This article is about the Protestant martyrs. This is a dynamic list and may never be able to satisfy particular standards for completeness.
Over the city the moon rides in mist, scrim scarred with faint rainbow. Two days till Easter. The thin clouds run slow, slow, the wind bells bleed the quietest of possible musics to the dark lawn. All possibility we will have children is gone.
II I raise a glass half water, half alcohol, to that light come full again. Inside, you sleep, somewhere below the pain. Down at the river, there is a tall ghost tossing flowers to dark water— jessamine, rose, and daisy, salvia lyrata.
III Oh goodbye, goodbye to bloom in the white blaze of moon on the river, goodbye to creek joining the creek joining the river, the axil, the Y, goodbye to the Yes of two Ifs in one phrase. We are grown, and time has thrown us free under the timeless moon.
This has long been one of my favorite poems by a contemporary poet. When people bemoan the "state of the art," I think of poems like this one and find small cause to worry.
The Poem of Poems A boy passes ghost-like through a curtain of weeping willow. In rainbow-stained apparel, birds are singing a cappella. Suddenly I sense it, in the birds and in the child: The world is a poem growing wild. A dewdrop on a blade of grass soon slips from where it clung Like a perfect word that gathers on the tip of a poet's tongue.
And men are merely characters to love and be defiled. God is a poem growing wild. This is a fine contemporary poem in the mystic tradition of Blake and Whitman.
Jack Butler and Greg Brownderville are both "Arkansas" boys. Piano Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
While Modernism sometimes makes a fetish out of imagism, this poem shows how effectively images can be used in the hands of a genius who is also a skilled craftsman.
It's hard to imagine a more perfectly drawn or more moving poem.
Friday The print of a bare foot, the second toe A little longer than the one which is Traditionally designated "great". Praxiteles would have admired it.
You must have left in haste; your last wet step Before boarding your suit and setting sail, Outlined in talcum on the bathroom floor Mocks your habitual fastidiousness.Technical analysis of The Fish literary devices and the technique of Elizabeth Bishop.
Skip to navigation The Fish by Elizabeth Bishop. Home / Poetry / The Fish / Analysis ; The speaker of this poem is a fisherperson. Man or woman, we can't really tell, though we keep calling the speaker "her," since the poet is . The HyperTexts The Best Contemporary Poetry The Best Modern Poets and Poems of Modernism and Postmodernism Who are the best contemporary poets (by which I mean poets who have written within the last hundred years or so, roughly)?
Poetry Analysis - The Fish - The Fish is a narrative monologue composed for 76 free-verse lines. The poem is constructed as one long stanza.
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Harold Bloom is a Sterling Professor of the Humanities at Yale University and a former Charles Eliot Norton Professor at Harvard. His more than thirty books include The Best Poems of the English Language, The Art of Reading Poetry, and The Book of initiativeblog.com is a MacArthur Prize Fellow, a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and .