Poems: Extra Poems

My friend Sam shared her favorite poem by Boris Pasternak:

February. Take ink and weep,
by Boris Pasternak, 1890-1960
February. Take ink and weep,
Write February as you’re sobbing,
while black Spring burns deep
through the slush and throbbing.
Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks,
through bell-towers’ and wheel noise,
go where the rain-storm’s din breaks,
greater than crying or ink employs.
Where rooks in thousands falling,
like charred pears from the skies,
drop down into puddles, bringing
cold grief to the depths of eyes.
Below, the black shows through,
and the wind’s furrowed with cries:
the more freely, the more truly

then, sobbing verse is realised.

I haven't read much Pasternak, not even his novel, Doctor Zhivago. Clearly I will have to remedy this situation!

And a few more from Sara:

Anne Hathaway
by Carol Ann Duffy from The World's Wife
'Item I gyve unto my wife my second best bed ...'
(from Shakespeare's will)
The bed we loved in was a spinning world
of forests, castles, torchlight, clifftops, seas
where we would dive for pearls. My lover's words
were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses
on these lips; my body now a softer rhyme
to his, now echo, assonance; his touch
a verb dancing in the centre of a noun.
Some nights, I dreamed he'd written me, the bed
a page beneath his writer's hands. Romance
and drama played by touch, by scent, by taste.
In the other bed, the best, our guests dozed on,
dribbling their prose. My living laughing love -
I hold him in the casket of my widow's head
as he held me upon that next best bed.

Funny stuff there. Second best bed my ass...

Over the wintry
by Natsume Soseki
Over the wintry
forest, winds howl in rage
with no leaves to blow.

Haiku! An easy-to-love form of poetry, and a fun one to try to write. 

And, last but not least:

The Loser
by Shel Silverstein
from the book "Where the Sidewalk Ends" (1974)

Mama said I'd lose my head
if it wasn't fastened on.
Today I guess it wasn't
'cause while playing with my cousin
it fell off and rolled away
and now it's gone.

And I can't look for it
'cause my eyes are in it,
and I can't call to it
'cause my mouth is on it
(couldn't hear me anyway
'cause my ears are on it),
can't even think about it
'cause my brain is in it.
So I guess I'll sit down
on this rock
and rest for just a minute...

Thanks, poetry friends! 

A field of large pumpkins that have nothing to do with this poetry, but kinda are their own sort of poetry. 

A field of large pumpkins that have nothing to do with this poetry, but kinda are their own sort of poetry.