The house where I was born (07) (Yves Bonnefoy Poem)
I remember, it was a morning, in summer, The window was half-open, I drew near, I could see my father ...
I remember, it was a morning, in summer, The window was half-open, I drew near, I could see my father ...
In the red-roofed stucco house of my childhood, the dining room was screened off by folding doors with small glass ...
Finally alone, I pick up the tennis racquet and dazzle the walls of our house with my Django Reinhardt impression. ...
1 AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path ...
Walking swiftly with a dreadful duchess, He smiled too briefly, his face was pale as sand, He jumped into a ...
THE dago shovelman sits by the railroad track Eating a noon meal of bread and bologna. A train whirls by, ...
A pair of blackbirds warring in the roses, one or two poppies losing their heads, the trampled lawn a battlefield ...
There is something about a Martini, A tingle remarkably pleasant; A yellow, a mellow Martini; I wish I had one ...
New Year's Day 1:16 AM and my body is weary beyond time to withdraw and rest ample room allowed me ...
This poem has a door, a locked door, and curtains drawn against the day, but at night the lights come ...
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