You can see
Where my global village is,
My global village lies it here,
See you the positioning of it
On the world map.
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He is a a man
You should not doWhat he should have,The difference in betweenA man and a woman.
My poetry
But the critic is not.My poetryIn search of a critic desperatelyBut the critic is missing.
It was my first kiss
The red rose splashed with the dews.She seemed to be red roseAnd I looking backIn amazement and admiration.A red rose into the hands of mine,The mistress of mineAnd I proposing never to part ways.
While going through the forest tract
Sometimes see IThe carcass lying by the side ofOr deep into the fields thrown offAnd the carrion-eatersLabouring on the dead body,The vultures and other birds,Hyenas now not,But the jackals during the night time,The stray dogs too trying their bestAs they do on left-oversAnd the crows cawing for food and waterAll the time,We too need them,The…
Foreigner girl
Want ITo makeMy homeNear the airport.Foreigner girl,Without seeing you,How to celebrate itValentine’s Day,Foreigner girl?Beauty is truth,Truth beauty,Whatever say it they.
In the waste land
I with my skeletoned beloved,Bony, frail and feeble,Going to make a home,In a worldRaked by acid rain, climate changeAnd atomic summer.God, save us,God, O God!
as ever I saw
the fountain in
Madison Square
spouts up of water
a white tree
that dies and lives
as the rocking water
in the basin
turns from the stonerim
back upon the jet
and rising there
reflectively drops down again.
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They tell me on the morrow I must leave
And truth to tell I tremble with delightAt thought of such unheralded reprieve.E’er have I known December in a weaveOf blanched crystal, when, thrice one short nightPacked full with magic, and O blissful sight!N’er May so warmly doth for April grieve.To in a breath’s space wish the winter throughAnd lo, to see it fading! Where,…
You sullen pig of a man
with your stinking ash-cart!Brother!–if we were richwe’d stick our chests outand hold our heads high!It is dreams that have destroyed us.There is no more pridein horses or in rein holding.We sit hunched together broodingour fate.Well–all things turn bitter in the endwhether you choose the right orthe left wayand–dreams are not a bad thing.
I
and spring–a matter of a few daysonly,–a flower or two pickedfrom mud or from among wet leavesor at best against treacherousbitterness of wind, and sky shiningteasingly, then closing in blackand sudden, with fierce jaws.IIMarch,you reminded me ofthe pyramids, our pyramids–stript of the polished stonethat used to guard them!March,you are like Fra Angelicoat Fiesole, painting on…
Now that I have cooled to you
Temples soothed by the sun to ruinThat sleep utterly.Give me hand for the dances,Ripples at Philae, in and out,And lips, my Lesbian,Wall flowers that once were flame.Your hair is my CarthageAnd my arms the bow,And our words arrowsTo shoot the starsWho from that misty seaSwarm to destroy us.But you there beside me—Oh, how shall I…
If you had come away with me
we had been quiet together.But there the sun coming upout of the nothing beyond the lake wastoo low in the sky,there was too great a pushingagainst him,too much of sumac buds, pinkin the headwith the clear gum upon them,too many opening hearts of lilac leaves,too many, too many swollenlimp poplar tassels on thebare branches!It was…
This plot of ground
is dedicated to the living presence ofEmily Dickinson Wellcomewho was born in England; married;lost her husband and withher five year old sonsailed for New York in a two-master;was driven to the Azores;ran adrift on Fire Island shoal,met her second husbandin a Brooklyn boarding house,went with him to Puerto Ricobore three more children, losther second husband,…