By D. H. Lawrence
The Last Lesson
When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash…
When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
How long have they tugged the leash…
Explore Poems: Boredom
Showing 1-20 of 494 poems
- By Lorna Dee CervantesWe were so poor.
The air was a quiver
of thoughts we drew from
to poise, unsaid
in the ineffable
world we lived in.
Sun, scarcely a penny
in that dreary setting,
every night gave up
to a smog-strewn avalanche
of searchlights, crossing
the heavens, a bicker
to buy a new used... - By Ya ShiTranslated By Nick AdmussenThe cardiac bang bang of literary fame and the bruising after,
you bang bang bang, I bruise for no reason at all.
A good guy, perched on the excavator, extends its metal arms
and the moment of exposure, of shame
condensed into a twinkling,... - By Ray DiPalmaOnce a flâneur— though no longer nimble or lively
but still eager—always a flâneur—
On the rue de la Femme-sans-Tête
a large room illuminated only at one end—
Serenity impeding density amends recollection—
Once knew–in preference to yet to know, have yet to say—
Extricate and... - By Caroline BirdThe 18th century bawd who sells her daughter’s virginity
to an Earl. The tired CIA operative who says, “just do it,”
then half a village dies. The plantation owner’s wife.
The lonely CEO of the pharmaceutical company
who screams like a banshee when an... - By Franny ChoiBefore the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse of boats:
boats of prisoners, boats cracking under sky-iron, boats making corpses
bloom like algae on the shore. Before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse
of the bombed mosque. There was the apocalypse of the taxi... - By Claire SchwartzYou learn to recognize beauty by its frame.
In the gilded hall, in the gilded frame, her milky neck
extended as she peers over the drawn bath. A target,
a study, a lesson: she requires you
to be beautiful. You should save her, no... - By Kathleen OssipTo have arrived here, weighed down with fistfuls
of calendar entries, unsuitably
boggle-eyed as if new—
so these are mountains,
there is horror, which is the subway line
where I may lay down my creed
and when will my breath stop
acidulating like this?
Exceed, said 27. In... - By Sandra SimondsYou pick me up late
a viscous outflow
from the volcanic ledge
of my thinking.
Me in my duplex-hunger,
in my firestorm-astonished
dress, the pattern of crisp asphalt,
the pattern, simple condensed
nuclei, against my dry
lightning ache. You pick me up late
and we drive through
polyhedronated structures
of sound and... - By Christine Kanownikevery night
an ancient priest
gives me advice
and in the morning
I’m all alone
with nothing
a universe
I don’t want
to bother you
or to upend
the universe
but your realtors
are getting
a divorce
the dark
is the dark
the wind
the sound
of the ocean
all relative
to the sensitivity
of a tiny
chain of bones
leading up
to or... - By Richie Hofmannthe city not yet shielded in ice the harbor not yet
frozen enough to walk across trees without leaves
prismatic the thing no one
thought would happen happened in a vast hall
I... - By Rae ArmantroutOk, we’ve rendered
the rendition
how often?
What were we trying
to get rid of?
We exposed the homeless
character of desire
to the weather.
Shall we talk
about the weather
worsening four times
faster than expected,
eight times,
until the joy
of pattern recognition
kicks in?
Until the crest
... - By Carolyn GuinzioNeighbor, your mower
cast dust over the edge
where the field meets
the field, toy-sized ring-
necked snakes halved
and flattened by blades
among blades, and now
our things are mingled.
What do you covet
that is mine? Chigger-
riddled passion
blooms, a glint
of beetles loitering
under their anther eaves,
a car idling... - By Bruce BeasleyHave psalter and breviary. Have hymnbook. Have laid
fingers on rosary strings, plucked
like lyres their clatterwood. Coughed incense. Adored
precisely as instructed. Stood Passiontide vigil, then sexted
at noon. Cast bone die to prophesy
dyings, told
beads their more sorrowful mysteries. Rehallowed
insomnia to Compline then... - By Jill MagiStress is very important to me.
- By Wendy XuSuch were they, a dumb stuffed thing
to say, if truth is we all grow old un-
observed, limbs flail only halfway up
a flight, where does dark begin settling
my little bones. I dream and do love
to have them, blue fish
in a lake,... - By Joseph MasseyDawn marks the wall
a thin flange of
off-blue
An imagined
silence
Always an imagined
silence
The speed
at which sleep’s
fogged dialogue withers
into the present
noun-scape
This rift valley
A volley of
seasonal beacons
Window
where mind
finds orbit
+
All a world can do
is appear
The window
intones
A room
whose walls
warp with sun
What’s seen
is dreamed
We think
ourselves here - By Javier ZamoraWe knew something was wrong when next to the TV, a large tomatillo plant was growing out the carpet. Everything there spoke, Table, Lamps ...
In the living room, Coffee Table’s eyes glued to the TV: flags, drums, hands on the chest... - By Tim UppertonPeople like to mock my town, they mock it
for being too provincial and too boring
and it’s true, not much of import happens here
but I don’t mind. Some people say, when they are asked
what they like about Palmerston North,
that you can... - By Bill ManhireEnd of the day. A bar where you ought to leave a tip.
The green bird was saying pretty pretty pretty,
loved ones were walking home across the city.
I waved at the girl who waves her whip ...
but please be certain I’m a...