I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
1/3
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan’s men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
2/3
I fancied you’d return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)
3/3
A Love Song
A poem by William Carlos Williams
What have I to say to you When we shall meet? Yet—
I lie here thinking of you.
The stain of love Is upon the world. Yellow, yellow, yellow, It eats into the leaves, Smears with saffron The horned branches that lean Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky.
1/3
There is no light— Only a honey-thick stain That drips from leaf to leaf And limb to limb Spoiling the colours Of the whole world.
I am alone. The weight of love Has buoyed me up Till my head Knocks against the sky.
2/3
See me! My hair is dripping with nectar— Starlings carry it On their black wings. See, at last My arms and my hands Are lying idle.
How can I tell If I shall ever love you again As I do now?
3/3
Fuck the poem
A poem by Kate Tempest
I haven't written in ages 'cause I'd rather stare at you than stare at pages.
But what would be great is
making a poem that could be half as courageous
as you when you're naked.
I try for a minute ―
1/3
Your love is my metal, your kisses my rivets.
You are like the ocean beneath the slick of a spillage.
Fuck the poem.
There's a bed here
and you want me in it.
2/3
3/3
Colloque sentimental
Un poème de Paul Verlaine
Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacé Deux formes ont tout à l'heure passé.
Leurs yeux sont morts et leurs lèvres sont molles, Et l'on entend à peine leurs paroles.
Dans le vieux parc solitaire et glacé Deux spectres ont évoqué le passé.
1/3
- Te souvient-il de notre extase ancienne? - Pourquoi voulez-vous donc qu'il m'en souvienne?
- Ton coeur bat-il toujours à mon seul nom? Toujours vois-tu mon âme en rêve? - Non.
Ah ! les beaux jours de bonheur indicible Où nous joignions nos bouches ! - C'est possible.
2/3
- Qu'il était bleu, le ciel, et grand, l'espoir ! - L'espoir a fui, vaincu, vers le ciel noir.
Tels ils marchaient dans les avoines folles, Et la nuit seule entendit leurs paroles.
3/3
Will there really be a morning?
A poem by Emily Dickinson
Will there really be a "Morning"? Is there such a thing as "Day"? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
1/3
Has it feet like Water lilies? Has it feathers like a Bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard?
2/3
Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor! Oh some Wise Men from the skies! Please to tell a little Pilgrim Where the place called "Morning" lies!
3/3
Le Pont Mirabeau
Un poème de Guillaume Apollinaire
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine.
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure.
Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse.
1/3
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure.
L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente.
2/3
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure.
Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine.
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure.
