards about the bush glows red
But the care-free bloke, his paper read,
Says, 'Bonzer day. And now for bed
After a bite of grub.'

There's a sickening roar as the fire sweeps down
From the mountainside aflame

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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I Love You

I love your lips when they're wet with wine
And red with a wild desire;
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies
Lit with a passionate fire.
I love your arms when the warm white flesh
Touches mine in a fond embrace;
I love your hair when the strands enmesh
Your kisses against my face.

Not for me the cold calm kiss
Of a virgin's bloodless love;
Not for me the saint's white bliss,
Nor the heart of a spotless dove.
But give me the love that so freely gives
And laughs at the whole world's blame,
With your body so young and warm in my arms,
It sets my poor heart aflame.

So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,
Still fragrant with ruby wine,

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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