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American Sonnet (10)

By Wanda Coleman, 1946 – 2013

after Lowell

our mothers wrung hell and hardtack from row

and boll. fenced others’

gardens with bones of lovers. embarking

from Africa in chains

reluctant pilgrims stolen by Jehovah’s light

planted here the bitter

seed of blight and here eternal torches mark

the shame of Moloch’s mansions

built in slavery’s name. our hungered eyes

do see/refuse the dark

illuminate the blood-soaked steps of each

historic gain. a yearning

yearning to avenge the raping of the womb

from which we spring

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Those Winter Sundays

by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

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The New Colossus

by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

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Acquainted With The Night

by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-by;

And further still at an unearthly height,

One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

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The Unreturning

by Wilfred Owen

Suddenly night crushed out the day and hurled

Her remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled.

Then fell a stillness such as harks appalled

When far-gone dead return upon the world.

There watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke.

Each one whom Life exiled I named and called.

But they were all too far, or dumbed, or thralled,

And never one fared back to me or spoke.

Then peered the indefinite unshapen dawn

With vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds,

The weak-limned hour when sick men's sighs are drained.

And while I wondered on their being withdrawn,

Gagged by the smothering Wing which none unbinds,

I dreaded even a heaven with doors so chained.

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Bread and Music

by Conrad Aiken

Music I heard with you was more than music,

And bread I broke with you was more than bread;

Now that I am without you, all is desolate;

All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,

And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.

These things do not remember you, belovèd,

And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,

And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;

And in my heart they will remember always,—

They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

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Love Is Not All

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink

and rise and sink and rise and sink again.

Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath

Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;

Yet many a man is making friends with death

even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

It well may be that in a difficult hour,

pinned down by need and moaning for release

or nagged by want past resolution's power,

I might be driven to sell your love for peace,

Or trade the memory of this night for food.

It may well be. I do not think I would.

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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 candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love with a 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.

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Sonnet 147

by William Shakespeare

My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease,

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

Desire is death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest.

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,

At random from the truth vainly expressed,

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as Hell, as dark as night.

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Into My Own

Robert Frost

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,

So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,

Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,

But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day

Into their vastness I should steal away,

Fearless of ever finding open land,

Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back,

Or those should not set forth upon my track

To overtake me, who should miss me here

And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew--

Only more sure of all I thought was true.

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A Dream Pang

By Robert Frost

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song

Was swallowed up in leaves that blew away,

And to the forest edge you came one day

(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,

But did not enter, though the wish was strong:

You shook your pensive head as who should say,

'I dare not--too far in his footsteps stray--

He must seek me would he undo the wrong.'

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all

Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;

And the sweet pang it cost me not to call

And tell you that I saw does still abide,

But 'tis not true that thus I dwelt aloof,

For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

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And the Stars

By Robinson Jeffers

Perhaps you did not know how bright last night,

Especially above your seaside door,

Was all the marvelous starlit sky, and wore

White harmonies of very shining light.

Perhaps you did not want to seek the sight

Of that remembered rapture any more.--

But then at least you must have heard the shore

Roar with reverberant voices thro' the night.

Those stars were lit with longing of my own,

And the ocean's moan was full of my own pain.

Yet doubtless it was well for both of us

You did not come, but left me there alone.

I hardly ought to see you much again;

And stars, we know, are often dangerous.

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Time does not bring relief...

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied

Who told me time would ease me of my pain!

I miss him in the weeping of the rain;

I want him at the shrinking of the tide;

The old snows melt from every mountain-side,

And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;

But last year's bitter loving must remain

Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!

There are a hundred places where I fear

To go,--so with his memory they brim!

And entering with relief some quiet place

Where never fell his foot or shone his face

I say, "There is no memory of him here!"

And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

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Love is not blind...


Love is not blind. I see with single eye

Your ugliness and other women's grace.

I know the imperfection of your face,

The eyes too wide apart, the brow too high

For beauty. Learned from earliest youth am I

In loveliness, and cannot so erase

Its letters from my mind, that I may trace

You faultless, I must love until I die.

More subtle is the sovereignty of love:

So am I caught that when I say, "Not fair,"

'Tis but as if I said, "Not here--not there

Not risen--not writing letters." Well I know

What is this beauty men are babbling of;

I wonder only why they prize it so.

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Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow


Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow!

Faithless am I save to love's self alone.

Were you not lovely I would leave you now:

After the feet of beauty fly my own.

Were you not still my hunger's rarest food,

And water ever to my wildest thirst,

I would desert you--think not but I would!

And seek another as I sought you first.

But you are mobile as the veering air,

And all your charms more changeful than the tide,

Wherefore to be inconstant is no care:

I have but to continue at your side.

So wanton, light and false, my love, are you,

I am most faithless when I most am true.

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And you as well must die, belovèd dust


And you as well must die, belovèd dust,

And all your beauty stand you in no stead;

This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,

This body of flame and steel, before the gust

Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,

Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead

Than the first leaf that fell, this wonder fled,

Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost.

Nor shall my love avail you in your hour.

In spite of all my love, you will arise

Upon that day and wander down the air

Obscurely as the unattended flower,

It mattering not how beautiful you were,

Or how belovèd above all else that dies.

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Only until this cigarette is ended


Only until this cigarette is ended,

A little moment at the end of all,

While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,

And in the firelight to a lance extended,

Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,

The broken shadow dances on the wall,

I will permit my memory to recall

The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.

And then adieu,--farewell!--the dream is done.

Yours is a face of which I can forget

The colour and the features, every one,

The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;

But in your day this moment is the sun

Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

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Sonnet 18

By William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer's lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;But thy eternal summer shall not fadeNor lose possession of that fair thou owest;Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou growest:So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

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Sonnet 116: Let me not to the marriage of true mindsBY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Let me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove.O no! it is an ever-fixed markThat looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wand'ring bark,Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom.If this be error and upon me prov'd,I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

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Sonnet 73 By William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou seest the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou see'st the glowing of such fireThat on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed whereon it must expireConsumed with that which it was nourish'd by.This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

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Sonnet 29


When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast stateAnd trouble deaf heaven with my bootless criesAnd look upon myself and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee, and then my state,Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth bringsThat then I scorn to change my state with kings.

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Sonnet 1: From fairest creatures we desire increaseBY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,But as the riper should by time decease,His tender heir might bear his memory;But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,Making a famine where abundance lies,Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.Though that art now the world’s fresh ornamentAnd only herald to the gaudy spring,Within thine own bud buriest thy content,And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding. Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

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Sonnet 3


Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewestNow is the time that face should form another;Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.For where is she so fair whose unear'd wombDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry?Or who is he so fond will be the tombOf his self-love, to stop posterity?Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in theeCalls back the lovely April of her prime:So thou through windows of thine age shall seeDespite of wrinkles this thy golden time.

But if thou live, remember'd not to be,Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

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Sonnet 104


To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d,In process of the seasons have I seen,Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv’d;So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d:For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.

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Sonnet 33


Full many a glorious morning have I seenFlatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,Kissing with golden face the meadows green,Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;Anon permit the basest clouds to rideWith ugly rack on his celestial face,And from the forlorn world his visage hide,Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:Even so my sun one early morn did shine,With all triumphant splendour on my brow;But out, alack, he was but one hour mine,The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now.Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.

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Sonnet 130


My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red, than her lips red: If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.I have seen roses damasked, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks.I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound:I grant I never saw a goddess go,My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,As any she belied with false compare.

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Sonnet 30


When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o’erThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,Which I new pay as if not paid before.But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

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If We Must Die

By Claude McKay (1919)

If we must die—let it not be like hogs

Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,

While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,

Making their mock at our accursed lot.

If we must die—oh, let us nobly die,

So that our precious blood may not be shed

In vain; then even the monsters we defy

Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!

Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe;

Though far outnumbered, let us show us brave,

And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!

What though before us lies the open grave?

Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack,

Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

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Unholy Sonnet

By Mark Jarman

After the praying, after the hymn-singing,After the sermon’s trenchant commentaryOn the world’s ills, which make ours secondary,After communion, after the hand wringing,And after peace descends upon us, bringingOur eyes up to regard the sanctuaryAnd how the light swords through it, and how, scaryIn their sheer numbers, motes of dust ride, clinging—There is, as doctors say about some pain,Discomfort knowing that despite your prayers,Your listening and rejoicing, your small partIn this communal stab at coming clean,There is one stubborn remnant of your caresIntact. There is still murder in your heart.

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Sonnet 115

By John Berryman (1947)

All we were going strong last night this time,the mosts were flying & the frozen daiquiriswere downing, supine on the floor lay Liselistening to Schubert grievous & sublime,my head was frantic with a following rime:it was a good evening, and evening to please,I kissed her in the kitchen—ecstasies—among so much good we tamped down the crime. The weather’s changing. This morning was cold,as I made for the grove, without expectation,some hundred Sonnets in my pocket, old,to read her if she came. Presently the sunyellowed the pines & my lady came notin blue jeans & a sweater. I sat down & wrote.

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I will put Chaos into fourteen lines

By Edna St. Vincent Millay (c. 1945)

I will put Chaos into fourteen linesAnd keep him there; and let him thence escapeIf he be lucky; let him twist, and apeFlood, fire, and demon—his adroit designsWill strain to nothing in the strict confinesOf this sweet Order, where, in pious rape,I hold his essence and amorphous shape,Till he with Order mingles and combines.Past are the hours, the years, of our duress,His arrogance, our awful servitude:I have him. He is nothing more nor lessThan something simple yet not understood;I shall not even force him to confess;Or answer. I will only make him good.

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The Silken TentBy Robert Frost She is as in a field of silken tentAt midday when the sunny summer breezeHas dried the dew and all its ropes relent,So that in guys it gently sways at ease,And its supporting central cedar pole,That is its pinnacle to heavenwardAnd signifies the sureness of the soul,Seems to owe naught to any single cord,But strictly held by none, is loosely boundBy countless silken ties of love and thoughtTo every thing on earth the compass round,And only by one’s going slightly tautIn the capriciousness of summer airIs of the slightest bondage made aware.

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The Sonnet-BalladBy Gwendolyn Brooks (1949) Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?They took my lover’s tallness off to war,Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guessWhat I can use an empty heart-cup for.He won’t be coming back here any more.Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knewWhen he went walking grandly out that doorThat my sweet love would have to be untrue.Would have to be untrue. Would have to courtCoquettish death, whose impudent and strangePossessive arms and beauty (of a sort)Can make a hard man hesitate—and change.And he will be the one to stammer, “Yes.”Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

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Sonnet 138By William Shakespeare

When my love swears that she is made of truth,I do believe her, though I know she lies,That she might think me some untutor’d youth,Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,Although she knows my days are past the best,Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:On both sides thus is simple truth suppress’d.But wherefore says she not she is unjust?And wherefore say not I that I am old?O, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,And age in love loves not to have years told:Therefore I lie with her and she with me,And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be.

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Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

By Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep I am not there.

I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there.

I did not die.

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Amoretti Lxvii: Like As A Huntsman

By Edmund Spenser

Like as a huntsman after weary chase,Seeing the game from him escap'd away,Sits down to rest him in some shady place,With panting hounds beguiled of their prey:So after long pursuit and vain assay,When I all weary had the chase forsook,The gentle deer return'd the self-same way,Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook.There she beholding me with milder look,Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide:Till I in hand her yet half trembling took,And with her own goodwill her firmly tied.Strange thing, me seem'd, to see a beast so wild,So goodly won, with her own will beguil'd.

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Sonnet Xvii

By Pablo Neruda

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never bloomsbut carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

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Ozymandias

By Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique landWho said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stoneStand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,Tell that its sculptor well those passions readWhich yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.And on the pedestal these words appear --"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"Nothing beside remains. Round the decayOf that colossal wreck, boundless and bareThe lone and level sands stretch far away.'

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Death Be Not Proud

By John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

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Amoretti Lxxv: One Day I Wrote Her Name

By Edmund Spenser

One day I wrote her name upon the strand,But came the waves and washed it away:Again I wrote it with a second hand,But came the tide, and made my pains his prey."Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain assay,A mortal thing so to immortalize;For I myself shall like to this decay,And eke my name be wiped out likewise.""Not so," (quod I) "let baser things deviseTo die in dust, but you shall live by fame:My verse your vertues rare shall eternize,And in the heavens write your glorious name:Where whenas death shall all the world subdue,Our love shall live, and later life renew."

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When I Have Fears

By John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,Before high-piled books, in charactery,Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,And think that I may never live to traceTheir shadows, with the magic hand of chance;And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,That I shall never look upon thee more,Never have relish in the faery powerOf unreflecting love;--then on the shoreOf the wide world I stand alone, and thinkTill love and fame to nothingness do sink.

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From Visions

By Francesco Petrarch

Being one day at my window all alone,So manie strange things happened me to see,As much as it grieveth me to thinke thereon.At my right hand a hynde appear'd to mee,So faire as mote the greatest god delite;Two eager dogs did her pursue in chace.Of which the one was blacke, the other white:With deadly force so in their cruell race

They pincht the haunches of that gentle beast,That at the last, and in short time, I spide,Under a rocke, where she alas, opprest,Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide.Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautieOft makes me wayle so hard a desire.

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Abraham Lincoln

By Washington Van Dusen

Born in a cabin in the forest wild,With old Kentucky pioneers he foundA life to penury and hardship bound,With little schooling for the ardent child;But skies grew brighter when Romance beguiled,And books gave dreams that charmed the bloody groundLike roses in the clearings all around--Then came the Law, and with it Fortune smiled.

Years brought on War, and like an angel sentTo save, the Great Emancipator came;And daily watched its course as President,Till Gettysburg rolled back the sea of flame;And there he rose sublimely eloquent,With those immortal words that crown his fame.

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A Flower of Memory


A maid one evening took a wilted roseShe wore and pressed it in a treasured bookWhere she alone was privileged to lookOn love's poor fading token in repose,Till time had passed and with it all her woes,And then once more she turned the leaves in tearsTo see the beauty of her vanished yearsReturn like exiles to a sacred close,The shrine deserted, but the grounds abloomWith living memories of fairer skies;So love returned; sweet incense swept the room.She dreamed old dreams again with misty eyes,And then her Heaven paled and in the gloomShe stood outside the gates of Paradise.

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The Lover of Beauty


Who sows the stars upon the field of nightOr throws the moon's soft glamour on the sea?Who makes the fireflies flash on bush and treeOr thrills the dawn with flush of rosy light?Who gems the dew that sparkles on my sightOr gives the bird its airy pinions free,The rose its hue and fragrant charm for me,Or flowers the fields with myriad blossoms bright?O deep within my soul I know the PowerThat Nature with a million voices sings;Who gave my life its glory for a dower,My eye its light; my soaring thought its wings,And He must love the sky, the hill, the flower,For Beauty is the very heart of things.

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A Young Man

By Jericho Brown

We stand together on our block, me and my son,Neighbors saying our face is the same, but I knowHe’s better than me: when other children move

Toward my daughter, he lurches like a brotherMeant to put them down. He is a bodyguardOn the playground. He won’t turn apart from her,

Empties any enemy, leaves them flimsy, meConfounded. I never fought for so much—I calmed my daughter when I could cradle

My daughter; my son swaggers about her. He won’t have to heal a girl he won’t let free. They are so small. And I, still, am a young man.

In him lives my black anger made red.They play. He is not yet incarcerated.

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Here

By Kim Addonizio

After it ended badly it got so much betterwhich took a while of course but stillhe grew so tender & I so gratefulwhich maybe tells you something about how it wasI’m trying to tell you I know youhave staggered wept spiraled through a long roombanging your head against it holding crushedbird skulls in your hands your many hearts unstrungunable to play a note their wood still beautiful& carved so elaborately maybe a collector would want themstupid collectors always preserving & never breaking openthe jars so everyone starves while admiring the viewyou don’t own anyone everything will be taken from yougo ahead & eat this poem please it will help

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Electrocution

By Lola Ridge

He shudders—feeling on the shaven spotThe probing wind, that stabs him to a thoughtOf storm-drenched fields in a white foam of light,And roads of his hill-town that leap to sightLike threads of tortured silver. . .while the guards—Monstrous deft dolls that move as on a string,In wonted haste to finish with this thing,Turn faces blanker than asphalted yards.

They heard the shriek that tore out of its sheathBut as a feeble moan. . .yet dared not breathe,Who stared there at him, arching—like a treeWhen the winds wrench it and the earth holds tight—Whose soul, expanding in white agony,Had fused in flaming circuit with the night.

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SONNET 151


Love is too young to know what conscience is; Yet who knows not, conscience is born of love? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. For thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body's treason; My soul doth tell my body that he may Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason, But rising at thy name, doth point out thee As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise and fall.

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