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Tim Bovee, Private Trader: The left brain side of my life.
mamabluefoot & the mountain
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A Poet on a Magical Journey Home
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Tina Blue's Beginner's Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading.
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Save Point 0.8.1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug. 13-Sept. 5, 2004, at Disjecta.
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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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Jenny kiss'd Me, by Leigh Hunt
JENNY kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
The gift, by Margaret Pow
I remember manythings
As my life passes by
Happiness, trouble and pain
Love, tears, going insane
I try to imagine
Il Penseroso, by John Milton
HENCE vain deluding joyes,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes;
Dwell in som idle brain,
The Water-Nymph and the Boy, by Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel
I FLUNG me round him,
I drew him under;
I clung, I drown'd him,
My own white wonder!...
Father and mother,
A Litany, by Phineas Fletcher
DROP, drop, slow tears,
And bathe those beauteous feet
Which brought from Heaven
The news and Prince of Peace:
Cease not, wet eyes,
Battle Song, by Ebenezer Elliott
DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark;
What then? 'Tis day!
We sleep no more; the cock crows--hark!
To arms! away!
They come! they come! the knell is rung
The Ninety and Nine, by Rose Elizabeth Smith
There are ninety and nine that work and die,
In hunger and want and cold,
That one may revel in luxury,
And be lapped in the silken fold.
And ninety and nine in their hovels bare,
A Saint's Hours, by Sarah N. Cleghorn
In the still cold before the sun
(Her Matins) Her brothers and her sisters small
She woke, and washed and dressed each one.
And through the morning hours all
(Prime) Singing above her broom she stood
Life, by Anna Laetitia Barbauld
LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me 's a secret yet.
But this I know, when thou art fled,
A Rose, by Sir Richard Fanshawe
BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon.
What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee?
Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,
And passing proud a little colour makes thee.
If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,
Night's Mardi Gras, by Edward J. Wheeler
Night is the true democracy. When day
Like some great monarch with his train has passed,
In regal pomp and splendor to the last,
The stars troop forth along the Milky Way,
A jostling crowd, in radiant disarray,
Myself to Myself, by Madan G. Gandhi
Only One remains
throughout the enoic time
weaving on His desire loom
new creations in succession.
The maker of the plot
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