Quotes about cupped, page 9
The Gun
He'd been on the grog the night before,
He woke with this morning needing a score.
His numbers had been down of late,
Today he needed a number great.
His alarm rang with the shriek of a banshee,
His fist hammered down on it like a falling gum tree.
The alarm sounded against the corrugated wall,
He jerked awake and sat on the side of the bed tall.
Stumbling toward the water-tank his braces hung low,
He broke the ice with his hand splashed his hair of snow.
The chilled water was minimally applied to his face,
Braces up and just about all was in place
A quick breakfast of toast, porridge, eggs and bacon,
The usual 6 sugars and tea were taken.
Hands cupped his mug as the team walked the rutted soil.
The shed awaited and yarded sheep for a day of toil.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence
Drunk, I kissed the moon
where it stretched on the floor.
I'd removed happiness from a green bottle,
both sipped and gulped
just as a river changes its mind,
mostly there was a flood in my mouth
because I wanted to love the toaster
as soon as possible, and the toothbrush
with multi-level brissels
created by dental science, and the walls
holding pictures in front of their faces
to veil the boredom of living
fifty years without once
turning the other way. I wanted
the halo a cheap beaujolais paints
over everything like artists gave the holy
before perspective was invented,
and for a moment thought in the glow
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poem by Bob Hicok
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At The Other End Of The Telescope
the people are very small and shrink,
dwarves on the way to netsuke hell
bound for a flea circus in full
retreat toward sub-atomic particles--
difficult to keep in focus, the figures
at that end are nearly indistinguishable,
generals at the heads of minute armies
differing little from fishwives,
emperors the same as eskimos
huddled under improvisations of snow--
eskimos, though, now have the advantage,
for it seems to be freezing there, a climate
which might explain the population's
outré dress, their period costumes
of felt and silk and eiderdown,
their fur concoctions stuffed with straw
held in place with flexible strips of bark,
and all to no avail, the midgets forever
stamping their match-stick feet,
blowing on the numb flagella of their fingers--
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poem by George Bradley
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Dying Young In Autumn
Dying young in autumn,
the ideal death of a flower or a star
whose beauty's still as obvious
as a door that's been left ajar at night.
The fireflies are search parties
out looking for someone
who's made an escape through the woods,
or they're lamp lighting deer
out of the dark into the glare of their insights.
Train whistle in the distance
works its ghost to death
Doppler-shifting its lament
into an infra-red eclipse of existence.
And then the stars in the eyes
of the recurring storm of the trees,
flaring over-eagerly like candles and dragons
to burn for the sheer delight of it.
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poem by Patrick White
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Over Sir John's Hill
Over Sir John's hill,
The hawk on fire hangs still;
In a hoisted cloud, at drop of dusk, he pulls to his claws
And gallows, up the rays of his eyes the small birds of the bay
And the shrill child's play
Wars
Of the sparrows and such who swansing, dusk, in wrangling hedges.
And blithely they squawk
To fiery tyburn over the wrestle of elms until
The flash the noosed hawk
Crashes, and slowly the fishing holy stalking heron
In the river Towy below bows his tilted headstone.
Flash, and the plumes crack,
And a black cap of jack-
Daws Sir John's just hill dons, and again the gulled birds hare
To the hawk on fire, the halter height, over Towy's fins,
In a whack of wind.
There
Where the elegiac fisherbird stabs and paddles
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poem by Dylan Thomas
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Writing Graffiti On The Blue Walls Of Heaven
Writing graffiti on the blue walls of heaven
to bring them back down to earth.
Seven come eleven in reverse
I'm rolling my skull like snake-eyes
against the odds of finding my afterbirth
buried on the dark side of the moon.
Cygnus transits zenith and I've
desanctified a small cross
I retrieved like a corpse from the river,
a mere splinter of a skeleton, poor thing,
to remind myself where I
begin and end like a crosswalk over
one Rubicon after another.
But great bridges
from little crosswalks grow
like rainbows at midnight
and you never know
when the wind's going to blow on your luck
like a butterfly cupped in your hands
and you're going to bump into
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poem by Patrick White
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Song For Life
I never believed that
I would see the rain fall again
At this moment in time-
I upheld the moon in my hands
On the darkest night of the year-
Today the day is at the spring and
The wind is carrying
Dandelion thistles
Through every moment in time-
I believe I see a cardinal
Perched upon the branch of a
Cherry tree alone-
Singing a song of hope and love-
All I can do is weep only because
I know tomorrow
Rain will come down in a deluge and
My tears will only follow…
I remember the day we met- my true love and I - the rain was
Falling hard and I would
Capture the raindrops in my cupped hands and
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poem by Claudia Krizay
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Marginalia
Sometimes the notes are ferocious,
skirmishes against the author
raging along the borders of every page
in tiny black script.
If I could just get my hands on you,
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien,
they seem to say,
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head.
Other comments are more offhand, dismissive -
'Nonsense.' 'Please! ' 'HA! ! ' -
that kind of thing.
I remember once looking up from my reading,
my thumb as a bookmark,
trying to imagine what the person must look like
why wrote 'Don't be a ninny'
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson.
Students are more modest
needing to leave only their splayed footprints
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poem by Billy Collins
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The Cold Drive And A Warm Night-Chapter Two
He watched her take the drink
still warm and she cupped it
with two hands, warming them up.
The hands were thin.
She was not a farm girl
and she averted her eyes when
she looked at him.
The face was small with delicate
features
yet they were strong in their own way.
He wondered how what kind of lover she would be..
He wondered too how she could have
made a wrong turn and gotten here.
There were signs that clearly stated
'no public road'. 'dead end road.'
She noticed his stare and pulled at
her comforter, pulled it up more
around her shoulders.
She looked at him as she did so
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Iva's Pantoum
We pace each other for a long time.
I packed my anger with the beef jerky.
You are the baby on the mountain. I am
in a cold stream where I led you.
I packed my anger with the beef jerky.
You are the woman sticking her tongue out
in a cold stream where I led you.
You are the woman with spring water palms.
You are the woman sticking her tongue out.
I am the woman who matches sounds.
You are the woman with spring water palms.
I am the woman who copies.
You are the woman who matches sounds.
You are the woman who makes up words.
You are the woman who copies
her cupped palm with her fist in clay.
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poem by Marilyn Hacker
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