I seem to have rather eclectic tastes in everything,
and that goes for poetry too. I've written a few of my own, but I'm not ready to unveil them to the world.
Instead, I have picked a mixture of poems that have stuck with me over the years. It's a strange collection, but
I guess it suits me. I hope you find some enjoyment in them, too.
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For in your beauty's orient deep,
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars light,
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become, as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west
The phoenix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you
at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies. - Thomas Carew (1598? - 1639?)
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and
dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget. - Christina Rossetti (1830 - 1894)
A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
One perfect rose.
I knew the language of the floweret;
"My fragile leaves," it said, "his heart enclose."
Love long has
taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.
Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.
- Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967)
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color. - W. S. Merwin, 1973
My attention is a wild
animal: it will
if idle
make trouble where there
was no harm: it will
sniff and scratch at the
breath's sills:
it will wind itself tight
around the pulse
or, undistracted by
verbal toys, pommel the
heart frantic: it will
pounce on a stalled riddle
and wrestle the mind numb:
attention, fierce animal
I cry, as it coughs in my
face, dislodges boulders
in my belly, lie down, be
still, have
mercy, here
is song, coils of song, play
it out, run with it. - A. R. Ammons, 1983
This is one of my first "oil" paintings
done entirely with smudged pixels in Corel PhotoPaint.
 Thank you for indulging me! I have created a whole collection of these graphics, which I call "Elegance" - take a peek!
 
All graphics on this page are
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