Find and share the perfect poems.
sleep, little beansprout don't be scared the night is simply the true sky bared sleep, little dillseed don't be afraid the moon is the sunlight ricocheted sleep, little button don't make a fuss we make up the gods so they can make us sleep, little nubbin don't you stir this sky smiled down on Atlantis and Ur
Copyright © 2007 by Albert Goldbarth. Reprinted from The Kitchen Sink: New and Selected Poems, 1972-2007 with the permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota.
It's as if every demon from hell with aspirations toward interior design flew overhead and indiscriminately spouted gouts of molten gold, that cooled down into swan-shape spigots, doorknobs, pen-and-inkwell sets. A chandelier the size of a planetarium dome is gold, and the commodes.
The drizzle-slicked cobblestone alleys
of some city;
and the brickwork back
of the lumbering Galapagos tortoise
they'd set me astride, at the "petting zoo"....
The taste of our squabble still in my mouth
the next day;
and the brackish puddles sectioning
the street one morning after a storm....
So poetry configures its comparisons.We could say that Rembrandt was a greater painter than Kandinsky. We could not say that Rembrandt was three and a half times better than Kandinsky. . . . We could say, “I have more pain than I had yesterday.” When we tried to say, “I have nine dols of pain,” we found we were talking nonsense. —Leshan and Morgenau