Being a collection of favorite poems collected from strangers, upon my request.
The poems in this anthology were sent in by readers of Ftrain.com in response to .
I'm putting them up in the order they were received, posting them on occasion. There are about 80 or 90, but the count is not final.
At the Slackening of the Tide“Today I saw a woman wrapped in rags.”
BathFrom Chicago Poems, 1916. “A MAN saw the whole world as a grinning skull and cross-bones.”
MysteriesYour eyes are widely opened flowers.
The Guy In The GlassFrom 1934. “When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf...”
TracksFrom Valentine's Day, 1997. “Using a cobbler's shoe last...”
“How like the sound” and “Dear Girls”Two poems, submitted by Natalie Schulhofer.
Dust of Snow“The way a crow/Shook down on me”
Estuans Interius (Burning Inside)From Carmina Burana. “Burning inside/with violent anger...”
In Place Of A Curse“At the next vacancy for God, if I am elected...”
To the Virgins, to Make Much of TimeGather ye rosebuds while ye may...
Reflection on the Fallibility of NemesisHe who is ridden by a conscience...
Two Poems from Weston CannTwo poems from cummings, and some links, and a narrative about the value of poetry.
The WandererIn the world are distant roads...
LullabyLay Your Sleeping head, my love...
How much happens in a dayIn the course of a day we shall meet one another....
The Kendall Clark Sub-Anthology of PoetryKendall says: “I could never choose one, so here are a few. (Actually, 8.)”
You Were WearingYou were wearing your Edgar Allan Poe printed cotton blouse...
The Mad Farmer Liberation FrontLove the quick profit, the annual raise...
Two from JulietThe Mother of God, and Leda and the Swan
Where Babies Come FromMany are from the Maldives...
StepsHow funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget's steeple leaning a little to the left
here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting's not so blue
where's Lana Turner
she's out eating
and Garbo's backstage at the Met
everyone's taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park's full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we're all winning
we're alive
the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building's no longer rivaled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)
and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining
oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much
Submitted by Rosecrans Baldwin, who writes, “Bite me, shithead.”
The RampageThe last time
there was a genuine rampage,
herds stampeding
with the zest of hurricanes,
with the pulsations of a storm,
and the force of destiny,
when the road went up
against the villous ceiling,
when the stronger ones
pushed forward to the cruel
thunder of whips while the zombies
fell back into permanent darkness,
the last time
the cavalry charged
across the whole width of the enemy line
into the gap between life and death,
and not even one single droplet of misery
dripped,
the last time
something really won
and the rest turned into compost
that was when the sperm
made the journey
up the oviduct.
This was 'to be or not to be'.
Since that time we've been tottering round
with the embarrassment of softening skeletons,
with the wistful caution
of mountain gorillas in the rain;
we keep hoping for the time-lapse soul,
secreting
marital problems and
a stationary home metaphysics
against which
the adenosine triphosphate of every fucked-up cell
is like the explosion of a star
in a chicken coop.
Submitted by Eldan, who writes: I'm trying very hard to become a scientist without becoming dull and inarticulate like the stereotype. Too few non-scientists can appreciate the beauty of what we study, and too few scientists try to do anything about this. I see Holub as a great example of a scientist actually trying to express the passion of what he did (he passed away a few years ago). This poem is one that I wish I had written even more than I do most of his.