Category Archives: Poetry

CODA – by Dorothy Parker

There’s little in taking or giving,
There’s little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest’s for a clam in a shell,
So I’m thinking of throwing the battle —
Would you kindly direct me to hell?

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THE ROADS ALSO – Wilfred Owen

The roads also have their wistful rest,
When the weathercocks perch still and roost,
And the looks of men turn kind to clocks
And the trams go empty to their drome.
The streets also dream their dream.

The old houses muse of the old days
And their fond trees leaning on them doze.
On their steps chatter and clatter stops
For the cries of other times hold men
And they hear the unknown moan.

They remember alien ardours and far futures
And the smiles not seen in happy features.
Their begetters call them from the gutters;
In the gardens unborn child-souls wail,
And the dead scribble on walls.

Though their own child cry for them in tears,
Women weep but hear no sound upstairs.
They believe in love they had not lived
And passion past the reach of stairs
To the world’s towers or stars.

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BERCEUSE – Paul Dyer

Spinning a
tawdry promise
about the fingers
in skeins of
languid doom
is a different matter
from settling all scores,
brushing your teeth
for the last time
and doing the dishes
so you’ll go out clean.

You count off the minutes
till the predetermined hour,
enjoying the pulse of time
as never before.

And then the blade
across each wrist in turn,
slicing casually,
like stripping off
a watchstrap,

knowing that because
you wrote about it
somewhere
it had always already
begun.

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