Posts filed under ‘.poetry’

Gimme that harvest moon!


By Kobayashi Issa

“Gimme that harvest moon!”
cries the crying
child

Translated by David G. Lanoue

(more…)

Advertisements

October 5, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Three Little Emigrants

by Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt
A Romance Of Cork Harbour, 1884

The soldier’s coat was English-red,
And Irish-red was Katy’s cheek:
“But he’s a handsome boy,” she said,
“And it’s to-night he means to speak.

“Who’s English-born is not to blame
For that! (He would become the green.)
Sure, but it is a burning shame
To think he will stand by the Queen.

“He and Sir Garnet, side-by-side,
Fought beautifully, though, out there, –
Faith! he’s splendid scar to hide
With all that elegant black hair!”

September 25, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

It is the summer’s great last heat…

It is the summer’s great last heat
It is the fall’s first chill: They meet.

Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt

September 22, 2017 at 5:25 am Leave a comment

The Battle of Stonington

by Philip Freneau

ON THE SEABOARD OF CONNECTICUT

In an attack upon the town and a small fort of two guns, by the Ramillies, seventy-four gun ship, commanded by Sir Thomas Hardy; the Pactolus, 38 gun ship, Despatch, brig of 22 guns, and a razee, or bomb ship.—August, 1814.

Four gallant ships from England came
Freighted deep with fire and flame,
And other things we need not name,
To have a dash at Stonington.

Now safely moor’d, their work begun;
They thought to make the yankees run,
And have a mighty deal of fun
In stealing sheep at Stonington.

A deacon, then popp’d up his head
And parson Jones’s sermon read,
In which the reverend doctor said
That they must fight for Stonington.

A townsman bade them, next, attend
To sundry resolutions penn’d,
By which they promised to defend
With sword and gun, old Stonington.

The ships advancing different ways,
The britons soon began to blaze,
And put th’ old women in amaze,
Who fear’d the loss of Stonington.

The yankees to their fort repair’d,
And made as though they little cared
For all that came—though very hard
The cannon play’d on Stonington.

The Ramillies began the attack,
Despatch came forward—bold and black—
And none can tell what kept them back
From setting fire to Stonington.

The bombardiers with bomb and ball,
Soon made a farmer’s barrack fall,
And did a cow-house sadly maul
That stood a mile from Stonington.

They kill’d a goose, they kill’d a hen,
Three hogs they wounded in a pen—
They dash’d away, and pray what then?
This was not taking Stonington.

The shells were thrown, the rockets flew,
But not a shell, of all they threw,
Though every house was full in view,
Could burn a house at Stonington.

To have their turn they thought but fair;—
The yankees brought two guns to bear,
And, sir, it would have made you stare,
This smoke of smokes at Stonington.

They bored Pactolus through and through,
And kill’d and wounded of her crew
So many, that she bade adieu
T’ the gallant boys of Stonington.

The brig Despatch was hull’d and torn—
So crippled, riddled, so forlorn,
No more she cast an eye of scorn
On th’ little fort at Stonington.

The Ramillies gave up th’ affray
And, with her comrades, sneak’d away—
Such was the valor, on that day,
Of british tars near Stonington.

But some assert, on certain grounds,
(Besides the damage and the wounds)
It cost the king ten thousand pounds
To have a dash at Stonington.

(more…)

September 20, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

The way Hope builds his House

by Emily Dickinson

The way Hope builds his House
It is not with a sill –
Nor Rafter – has that Edifice
But only Pinnacle –

Abode in as supreme
This superficies
As if it were of Ledges smit
Or mortised with the Laws –

(more…)

May 15, 2017 at 3:25 pm Leave a comment

Between our two lives

by Matsuo Bashō

Between our two lives
there is also the life of
the cherry blossom.

May 2, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Art Class

by James Galvin, 1951

Let us begin with a simple line,
Drawn as a child would draw it,
To indicate the horizon,

More real than the real horizon,
Which is less than line,
Which is visible abstraction, a ratio.

The line ravishes the page with implications
Of white earth, white sky!

The horizon moves as we move,
Making us feel central.
But the horizon is an empty shell—

Strange radius whose center is peripheral.
As the horizon draws us on, withdrawing,
The line draws us in,

Requiring further lines,
Engendering curves, verticals, diagonals,
Urging shades, shapes, figures…

What should we place, in all good faith,
On the horizon? A stone?
An empty chair? A submarine?

Take your time. Take it easy.
The horizon will not stop abstracting us.

May 1, 2017 at 8:25 pm Leave a comment

Older Posts


Categories