American Literature · Asian Culture · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Nocturne · Poetry

Li-Young Lee

Nocturne That scraping of iron on iron when the wind    rises, what is it? Something the wind won’t    quit with, but drags back and forth. Sometimes faint, far, then suddenly, close, just    beyond the screened door, as if someone there    squats in the dark honing his wares against    my threshold.… Continue reading Li-Young Lee

Rate this:

American Literature · Collection · Contemporary · Nocturne · Poetry

W. S. Di Piero

Where are you now, my poems, my sleepwalkers? No mumbles tonight? Where are you, thirst, fever, humming tedium? The sodium streetlights burr outside my window, steadfast, unreachable, little astonishments lighting the way uphill. Where are you now, when I need you most?              It’s late. I’m old.                          Come soon, you feral cats                                       among… Continue reading W. S. Di Piero

Rate this:

Anthology · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Fragment · Literature · Lyricism · Nocturne · Poetry · Renaissance

John Donne

For I am every dead thing, In whom Love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness; He ruin’d me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death—things which are not.” —  John Donne from “A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy’s Day, Being the Shortest… Continue reading John Donne

Rate this:

Classic · Excerpt · Generation of '27 · Lyricism · Modernism · Nocturne · Poetry · Spanish Culture · Spanish Literature

Federico García Lorca

“But there is no oblivion, no dream: raw flesh. Kisses tie mouths in a tangle of new veins and those who are hurt will hurt without rest…” — Federico García Lorca, from “Sleepless City (Brooklyn Bridge Nocturne),”  Poet in New York . Translation by Greg Simon and Steven F. White. Published June 24th 1998 by… Continue reading Federico García Lorca

Rate this:

Canadian Culture · Canadian-American Culture · Canadian-American Literature · Nocturne · Poetry

Mark Strand

Nocturne of the Poet Who Loved the Moon I have grown tired of the moon, tired of its look of astonish- ment, the blue ice of its gaze, its arrivals and departures, of the way it gathers lovers and loners under its invisible wings, failing to distinguish between them. I have grown tired of so… Continue reading Mark Strand

Rate this: