quote:

There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

---

But the cat
wants nothing more than to be a cat,
and every cat is pure cat
from its whiskers to its tail,
from sixth sense to squirming rat,
from nighttime to its golden eyes.
Nothing hangs together
quite like a cat:
neither flowers nor the moon
have
such consistency.
It's a thing by itself,
like the sun or a topaz,
and the elastic curve of its back,
which is both subtle and confident,
is like the curve of a sailing ship's prow.
The cat's yellow eyes
are the only
slot
for depositing the coins of night.

quote:

Moonlight slanting
through the bamboo grove;
a cuckoo crying.

quote:

I've found that I read poetry with strong imagery a lot slower than, say, poems that are story-oriented like the Canterbury Tales. The fact that the "plot" is taken out or hidden, makes me think about each line before proceeding.

quote:

I'd be very interested in the names of those poems you refer to, Xirmi. And I am going to check out that poem of yours. =P

quote:

Death the Leveler

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in dusth be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

by James Shirley

quote:

He clasps the crag with crooked hands.
Close to the sun in lonely lands.
Ringed with azure world he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls.
He watches from his mountain walls.
And like a thunderbolt, he falls.

quote:

I stand amid the roar,
Of a surf tormented shore.
While I hold in my hand,
Grains of the golden sand.
How few, yet how the creep,
Through my fingers to the deep.