ALONE WITH EVERYBODY BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI

ALONE WITH EVERYBODY BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI

the flesh covers the bone

and they put a mind

in there and

sometimes a soul,

and the women break

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

much

and nobody finds the

one

but keep

looking

crawling in and out

of beds.

flesh covers

the bone and the

flesh searches

for more than

flesh.

there's no chance

at all:

we are all trapped

by a singular

fate.

nobody ever finds

the one.

the city dumps fill

the junkyards fill

the madhouses fill

the hospitals fill

the graveyards fill

nothing else

fills.

 

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD BY DYLAN THOMAS

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD BY DYLAN THOMAS

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

I CANNOT GO TO SCHOOL TODAY BY SHEL SILVERSTEIN

I CANNOT GO TO SCHOOL TODAY 

BY SHEL SILVERSTEIN 

“I cannot go to school today," 

Said little Peggy Ann McKay. 

“I have the measles and the mumps, 

A gash, a rash and purple bumps. 

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry, 

I’m going blind in my right eye. 

My tonsils are as big as rocks, 

I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox 

And there’s one more--that’s seventeen, 

And don’t you think my face looks green? 

My leg is cut--my eyes are blue-- 

It might be instamatic flu. 

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke, 

I’m sure that my left leg is broke-- 

My hip hurts when I move my chin, 

My belly button’s caving in, 

My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained, 

My ‘pendix pains each time it rains. 

My nose is cold, my toes are numb. 

I have a sliver in my thumb. 

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak, 

I hardly whisper when I speak. 

My tongue is filling up my mouth, 

I think my hair is falling out. 

My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight, 

My temperature is one-o-eight. 

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear, 

There is a hole inside my ear. 

I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what? 

What’s that? What’s that you say? 

You say today is. . .Saturday? 

G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

I AM NOT YOURS BY SARA TEASDALE

I AM NOT YOURS BY SARA TEASDALE

I am not yours, not lost in you,

Not lost, although I long to be

Lost as a candle lit at noon,

Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still

A spirit beautiful and bright,

Yet I am I, who long to be

Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love - put out

My senses, leave me deaf and blind,

Swept by the tempest of your love,

A taper in a rushing wind.

 

HOW DO I LOVE THEE BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

HOW DO I LOVE THEE BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

 

HELAS BY OSCAR WILDE

HELAS BY OSCAR WILDE

To drift with every passion till my soul

Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,

Is it for this that I have given away

Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?

Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll

Scrawled over on some boyish holiday

With idle songs for pipe and virelay,

Which do but mar the secret of the whole.

Surely there was a time I might have trod

The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance

Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:

Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod

I did but touch the honey of romance —

And must I lose a soul's inheritance?

   

FUNERAL BLUES BY W.H. AUDEN

FUNERAL BLUES BY W.H. AUDEN 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.