Among Children (Philip Levine Poems)
I walk among the rows of bowed heads-- the children are sleeping through fourth grade so as to be ready ...
I walk among the rows of bowed heads-- the children are sleeping through fourth grade so as to be ready ...
Some days I catch a rhythm, almost a song in my own breath. I'm alone here in Brooklyn Heights, late ...
The magpie in the Joshua tree Has come to rest. Darkness collects, And what I cannot hear or see, Broken ...
On March 1, 1958, four deserters from the French Army of North Africa, August Rein, Henri Bruette, Jack Dauville, & ...
Brooklyn, 1929. Of course Crane's been drinking and has no idea who this curious Andalusian is, unable even to speak ...
Vous êtes sorti sain et sauf des basses calomnies, vous avey conquis les coeurs. Zola, J'accuse One was kicked in ...
19 years old and going nowhere, I got a ride to Bessemer and walked the night road toward Birmingham passing ...
Filaments of light slant like windswept rain. The orange seller hawks into the sky, a man with a hat stops ...
Lately the wind burns the last leaves and evening comes too late to be of use, lately I learned that ...
All afternoon my father drove the country roads between Detroit and Lansing. What he was looking for I never learned, ...
from St. Ambrose He fears the tiger standing in his way. The tiger takes its time, it smiles and growls. ...
The alder shudders in the April winds off the moon. No one is awake and yet sunlight streams across the ...
It's wonderful how I jog on four honed-down ivory toes my massive buttocks slipping like oiled parts with each light ...
My father and mother, two tiny figures, side by side, facing the clouds that move in from the Atlantic. August, ...
We stripped in the first warm spring night and ran down into the Detroit River to baptize ourselves in the ...
This poem has a door, a locked door, and curtains drawn against the day, but at night the lights come ...
Something has fallen wordlessly and holds still on the black driveway. You find it, like a jewel, among the empty ...
I bend to the ground to catch something whispered, urgent, drifting across the ditches. The heaviness of flies stuttering in ...
April, and the last of the plum blossoms scatters on the black grass before dawn. The sycamore, the lime, the ...
First light. This misted field is the world, that man slipping the greased bolt back and forth, that man tunneled ...
The river rises and the rains keep coming. My Papa says it can't flood for the water can run away ...
Iron growing in the dark, it dreams all night long and will not work. A flower that hates God, a ...
You pull over to the shoulder of the two-lane road and sit for a moment wondering where you were going ...
"Hill of Jews," says one, named for a cemetery long gone."Hill of Jove," says another, and maybe Jove stalked here ...
Early March. The cold beach deserted. My kids home in a bare house, bundled up and listening to rock music ...
The day comes slowly in the railyard behind the ice factory. It broods on one cinder after another until each ...
Hungry and cold, I stood in a doorway on Delancey Street in 1946 as the rain came down. The worst ...
Still sober, César Vallejo comes home and finds a black ribbon around the apartment building covering the front door. He ...
Unknown faces in the street And winter coming on. I Stand in the last moments of The city, no more ...
The air lay soffly on the green fur of the almond, it was April and I said, I begin again ...
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