By David Hopson
We land in the aisles of British fiction
to soak in the air conditioning. Your fingers
play the spines…
to soak in the air conditioning. Your fingers
play the spines…
Explore Poems: Unrequited Love
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- By Mag GabbertThe effect—for those three hundred years, while the cupid remained hidden—was a kind of silence.
Like… - By SapphoTranslated By Anne CarsonDeathless Aphrodite of the spangled mind,
child of Zeus, who twists lures, I beg you
do not break with… - By UnknownLēodum is mīnum swylce him mon lāc gife;
willað hȳ hine āþecgan gif hē on þrēat cymeð.
Ungelīc is ū… - By Patricia Smith1. You crush me with your damning glimpses, Anna. You,so rancorous, so wounding, and so cruelly bred…
- By Chase Twichell“You can’t kiss a movie,” Jean-Luc Godard said, and this is mostly true, in that you cannot initiate the kiss. The Movie could initiate the kiss if The Movie wanted, as it is so much taller, leaning in, no way...
- By John TickhillTranslated By Eric WeiskottIn springtime, chief of all seasons,
in May when new joys rise and flourish,
the sun is lord and messenger at once and sends down to us
to rouse our bodies and be merry:
humankind to... - By John TickhillIn a sesone of somere þat souerayne ys of alle,
Þat was þe myry monþ of May when many myrthys spryng,
Þe sonne ys somnore and syre and sendyth tyl vs doun,
And byddyth vs bisy for to be oure bodys for to glade;
Man for to myrth hym in al maner wys,
Bestys for to buske ham on bentys tyl abyde, - By J. V. CunninghamThere is no stillness in this wood.
The quiet of this clearing
Is the denial of my hearing
The sounds I should.
There is no vision in this glade.
This tower of sun revealing
The timbered scaffoldage is stealing
Essence from shade.
Only my love is love’s ideal.... - By Justin Phillip ReedDoes a man with no intentions know he means
you only harm? If lodged in the scar were a pearl
of such precise damage no tongue could lift it—
Either I am talking about my ex-lover or
I am talking about the president. Every
choice... - By Hoa NguyenA student at the military school 1956
and a literary teacher at the nearby high school
fall in love Cute:
each day after school the military student left
a love letter on her door Thao (an orphan)
wrote back and left a love letter reply... - By MirabaiTranslated By Jane HirshfieldO friends, I am mad
with love, and no one sees.
My mattress is a sword-point,
how can I sleep
when the bed of my Beloved
is spread open elsewhere?
Only those who have felt the knife
can understand the wound,
only the jeweler
knows the nature of the... - By Christopher MalecWe met at Burger King... so I thought I could have us my way
If I had known you were gonna drive through more than once,
I would’ve made the first... - By Noor NagaThere are people to live for and people to die for I comfort myself: there are people to sleep with and people to wake with there are fifty thousand years...
- By Tommye Blountyou ask, because you have
everything and nothing
or no one, not even a man
like me, will destroy that;
because I am the germ
of what you fear
of finding in yourself;
because I am a bug
to be avoided by any means—
an inconsequential body;
because whatever music... - By Mohja KahfYour heart is a wall on which I knocked
looking for a door, a latch
a windowsill, a flowerpot
Everything I brought to the wall dried up
and blew away for lack of answer:
tulip bulbs, my worry for you, some children
Sometimes I pounded it... - By Tianru WangHow convenient for Cui Hao
that the one who left was an immortal.
If only we could all have his good fortune.
When I looked, I saw you perched
between the wings of the crane. I was so shortsighted;
it didn’t even cross my mind
that... - By Eduardo C. CorralHis beard: an avalanche of honey,
an avalanche
of thorns. In a bar too close to the Pacific,
... - By Noah BaldinoOn the days we don’t talk, I watch the dog do foolish frantic loops alone around the park.
This morning, late brittle fall, she’s taken a stick and made it her treasure.
It’s far too big. One end’s lodged between her back... - By John KeatsThou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
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