The best Author's Poems


Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
in Poems (Author's Poems)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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    Posted by: Marilů Rossi
    in Poems (Author's Poems)
    When death comes, it will have your eyes-
    This death that is always with us,
    From morning till evening, sleepless,
    Deaf, like an old remorse
    Or some senseless bad habit. Your eyes
    Will be a pointless word,
    A stifled scream, a silence;
    The way they appear to you each morning,
    When you lean over, alone,
    Into the mirror. Sweet hope,
    That day we too shall know
    That you are life and you are nothingness.
    For each of us, death has a face.
    When death comes, it will have your eyes.
    It will be like quitting some bad habit,
    Like seeing a dead face
    Resurface out of the mirror,
    Like listening to shut lips.
    We'll go down into the vortex in silence.
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      Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
      in Poems (Author's Poems)
      Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,
      No birth, identity, form--no object of the world.
      Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;
      Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.
      Ample are time and space--ample the fields of Nature.
      The body, sluggish, aged, cold--the embers left from earlier fires,
      The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;
      The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;
      To frozen clods ever the spring's invisible law returns,
      With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.
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        Posted by: Rita Cangiano
        in Poems (Author's Poems)
        I'll wander the streets till I'm dead tired,
        I'll learn to live alone and look each passing face
        straight in the eye and still be what I am.
        This coolness ascending in me, searching through my veins,
        is an awakening each morning that I've never felt
        so real -except that I feel stronger
        than my body, and a colder shiver comes each morning now.
        The mornings I had at twenty are now far: away.
        And tomorrow, twenty-one: tomorrow I'll go out in tile streets.
        I remember every stone, and the layers of the sky.
        From tomorrow people will start seeing me,
        I'll walk straight, and perhaps I'll pause
        to see myself in windows. There were mornings once
        when I was young and didn't know it, didn't even know
        that who was passing by was me - a woman, mistress
        of herself. The scrawny girl I used to be
        was awakened by a weeping that went on for years.
        Now it's as if that grieving never was.
        And all I want are colours. Colours don't weep,
        they're like an awakening: tomorrow colours
        will return. Every woman will go out into the street,
        each body a colour - even the children.
        And this body of mine, dressed after so much paleness
        in a frivolous red, will repossess its life.
        I'll feel glances slide over me
        and I'll know I'm me: a sidelong look
        and I'll see I'm there, among people. Each new morning
        I'll go out into the streets and look for colours.
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          Posted by: Save a Quote Staff
          in Poems (Author's Poems)
          The most beautiful of oceans
          it that which we never sailed.
          The most beautiful of our sons
          hasn't yet grown.
          The most beautiful of our days
          we still have to live.
          And that
          which I would like to you of most beautiful
          I haven't yet told you.
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            Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
            in Poems (Author's Poems)
            You are still the one with the stone and the sling,
            Man of my time. You were in the cockpit,
            With the malevolent wings, the meridians of death,
            -I have seen you - in the chariot of fire, at the gallows,
            At the wheels of torture. I have seen you: it was you,
            With your exact science set on extermination,
            Without love, without Christ. You have killed again,
            As always, as your fathers killed,
            as the animals killed that saw you for the first time.
            And this blood smells as on the day
            When one brother told the other brother:
            "Let us go into the fields." And that echo, chill, tenacious,
            Has reached down to you, within your day.
            Forgot, O sons, the clouds of blood
            Risen from the earth, forget your fathers:
            Their tombs sink down in ashes,
            Black birds, the wind, cover their heart.
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              Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
              in Poems (Author's Poems)
              Mine - by the Right of the White Election!
              Mine - by the Royal Seal!
              Mine - by the Sign in the Scarlet prison -
              Bars - cannot conceal!
              Mine - here - in Vision - and in Veto!
              Mine - by the Grave's Repeal -
              Titled - Confirmed -
              Delirious Charter!
              Mine - while Ages steal!
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                Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
                in Poems (Author's Poems)
                Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
                Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
                Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
                Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

                Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
                Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
                Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
                Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

                He was my North, my South, my East and West,
                My working week and my Sunday rest,
                My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
                I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

                The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
                Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
                Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
                For nothing now can ever come to any good.
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                  Posted by: Dario Pautasso
                  in Poems (Author's Poems)
                  There's a bluebird in my heart that
                  wants to get out
                  but I'm too tough for him,
                  I say, stay in there, I'm not going
                  to let anybody see
                  you.
                  There's a bluebird in my heart that
                  wants to get out
                  but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
                  cigarette smoke
                  and the whores and the bartenders
                  and the grocery clerks
                  never know that
                  he's
                  in there.

                  There's a bluebird in my heart that
                  wants to get out
                  but I'm too tough for him,
                  I say,
                  stay down, do you want to mess
                  me up?
                  You want to screw up the
                  works?
                  You want to blow my book sales in
                  Europe?
                  There's a bluebird in my heart that
                  wants to get out
                  but I'm too clever, I only let him out
                  at night sometimes
                  when everybody's asleep.
                  I say, I know that you're there,
                  so don't be
                  sad.
                  Then I put him back,
                  but he's singing a little
                  in there, I haven't quite let him
                  die
                  and we sleep together like
                  that
                  with our
                  secret pact
                  and it's nice enough to
                  make a man
                  weep, but I don't
                  weep, do
                  you?
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