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The Lady of Oriana To Dulcinea del Toboso

Oh, fairest Dulcinea, could it be!
It were a pleasant fancy to suppose so—
Could Miraflores change to El Toboso,
And London's town to that which shelters thee!

Oh, could mine but acquire that livery
Of countless charms thy mind and body show so!
Or him, now famous grown—thou mad'st him grow so—
Thy knight, in some dread combat could I see!

Oh, could I be released from Amadis
By exercise of such coy chastity
As led thee gentle Quixote to dismiss!

Then would my heavy sorrow turn to joy;
None would I envy, all would envy me,
And happiness be mine without alloy.

poem by Miguel de Cervantes from Don Quixote de la Mancha (1605), translated by John Ormsby
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Coffee!

Coffee beans all ground up,
Coffee in my favourite cup,
Coffee black, coffee white,
Coffee dark, coffee light,
Coffee right, to start the day,
Coffee at work, coffee at play,
Coffee midday, coffee at night,
Coffee to sober, coffee to excite,
Coffee weak, coffee strong,
But maybe instead some Lapsang Souchong! ! ! !
TEA! ! ! ! !

poem by Ernestine Northover
Added by Poetry Lover
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For your birthday
I have nothing to offer you.
Maybe, later on,
you will be told I wrote
a few love poems.

tanka by Manuela Miga from Nude With Anthurium (1999), translated by Manuela Miga
Added by Dan Costinaş
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If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists:
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loveing me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

[...] Read more

poem by Pablo Neruda, translated by Donald D. Walsh
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Meditation

Thin cloud. Light rain.
Far cell. Closed to noon.
Sit. Look. Green moss
Becomes one with your clothes.

poem by Wang Wei
Added by Dan Costinaş
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A Curse Against Elegies

Oh, love, why do we argue like this?
I am tired of all your pious talk.
Also, I am tired of all the dead.
They refuse to listen,
so leave them alone.
Take your foot out of the graveyard,
they are busy being dead.

Everyone was always to blame:
the last empty fifth of booze,
the rusty nails and chicken feathers
that stuck in the mud on the back doorstep,
the worms that lived under the cat's ear
and the thin-lipped preacher
who refused to call
except once on a flea-ridden day
when he came scuffing in through the yard
looking for a scapegoat.
I hid in the kitchen under the ragbag.

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Sexton
Added by Dan Costinaş
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