(Poem #212)Splendour in the Grass What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower, We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. |
Splendour in the Grass -- William Wordsworth
Lullaby -- Tom Waits
(Poem #211)Lullaby Sun is red; moon is cracked Daddy's never coming back Nothing's ever yours to keep Close your eyes, go to sleep If I die before you wake Don't you cry don't you weep Nothing's ever as it seems Climb the ladder to your dreams If I die before you wake Don't you cry; don't you weep Nothing's ever yours to keep Close your eyes; go to sleep |
A Good Son -- Miller Williams
(Poem #210)A Good Son He called home every once in a while to tell his mother, just so he could imagine how she would smile, something or other about a girlfriend or work or a new movie he might have seen, whatever was right. He lied some, but mostly he stayed between fantasy and fact. He was a good son. He loved his mother a lot and knew what she needed-- to live through him whether he lived or not. |
Evening in the Sanitarium -- Louise Bogan
(Poem #209)Evening in the Sanitarium The free evening fades, outside the windows fastened with decorative iron grilles. The lamps are lighted; the shades drawn; the nurses are watching a little. It is the hour of the complicated knitting on the safe bone needles; of the games of anagrams and bridge; The deadly game of chess; the book held up like a mask. The period of the wildest weeping, the fiercest delusion, is over. The women rest their tired half-healed hearts; they are almost well. Some of them will stay almost well always: the blunt-faced woman whose thinking dissolved Under academic discipline; the manic-depressive girl Now leveling off; one paranoiac afflicted with jealousy. Another with persecution. Some alleviation has been possible. O fortunate bride, who never again will become elated after childbirth! O lucky older wife, who has been cured of feeling unwanted! To the suburban railway station you will return, return, To meet forever Jim home on the 5:35. You will be again as normal and selfish and heartless as anybody else. There is life left: the piano says it with its octave smile. The soft carpets pad the thump and splinter of the suicide to be. Everything will be splendid: the grandmother will not drink habitually. The fruit salad will bloom on the plate like a bouquet And the garden produce the blue-ribbon aquilegia. The cats will be glad; the fathers feel justified; the mothers relieved. The sons and husbands will no longer need to pay the bills. Childhoods will be put away, the obscene nightmare abated. At the ends of the corridors the baths are running. Mrs. C. again feels the shadow of the obsessive idea. Miss R. looks at the mantel-piece, which must mean something. |
This Room -- John Ashbery
(Poem #208)This Room The room I entered was a dream of this room. Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine. The oval portrait of a dog was me at an early age. Something shimmers, something is hushed up. We had macaroni for lunch every day except Sunday, when a small quail was induced to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things? You are not even here. |