Poems that I love

- Billy Collins The neighbors' dog will not stop barking. He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark that he barks every time they leave the house. They must switch him on on their way out. The neighbors' dog will not stop barking. I close all the windows in the house and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast but I can still hear him muffled under the music, barking, barking, barking, and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra, his head raised confidently as if Beethoven had included a part for barking dog. When the record finally ends he is still barking, sitting there in the oboe section barking, his eyes fixed on the conductor who is entreating him with his baton while the other musicians listen in respectful silence to the famous barking dog solo, that endless coda that first established Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Bobby McFerrin Here's a little song I wrote You might want to sing it note for note Don't worry, be happy In every life we have some trouble But when you worry you make it double Don't worry, be happy Don't worry, be happy now don't worry Ain't got no place to lay your head Somebody came and took your bed Don't worry, be happy The landlord say your rent is late He may have to litigate Don't worry, be happy Oh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh don't worry, be happy Here I give you my phone number, when you worry, call me, I make you happy, don't worry, be happy Don't worry, be happy Ain't got no cash, ain't got no style Ain't got no gal to make you smile Don't worry, be happy 'Cause when you worry your face will frown And that will bring everybody down So don't worry, be happy Don't worry, be happy now Now there, is this song I wrote I hope you learned note for note Like good little children, don't worry, be happy ...

By Vicki Feaver I used to iron everything: my iron flying over sheets and towels like a sledge chased by wolves over snow; the flex twisting and crinking until the sheath frayed, exposing wires like nerves. I stood like a horse with a smoking hoof, inviting anyone who dared to lie on my silver padded board, to be pressed to the thinness of dolls cut from paper. I’d have commandeered a crane if I could, got the welders at Jarrow to heat me an iron the size of a tug to flatten the house. Then for years I ironed nothing. I put the iron in a high cupboard. I converted to crumpledness. And now I iron again: shaking dark spots of water onto wrinkled silk, nosing into sleeves, round buttons, breathing the sweet heated smell hot metal draws from newly-washed cloth, until my blouse dries to a shining, creaseless blue, an airy shape with room to push my arms, breasts, lungs, heart into. From Poetry Archive

A Poem by Robert Brophy    Lines for Matthew Arnold or variations on “Dover Beach”   The sea is calm tonight, And bleakness full, the fog lies eerie Upon the shore; toward the pier a car light Glimmers and is gone; the cliffs off Palos Verdes stand. Come to the verge, strange is the starless aerie. Only, from the long line of foam Where sea meets fog-blanched sand, Listen! You’ll hear those without home Grieving while the waves draw back, and fling On their return, up where cold forms stand, Hiss, then cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring, Yes, infernal notes of impoverishment in. Jack Smith not long ago Heard it by Newport Pier, and it brought Into his mind that turbid flow Of Southland misery; we Find also, in the sound, the selfsame thought, Hearing it by this the South Bay sea. Locked restroom stalls Were once accessible, and round earth’s shore Apartments not burdened with enormous rent, But now we only hear The melancholy, long, forecl...

BY WALLACE STEVENS The palm at the end of the mind, Beyond the last thought, rises In the bronze decor, A gold-feathered bird Sings in the palm, without human meaning, Without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason That makes us happy or unhappy. The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down. Wallace Stevens, "Of Mere Being" from The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play. Copyright © 1967, 1969, 1971 by Holly Stevens. All rights reserved. Source: The Palm at the End of the Mind: Selected Poems and a Play by Wallace Stevens (Alfred A. Knopf, 1971)

Kumar Abhishek Water shoots out  A force  of small droplets Touch the surface Of my body It follows Each curve and fold  Dryness disappears Now wet Adding some oil Throwing  Ghee into the fire Hands Explore  Sliding Fingers follow Lines of body Eyes shut Mouth open Breathing gradually The water Gone But some tiny Droplets  Stuck On my body Slowly vanish   "Intimacy is being intimate with my own body. Self love plays an important role. "Once we start accepting ourselves and celebrate our own existence then everything becomes beautiful, and we start accepting others, the world."

by Mario de Andrade (San Paolo 1893-1945) Poet, novelist, essayist and musicologist. He was one of the founders of Brazilian modernism. I counted my years and realized that I have Less time to live by, Than I have lived so far. I feel like a child who won a pack of candies: at first he ate them with pleasure, But when he realized that there was little left, he began to taste them intensely. I have no time for endless meetings where the statutes, rules, procedures & internal regulations are discussed, knowing that nothing will be done. I no longer have the patience To stand absurd people who, despite their chronological age, have not grown up. My time is too short: I want the essence, my spirit is in a hurry. I do not have much candy In the package anymore. I want to live next to humans, very realistic people who know How to laugh at their mistakes, Who are not inflated by their own triumphs and who take responsibility for their actions. In this way, human dignity is defended and we...