“A poem is really a kind of machine for producing the poetic state by means of words.” ― Paul Verlaine Paul Verlaine II Anders Zorn – 1895
“Stay away from the underground lake I implore, The Siren will see you are heard of no more.” ― E.A. Bucchianeri, Phantom Phantasia: Poetry for the Phantom of the Opera Phan The Siren Edward Armitage – 1888
My daily walk home… There is a river on my right fast flowing deep and dark water these leaves being dragged along twirling, what a curious sight High up a blackness of one cloud when I am starting to talk to you and even though you are not here mist forms a cover like a shroud A few strange birds glide in the sky the variation of trees just in front suddently a squirrel running across and the grass covered by a grey dye Now there it is again,...
“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.” ― Alfred Tennyson Memories John White Alexander – circa 1903
“Some books are undeservedly forgotten; none are undeservedly remembered.” W.H. Auden, ‘Reading’, 1963.
“Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: – you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.” ― E.E. Cummings Christian Rohlfs, Dancing around the Ball of the Sun, 1916
Evening Slowly the evening puts on the garments held for it by a rim of ancient trees; you watch: and the lands divide from you, one going heavenward, one that falls; and leave you, to neither quite belonging, not quite so dark as the house sunk in silence, not quite so surely pledging the eternal as that which grows star each night and climbs- and leave you (inexpressibly to untangle) your life afraid and huge and ripening, so that it, now bound in and now embracing, grows alternately stone...
IN THE EVENING BY ANNA AKHMATOVA The garden rang with music Of inexpressible despair. A dish of oysters spread on ice Smelled like the ocean, fresh and sharp. He told me: “I’m a faithful friend!”- And lightly touched my dress. How different from embraces The touch of those two hands. That’s how one strokes a cat or bird Or looks at slender lady riders… Just laughter in his quiet eyes, Beneath his light gold lashes. And the despondent voices of the violins Sing out beyond the hanging smoke: “Give...
RECLINING FIGURE Then the knee of the wave turned to stone By the cliff of her flank I anchored. in the darkness of harbors laid-by Henry Moore Poem by Donald Hall (1928- ) Statue is Reclining Figure (1951) by Henry Moore Plaster and Figure (Tate Gallery London)