Poems that I love

BUT THE BOTTOM OF THE LINE by Judith Pordon I am an American. I rush to be before the bullet, as I push air out of my way. I snap commands, advice without request, involuntarily. I wait only briefly for anything. I comb my hair without looking, as fast as possible, then cant understand why my strands are haphazard. I brush past, my goal in sight, but you, who are you? I am an averter. My eyes have never touched anyone. I will rush to my grave and even in the tomb will be pissed, for everything I didnt get to finish. I am an American. I pledge allegiance to the clock, to productivity, to the bottom line. Posted on Election Day, 7 November 2006

by Gerard Manley Hopkins The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. More poems by GM Hopkins, S.J.

by Khwajeh Shams al-Din Muhammad Hafez-e Shirazi (Hafiz) When The violin Can forgive the past It starts singing When the violin can stop worrying About the future You will become such a drunk laughing nuisance That God Will lean down And begin combing you into her hair When the violin can forgive Every wound caused by Others, The heart starts singing Daniel Ladinsky, translator Thanks to Morgan Zo-Callahan who found this poem after the murder of five Amish girls.

by Khwajeh Shams al-Din Muhammad Hafez-e Shirazi (Hafiz) Though wine gives delight, and the wind distills the perfume of the rose, Drink not the wine to the strains of the harp, for the constable is alert. Hide the goblet in the sleeve of the patchwork cloak, For the time, like the eye of the decanter, pours forth blood. Wash the wine stain from your dervish cloak with tears, For it is the season of piety, and the time for abstinence. Translation by Edward Browne

by Robert Frost The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to the ocean— Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition. My thanks to Michael Sierchio Please click here to go to a page I created for more of Frost’s poems.

by Christina Rossetti Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

by Jane Kenyon Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn, moving up the bales as the sun moves down. Let the cricket take up chafing as a woman takes up her needles and her yarn. Let evening come. Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned in long grass. Let the stars appear and the moon disclose her silver horn. Let the fox go back to its sandy den. Let the wind die down. Let the shed go black inside. Let evening come. To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop in the oats, to air in the lung let evening come. Let it come, as it will, and don't be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come.