A minstrel’s life
I drink with a seaman,
a half moon and a barber,
play harp for a bit of meat
and send broke thoughts.
Poesie sull''argomento: drink
Poesie sull''argomento «drink» su Poets.by.
Drunkard’s dream
drinking alone
among the flowers of evil—
the bees are all dead
drunk
as though through clouds
i see you blurred
in a big crowd
all my words slurred
Asylum
Under the dimmed lights, shadowed faces.
Bow-tied waiters pad by silently.
From the blistering sun
Into dark, cold caves
Offering anonymity, security
Of a faceless existence.
The impassive courtesy
A flicker of familiarity
Assurance of a sanctuary -
How I love this place!
In the glass, the liquor
The clink of cubes
Frozen like my soul.
Fizz fizzling out
Like my dreams!
By oneself, in twosome or in groups
Ceremony
As he stumbles on the bus
he proclaims to the driver,
“I drank her under the table!”
How does one “drink” an
other; consume this other?
What role, the table, under which
his Passions play?
I do not wish to forsake this one or this other,
though I swear I do not know them.
I only know he stands, arms outstretched,
holding bus stanchions across the aisle
in cruciform stance.
I tell myself it is so he will not fall.
What if it is so he will not rise?
Ninety-Three
The rough-spoken
dory-boatman
surprises himself —
offering a drink
to me.
Songs About Life and Brighter Things Yet XIX
It drinks up all — and yet the sea
Exceeds not its capacity;
Alas, how much a man must fret
To keep himself as strong — and wet!
Hope That Springs Eternal
Hope that springs eternal in
The human breast, is fond of gin,
Or Scotch or beer or anything
Designed to help a hope to spring.
Drinking-Song
We lift our heads to drink,
Beloved, you and I !
Let others sink
Their faces to the cup.
Or bending lower still.
In thirsty herds,
Lap at the drops we spill!
But you and I,
Like birds,
Scorning the crowded brink.
Up, up.
Heads lifted to the sky,
From the sun's brim that tips
To meet the laughing splendor of our lips,
Will drink — will drink!
Harmon Whitney
Out of the lights and roar of cities,
Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River,
Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken,
The paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt,
But to hide a wounded pride as well.
To be judged and loathed by a village of little minds—
I, gifted with tongues and wisdom,
Sunk here to the dust of the justice court,
A picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs,—
I, whom fortune smiled on!
I in a village,
Spouting to gaping yokels pages of verse,
Out of the lore of golden years,
Or raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit
When they bought the drinks to kindle my dying mind.
To be judged by you,
Self-Esteem
Love with a liquid ecstasy
Did wholly fill me up,
And since his drink is sweet to me
Can I despise his cup?