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Woman

A woman’s eye

Bears the brunt

Of releasing the sorrow

Of all those around her

Not revealing

Unable to reveal

Those hundred words buried

Rain through one silent wail

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poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Filling Station

Oh, but it is dirty!
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;

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poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Green Clouds # 1

The air smells salty, as if the ocean was but a kiss away
simmering sensations rotate over my head
like two red-hot branding irons hovering a hairsbreadth above my skull
beyond this comes the void,

Short, panting breaths of inexistence
sensations snatch at me as if I were their salvation
brushing only air as I transcend into the wind
dark tunnels with ice encrusted sides shimmering a pale white

Until they burst into close proximate reality
always seeming, never there
Rough itching shivers of roots twine down into my bloodstream
swishing my senses until laughs indicate guilt

Looks hide suspicion and knowledge of the crime
rings of echoing fear swirling in my sensibility
staining me with their lurking taint
the green clouds intoxicate me and open the floodgates
Of poetry and imagination

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poem by Poet Dragon
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A Visit to the Deserted House

Ah! The ties of the golden age have been razed,
Removed by the sharp double edged razor of time,
The whole period swings before my invisible eyes,
The memories spring up like impatient mushrooms,
Out of the heap of memories: undisturbed scrap.

I see the faint, faded image of my mother sitting,
Exhausted on the sill of the door, engrossed,
Absorbed in profound thoughts devising the device,
To encounter the reserved worries of tomorrow;

I see my father sitting on the cot, drowsing leaning,
Against the wall in the sweet sunshine of winter,
And sometime an abrupt snort jerks, awakes him.

I behold my uncle in one corner weaving baskets,
With the mulberry wet flexible sticks bending them,
And twisting, recollecting the strength of all muscles.

I see a few hens clucking in the mud-plastered yard,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Do Not Fear....

LAST night you panicked
about the tsunami news

that is real
you have seen the video on the news
at BBC

THIS thing does not
shake me
i have trust on the earth
where we live
daily

The earth will always be a big thing
and we are its miniatures
My body is like the earth
and the Earth is my body

Thus when the earth shakes
it is because it is feverish

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Will Marry Tomorrow

My wedding is tomorrow
Foul these vain desires,
Blame it on me,
Maybe tomorrow,
To the altar’s oath
Like many,
We shall walk through the isle,
Greening in my genteel gaunt
I will this honor bequeath to my well beloved tomorrow

Tomorrow,

I shall not consider the qualities of a virtuous woman,
The which I wait,
How scarce!
This memoir will be extraneous tomorrow,
I bid you come to my wedding when Godliness mutates into morality,
And the date is tomorrow.

Tomorrow

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poem by Macaulay Akinbami
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Elegy XVIII. He Repeats the Song of Colin, a Discerning Shepherd

Near Avon's bank, on Arden's flowery plain,
A tuneful shepherd charm'd the listening wave,
And sunny Cotsol' fondly loved the strain;
Yet not a garland crowns the shepherd's grave!

Oh! lost Ophelia! smoothly flow'd the day,
To feel his music with my flames agree,
To taste the beauties of his melting lay,
To taste, and fancy it was dear to thee.

When, for his tomb, with each revolving year,
I steal the musk-rose from the scented brake,
I strew my cowslips, and I pay my tear,
I'll add the myrtle for Ophelia's sake.

Shivering beneath a leafless thorn he lay,
When Death's chill rigour seized his flowing tongue;
The more I found his faltering notes decay,
The more prophetic truth sublimed the song.

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poem by William Shenstone
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The Stranger

It was on Queen Street
Auckland, we mystically met.
I hurried past up hill
to swiftly change in hotel room.
I felt presence reach
out, as I rapidly pasted.
I stopped; to glance around.
What had arrested motion?

This unknown man would be
singular alone anywhere.
We looked searching out secrets
deep within each others eyes.
Dressed he was in shielding travel stained
clothes of youth's pilgrims who travel.
Seeking an answer to impelling souls.
Moths ever magnetically magically drawn on.

It was on Queen Street, in my beloved Auckland,
in Aotearoa New Zealand, we mystically met.

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Nevers of Poetry

Never say aught in verse, or grave or gay,
That you in prose would hesitate to say.
Never in rhyme pretend to tears, unless
True feeling sheds them in unfeigned distress;
Or some dream-grief, with such a mournful strain
As night winds make in pine tops, stirs your brain,
To shake them, dew-like, o’er the flowers that bloom
In the wild dark, round Joy’s imagined tomb;
Or save when doubts that over Love may lower,
Like summer clouds, break in a sunny shower
Out of your gladdened eyes, to freshen all
The bowers of memory with their grateful fall.
Never too much affect that polished thing—
Once belauded—known as point, or sting.
The highest and the noblest growths of wit
Are never, or but seldom, touched with it.
For of the muse it is not truly born
Unless the apex of some burst of scorn,
Or irony, or hate all torture-torn!
Not to increase the passion, but to make

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poem by Charles Harpur
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Undevoted, Free, And Wild

Undevoted, free, and wild,
no one to answer to, no one to answer for,
the urns shattered, and the ashes scattered,
and the fire liberated to perfect its own combustion
and the stars without anyone to walk home,
and the solitude silent, dark, and deep, cool
as the bliss of a wine-cellar talking in its sleep,
I have grown mad in the heat of the purple sun.
I have spoken from the mouths of the caves in the desert
and not expected the echo of my own voice
to return to me like a pilgrim stashing a gnostic gospel
deep in the sand, without realizing
how much closer to the stars dirt is than I am.

When you're no one but the wind in disguise
you don' need to be humble, you don't need to wise,
nothing to trust, and no one to rely on,
you can watch the dead at night
streaming toward Orion
like a blue-white ribbon of light

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poem by Patrick White
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