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Routine
I dress myself in rage
at abominable dealings
I eat a bad apple a day
in a cold tavern
Poems on the topic: tavern
Poems on the topic “tavern” on Poets.by.
Talk like a pirate
The sea, to our great
wonder, is a well.
Captain, tell me stories
of cards playing cards,
money that lost money,
greed made a creed.
O talk high of France
for a fine country,
the tavern for a parliament
staid in talk.
Funny tastes
Ice and snow
go into a tavern—
people demand them.
I kiss a lady on a card
and talk with a whistle.
The starving artist throws a party
With my paint I make a tavern,
fish, a dinner.
And fine company:
wine together with wine,
my head troubled with my head,
aching all night.
At the Hoop Tavern
I went to dinner with
the king’s fishmonger,
who eats no sort of fish
and sent for a tongue.
The ugly bride was busy
at cards. The lute came
to live with me as a servant.
Night walk
tavern talk
full of awful things
the street home
Owned
As a tavern with my money
or will and a bull,
winter had the oak.
Sighting
Ill with pleasure ill took,
ill at the Salutation Tavern,
I drank till overcome,
and so see a unicorn
of the king’s hunt
hung in church
again.
The Tavern
Whenever I go by there nowadays
And look at the rank weeds and the strange grass,
The torn blue curtains and the broken glass,
I seem to be afraid of the old place;
And something stiffens up and down my face,
For all the world as if I saw the ghost
Of old Ham Amory, the murdered host,
With his dead eyes turned on me all aglaze.
The Tavern has a story, but no man
Can tell us what it is. We only know
That once long after midnight, years ago,
A stranger galloped up from Tilbury Town,
Who brushed, and scared, and all but overran
That skirt-crazed reprobate, John Evereldown.
Jefferson Howard
My valiant fight! For I call it valiant,
With my father’s beliefs from old Virginia:
Hating slavery, but no less war.
I, full of spirit, audacity, courage
Thrown into life here in Spoon River,
With its dominant forces drawn from
New England, Republicans, Calvinists, merchants, bankers,
Hating me, yet fearing my arm.
With wife and children heavy to carry—
Yet fruits of my very zest of life.
Stealing odd pleasures that cost me prestige,
And reaping evils I had not sown;
Foe of the church with its charnel dankness,
Friend of the human touch of the tavern;
Tangled with fates all alien to me,
Deserted by hands I called my own.
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