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: Elisa Iacobellis
            in Poems (Author's Poems)
            Be patient towards all that
            is unresolved in your heart...
            try to adore questions, so similar to
            locked rooms and books written
            in a foreign language.
            Don't seek now those answers that can't be given to you
            for you wouldn't be able to live with them.
            Living is everything. Live the questions now.
            Maybe you shall receive it, without you noticing it,
            to live the distant
            day in which you'll have the answer.
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              Posted by: Silvana Stremiz
              in Poems (Author's Poems)
              Remember Barbara
              It rained endlessly on Brest on that day
              And you walked smiling
              Radiant enchanted dripping-wet
              In the rain
              Remember Barbara
              It was raining endlessly on Brest
              And I came across you in the Rue de Siam
              You were smiling
              And I smiled the same
              Remember Barbara
              You whom I did not know
              You who did not know me
              Remember even though that very day
              Forget not
              A man, under a porch, was sheltering
              And he called your name
              And you ran towards him in the rain
              Dripping-wet enchanted radiant
              And you threw yourself into his arms
              Remember that, Barbara
              And do not resent it if I call you: "tu"
              I say "tu" to everyone I love
              Even if I have seen them only once
              I say" tu" to all who love each other
              Even if I do not know them
              Remember Barbara
              Forget not
              The quiet and happy rain
              Hereon your happy face
              Hereon the happy town
              The rain hereon the merry sea
              On the arsenal
              On the shuttle boat to Ushant
              Oh Barbara
              What a bloody farce the war
              What's become of you now
              In the rain of iron
              Of fire, of steel of blood
              And the one who clasped you in his arms
              Is he now dead, missing, or still alive
              Oh Barbara
              It's raining endlessly on Brest
              As it rained before
              But now it is not the same, and all set abased
              It is a rain of mourning, terrible and desolate
              Now it is even no longer the storm
              Of iron, of steel of blood
              Merely clouds
              That go coma like dogs
              Dogs that go missing
              Along the current over Brest
              And will go pouring in the far
              In the very far away from Brest
              Of which there is nothing left.
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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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                  in Poems (Author's Poems)
                  Don't wait to finish university,
                  to fall in love,
                  to find a job,
                  to get married,
                  to have children,
                  to see them settle down,
                  to lose those ten pounds,
                  for friday evening to arrive or sunday morning,
                  autumn or winter.
                  There isn't a better moment than this to be happy.
                  Happiness is a path, not a destination.
                  Work as if you didn't need money,
                  love as if no one ever hurt you and dance, as if no one saw you.
                  Remember that the skin wrinkles up,
                  the hair turns white and the days become years.
                  But the important things don't change: your strength and conviction have no age.
                  Your spirit is the duster that wipes away any cobweb.
                  Behind every goal is a new start.
                  Behind every result is a new challenge. While you're alive, feel alive.
                  Go on, even when everyone expects you to give up.
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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
                    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
                    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
                    You want to blow my book sales in
                    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
                    Then I put him back,
                    but he's singing a little
                    in there, I haven't quite let him
                    and we sleep together like
                    with our
                    secret pact
                    and it's nice enough to
                    make a man
                    weep, but I don't
                    weep, do
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