Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 11

Come as you are; do not loiter over

your toilet.

If your braided hair has loosened if

the parting of your hair be not straight,

if the ribbons of your bodice be not

fastened, do not mind.

Come as you are; do not loiter over

your toilet.

Come, with quick steps over the

grass.

If the raddle come from your feet

because of the dew, of the rings of bells

upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop

out of your chain, do not mind.

Come, with quick steps over the

grass.

Do you see the clouds wrapping the

sky?

Flocks of cranes fly up from the

further river-bank and fitful gusts of

wind rush over the heath.

The anxious cattle run to their stalls

in the village.

Do you see the clouds wrapping the

sky?

In vain you light your toilet lamp

--it flickers and goes out in the

wind.

Who can know that your eyelids

have not been touched with lamp-

black? For your eyes are darker

than rain-clouds.

In vain you light your toilet lamp--

it goes out.

Come as you are; do not loiter over

your toilet.

If the wreath is not woven, who

cares; if the wrist-chain had not been

linked, let it be.

The sky is overcast with clouds--it

is late.

Come as you are; do not loiter over

your toilet.

Emily Dickinson – This World is not Conclusion (Poem 373)

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond - 
Invisible, as Music -
But positive, as Sound -
It beckons, and it baffles - 
Philosophy, dont know - 
And through a Riddle, at the last - 
Sagacity, must go -
To guess it, puzzles scholars -
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown -
Faith slips - and laughs, and rallies - 
Blushes, if any see - 
Plucks at a twig of Evidence - 
And asks a Vane, the way - 
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit -
Strong Hallelujahs roll - 
Narcotics cannot still the Tooth
That nibbles at the soul -

Edgar Allan Poe – Epigram for Wall Street

I'll tell you a plan for gaining wealth,

Better than banking, trade or leases —

Take a bank note and fold it up,

And then you will find your money in creases!

This wonderful plan, without danger or loss,

Keeps your cash in your hands, where nothing can trouble it;

And every time that you fold it across,

'Tis as plain as the light of the day that you double it!

Charlotte Mew – Rooms

I remember rooms that have had their part

     In the steady slowing down of the heart.

The room in Paris, the room at Geneva,

The little damp room with the seaweed smell,

And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide—

     Rooms where for good or for ill—things died.

But there is the room where we (two) lie dead,

Though every morning we seem to wake and might just as well seem to sleep again

     As we shall somewhere in the other quieter, dustier bed

     Out there in the sun—in the rain.

Charles Bukowski – Death Wants More Death

]

death wants more death, and its webs are full:
I remember my father's garage, how child-like
I would brush the corpses of flies
from the windows they thought were escape-
their sticky, ugly, vibrant bodies
shouting like dumb crazy dogs against the glass
only to spin and flit
in that second larger than hell or heaven
onto the edge of the ledge,
and then the spider from his dank hole
nervous and exposed
the puff of body swelling
hanging there
not really quite knowing,
and then knowing-
something sending it down its string,
the wet web,
toward the weak shield of buzzing,
the pulsing;
a last desperate moving hair-leg
there against the glass
there alive in the sun,
spun in white;
and almost like love:
the closing over,
the first hushed spider-sucking:
filling its sack
upon this thing that lived;
crouching there upon its back
drawing its certain blood
as the world goes by outside
and my temples scream
and I hurl the broom against them:
the spider dull with spider-anger
still thinking of its prey
and waving an amazed broken leg;
the fly very still,
a dirty speck stranded to straw;
I shake the killer loose
and he walks lame and peeved
towards some dark corner
but I intercept his dawdling
his crawling like some broken hero,
and the straws smash his legs
now waving
above his head
and looking
looking for the enemy
and somewhat valiant,
dying without apparent pain
simply crawling backward
piece by piece
leaving nothing there
until at last the red gut sack
splashes
its secrets,
and I run child-like
with God's anger a step behind,
back to simple sunlight,
wondering
as the world goes by
with curled smile
if anyone else
saw or sensed my crime