Bed music
My wife and I in bed
fell into a music,
rose singing to rose,
and all day in the office
I can hardly bring myself to eat
a bit of bread.
Poems on the topic: bread
Poems on the topic “bread” on Poets.by.
High on the hog
Here I sit, high
and fat as a parliament
nobody cares for.
An ordinary night.
My head full of money, I eat
bread and cheese.
Gifts
A strange providence got me
much trouble in mind,
some cheese and a patent
on ignorant talk,
a wife and a house,
great doings of music
and a bit of bread and butter
after I was a-bed.
Sweet By-and-By
where some hope of getting money
where the stairs would not end
where we enter the hill
where my wife hunts for bread.
Feast
Red in the morning,
a great orange disorder on which to dine.
Bottles of wine alter us.
We walk up and down and weep,
sore from sitting,
and kneel—not to the king
but to eat a piece of bread
out of a poor boy’s pocket.
Purge (2)
they renounce the brother nobody knows
lock the doors to heaven
I believe in the crowd
but the crowd remains unsatisfied
with our imperfect desires
I walk on my bread and cheese
a careful fly
Take 3/16/61
there is a
loaf of datenut bread on the table,
wrapped in waxed paper, a rubber band
around it. a fat man
comes in & out of the back room in his shorts.
the silence is noticiable. i mean, to one
who has lived for four yrs in apartments
facing on a courtyard where they shout
day & night, the silence is noticeable.
the children i am watching are asleep,
the doorbell will ring any minute,
i skim along, typing a libretto
by kenneth koch; avoiding detailed observation
of my emotional state (sic),
the i ching says
that the superior man knows the changes
Heart of the World
She's not much for recipes. The bowl sometimes
invites her, and she oils it, cracks a duck egg
or two, throws in a bit of stock or well water,
maple syrup and leavening, and says to it:
sit there and I'll be back with something for you.
"Something" might be a beet leaf, or an apple,
or a spray of young mint -- once it was a whole
handful of chives. Chopped and thrown in,
the whatever might vanish under oats or rye,
buckwheat flour, or crumbs from the last loaf,
and then salt -- late, so as not to insult the yeast.
Last, she may tug the spelt barrel from beneath
the counter, and dip a porcelain bowl into
the cool brown powder five -- six -- seven
times. She stirs the makings between heaps
Duet
Yes we did did we
Would you could you
Oh go to bed
Sleep off
Be ok in the morning
How was it my skin
Had no buttons
Was heavy
By the fountain
Overbridge
The radio by the song
When you knew
What if
I don’t come back
For a lifetime
I'll be making tea
Bread and Bus: An Essay
Somebody is always,
always baking bread. It’s
been that way for thousands,
thousands of years.
Additionally, if life
is short, then there is
no such thing as
a long bus ride.
In conclusion, the bus
rolled onto a street
of shops, and we smelled
bread, baking; baking bread.
Street Cries
When dawn's first cymbals beat upon the sky,
Rousing the world to labour's various cry,
To tend the flock, to bind the mellowing grain,
From ardent toil to forge a little gain,
And fasting men go forth on hurrying feet,
BUY BREAD, BUY BREAD, rings down the eager street.
When the earth falters and the waters swoon
With the implacable radiance of noon,
And in dim shelters koils hush their notes,
And the faint, thirsting blood in languid throats
Craves liquid succour from the cruel heat,
BUY FRUIT, BUY FRUIT, steals down the panting street.
When twilight twinkling o'er the gay bazaars,
Unfurls a sudden canopy of stars,
When lutes are strung and fragrant torches lit
On white roof-terraces where lovers sit
The Inn of Earth
I CAME to the crowded Inn of Earth,
And called for a cup of wine,
But the Host went by with averted eye
From a thirst as keen as mine.
Then I sat down with weariness
And asked a bit of bread,
But the Host went by with averted eye
And never a word he said.
While always from the outer night
The waiting souls came in
With stifled cries of sharp surprise
At all the light and din.
"Then give me a bed to sleep," I said,
"For midnight comes apace"--
But the Host went by with averted eye
And I never saw his face.
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