Summer Poems
Circe
by Augusta Davies Webster
The sun drops luridly into the west;
darkness has raised her arms to draw him down
before the time, not waiting as of wont
till he has come to her behind the sea;
and the smooth waves grow sullen in the gloom
and wear their threatening purple; more and more
the plain of waters sways and seems to rise
convexly from its level of the shores;
and low dull thunder rolls along the beach:
there will be storm at last, storm, glorious storm.
......
Tired
by Augusta Davies Webster
No not to-night, dear child; I cannot go;
I'm busy, tired; they knew I should not come;
you do not need me there. Dear, be content,
and take your pleasure; you shall tell me of it.
There, go to don your miracles of gauze,
and come and show yourself a great pink cloud.
So, she has gone with half a discontent;
but it will die before her curls are shaped,
and she'll go forth intent on being pleased,
......
Lament
by Dylan Thomas
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
......
Pigeons
by Richard Kell
They paddle with staccato feet
In powder-pools of sunlight,
Small blue busybodies
Strutting like fat gentlemen
With hands clasped
Under their swallowtail coats;
And, as they stump about,
Their heads like tiny hammers
Tap at imaginary nails
In non-existent walls.
......
On The Grasshopper And Cricket
by John Keats
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
......
Highball
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
I frequent publicans and their beer houses
When summer deems it fit to kill
How else do I frighten time, fast or slow?
I have my way with vengeance upon the slowness of
Everything slow
The divagation of the seasons —especially when winter
Snowballs and buries all hate.
But that is another matter
For another tatter.
Now, it’s summer!
......
On the Summer Fields
by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu
I’ve been walking for a mile
The woman stalking me has been sniffing for a while
She has become my second shadow
I hope I am not the source of her sorrow.
I quicken my steps on the quagmire of illusion
She hastens with her shadow on the plinths of delusion
One thing is sure: I’d out-walk her.
She makes her resolution as well not to remain in the rear.
......
Hot Summer Days
by Saleh Ben Saleh
O I resent the heat of summer,
on still days silent the sun would sit.
As if the gates of hell are ajar,
where great mighty fires are lit.
Hard the earths surface shall bake,
with no boredom nor pause nor break.
Across the horizon the mighty sun shall set
and into oblivion its rays will sink,
......
Cricket Eulogy (as the Bullfrog Croaks)
by Goose and Nothing Else
Lay my bones in the strawberry field—
Between rows of dusty leaves and Evening’s sunwarm fruit—
That she might stumble on an ivory phalange,
And know me by its sorrow.
Hold it, dear, my hand in yours,
and rest
With I returned to you.
The unsent love letter
by Lynda Grine
The cicadas sang
The end of the summer
In my pocket
I carried the weight of an unsent
Love letter
