By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large…
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large…
Explore Poems: Jobs & Working
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- By Sharon OldsBut I love the I, steel I-beam
that my father sold. They poured the pig iron
into the mold, and it fed out slowly,
a bending jelly in the bath, and it hardened,
Bessemer, blister, crucible, alloy, and he
marketed it, and bought bourbon, and... - By Rita Dovelate, in aqua and ermine, gardenias
scaling her left sleeve in a spasm of scent,
her gloves white, her… - By Lydia Harris1
Sunday vellum tongues with words of prayer
Monday messages from the unknown
Tuesday how to… - By James JoyceHe travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they … - By Angela Jackson1. Yellow paint on brush.
Black body leaning in wind.
Mustached man. Father.
2. House yellow… - By Bertrand N. O. WalkerFor ages long, my people have been
Dwellers in this land;
For ages viewed these mountains,
Loved these… - By Mike DoughtyHe was jailed for cruelty to insects, and his agent wasn’t answering the phone, so he stayed awake in the cell all night, pictures jumping around his head of the cops and the blowdryer they took as evidence. He used...
- By David RoderickI wear a flower in my lapel.
I like the sweetness of its lie in my nose.
A carnation, the fool’s flower,
its heart a wilting empire.
In late-night editing sessions,
I imagine I’m planting flowers
in the sockets of eyes. Whatever helps
me reach our rigor... - By Pat MoraBuenos dias and hasta lue$o in boardrooms and strategy sessions, Where are your grateful holiday smiles bilinguals? I've given you a voice, let you in
to hear old friends tell old jokes,
Stop flinching, Drink eggnog, Hum alon,
Not carols we hear
whimpering
children too... - By John TickhillIn a sesone of somere þat souerayne ys of alle,
Þat was þe myry monþ of May when many myrthys spryng,
Þe sonne ys somnore and syre and sendyth tyl vs doun,
And byddyth vs bisy for to be oure bodys for to glade;
Man for to myrth hym in al maner wys,
Bestys for to buske ham on bentys tyl abyde, - By Terrance HayesBroken Earth
Year of Release: 1939
Running Time: 11 minutes
Cast: Clarence Muse and unidentified boy
I am the sick boy in the shack when the camera opens
On the sunrise and wispy silhouettes of the plow
And the fool mule and my father working a... - By Arthur SzeA woman moves through a Cloud Hands position,
holding and rotating
an invisible globe—thud, shattering glass, moan,
horn blast—so many
worlds to this world—two men dipnet
sockeye salmon
at the mouth of a river—from a rooftop, a seagull
squawks and cries;
a woman moves... - By UnknownSwarte smekyd smepes smateryd wyth smoke.
dryue me to deth wyth den of here dyntes.
Swech noys on nyghtes ne herd men neuer.
what knauene cry & clateryng of knockes
þe cammede kongons cryen after col col.
& blowen here bellewys þat al here brayn... - By William Langland‘þis were a wikkede wey but whoso hadde a gyde
þat [myȝte] folwen us ech foot’: þus þis folk hem mened.
Quod Perkyn þe Plowman, ‘By Seint Peter of Rome!
I haue an half acre to erie by þe heiȝe weye;
Hadde I eryed... - By Osip MandelstamTranslated By Peter FranceToo black, too much indulged, living in clover,
all little withers, all air, all charity,
all crumbling, all massing in a choir—
damp clods of soil, my land and liberty...
With early plowing it is black to blueness,
and unarmed labor here is glorified—
a thousand... - By Osip MandelstamTranslated By Peter FranceI was washing at night out in the yard—
the heavens glowing with rough stars.
A star-beam like salt upon an axe,
the water barrel brimful and cold.
A padlock makes the gate secure,
and conscience gives sternness to the earth—
hard to find a standard... - By Daye PhillippoI have learned to love turning a bar of soap
and the calendar’s empty pages in my hands,
soft lather that soothes, feels like ritual, lifts away
things I don’t need. I have learned to love
the chickens’ ways, the hesitating way they walk
like... - By Patricia SmithWhen a bullet enters the brain, the head explodes.
I can think of no softer warning for the mothers
who sit doubled before my desk,
knotting their smooth brown hands,
and begging, fix my boy, fix my boy.
Here's his high school picture.
And the smirking,... - By Debora KuanYou know sleep will dart beyond your grasp. Its edges
crude and merciless. You will clutch at straws,
wandering the cold, peopled rooms of
the Internet, desperate for any fix. A
vapor of faith. An amply paid gig, perhaps,
for simply having an earnest heart...