Girl Walking Barefoot

by David Constantine

Girl walking barefoot over the crematorium lawns in black
I see you like the feel of the covering of the earth
Green over black and damp, I see
You like the thought of the look of yourself in black
Sauntering over the lawns between the blocks
Of numbered roses. The hearses
Ply like birds with mouths to feed, the parties
Form in the sun like clouds until their own
Hard seeding docks. But you
Girl amble away over the lawns in black
On two crooked fingers swinging your dressy shoes

History of the Night

by Jorge Luis Borges

Throughout the course of the generations
men constructed the night.
At first she was blindness;
thorns raking bare feet,
fear of wolves.
We shall never know who forged the word
for the interval of shadow
dividing the two twilights;
we shall never know in what age it came to mean
the starry hours.
Others created the myth.
They made her the mother of the unruffled Fates
that spin our destiny,
they sacrificed black ewes to her, and the cock
who crows his own death.
The Chaldeans assigned to her twelve houses;
to Zeno, infinite words.
She took shape from Latin hexameters
and the terror of Pascal.
Luis de Leon saw in her the homeland
of his stricken soul.
Now we feel her to be inexhaustible
like an ancient wine
and no one can gaze on her without vertigo
and time has charged her with eternity.


And to think that she wouldn't exist
except for those fragile instruments, the eyes.

A Dialogue Between the Soul and Body

by Andrew Marvell

Soul.           O, WHO shall from this dungeon raise
                A soul enslaved so many ways ?
                With bolts of bones, that fettered stands
                In feet, and manacled in hands ;
                Here blinded with an eye, and there
                Deaf with the drumming of an ear ;
                A soul hung up, as 'twere, in chains
                Of nerves, and arteries, and veins ;
                Tortured, besides each other part,
                In a vain head, and double heart ? 

Body.           O, who shall me deliver whole,
                From bonds of this tyrannic soul ?
                Which, stretched upright, impales me so
                That mine own precipice I go ;
                And warms and moves this needless frame,
                (A fever could but do the same),
                And, wanting where its spite to try,
                Has made me live to let me die
                A body that could never rest,
                Since this ill spirit it possessed. 

Soul.           What magic could me thus confine
                Within another's grief to pine ?
                Where, whatsoever it complain,
                I feel, that cannot feel, the pain ;
                And all my care itself employs,
                That to preserve which me destroys ;
                Constrained not only to endure
                Diseases, but, what's worse, the cure ;
                And, ready oft the port to gain,
                Am shipwrecked into health again.

Body.           But Physic yet could never reach
                The maladies thou me dost teach ;
                Whom first the cramp of hope does tear,
                And then the palsy shakes of fear ;
                The pestilence of love does heat,
                Or hatred's hidden ulcer eat ;
                Joy's cheerful madness does perplex,
                Or sorrow's other madness vex ;
                Which knowledge forces me to know,
                And memory will not forego ;
                What but a soul could have the wit
                To build me up for sin so fit ?
                So architects do square and hew
                Green trees that in the forest grew.

Todesfuge

by Paul Celan

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sie nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift seine Rüden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor läßt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde
er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng

Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen
Er ruft spielt süßer den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland

dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith

Bitter Strawberries

by Sylvia Plath
(Happy Birthday, m'dear)

All morning in the strawberry field
They talked about the Russians.
Squatted down between the rows
We listened.
We heard the head woman say,
'Bomb them off the map.'

Horseflies buzzed, paused and stung.
And the taste of strawberries
Turned thick and sour.

Mary said slowly, 'I've got a fella
Old enough to go.
If anything should happen...'

The sky was high and blue.
Two children laughed at tag
In the tall grass,
Leaping awkward and long-legged
Across the rutted road.
The fields were full of bronzed young men
Hoeing lettuce, weeding celery.

'The draft is passed,' the woman said.
'We ought to have bombed them long ago.'
'Don't,' pleaded the little girl
With blond braids.

Her blue eyes swam with vague terror.
She added petishly, 'I can't see why
You're always talking this way...'
'Oh, stop worrying, Nelda,'
Snapped the woman sharply.
She stood up, a thin commanding figure
In faded dungarees.
Businesslike she asked us, 'How many quarts?'
She recorded the total in her notebook,
And we all turned back to picking.

Kneeling over the rows,
We reached among the leaves
With quick practiced hands,
Cupping the berry protectively before
Snapping off the stem
Between thumb and forefinger.

His Poetry His Pillar

by Robert Herrick

Only a little more
       I have to write
       Then I'll give o'er,
And bid the world good-night.

'Tis but a flying minute
       That I must stay,
       Or linger in it ;
And then I must away.

O time that cut'st down all!
       And scarce leav'st here
       Memorial
Of any men that were.

How many lie forgot
       In vaults beneath,
       And piecemeal rot
Without a fame in death?

Behold this living stone
       I rear for me,
       Ne'er to be thrown
Down, envious Time, by thee.

Pillars let some set up,
       If so they please:
       Here is my hope
And my pyramides.

The Argument of His Book

by Robert Herrick

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers;
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the fairy king.
I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.