In homage to modernist poetry

To a Dead Lover

BY LOUISE BOGAN

The dark is thrown

Back from the brightness, like hair

Cast over a shoulder.

I am alone,

Four years older;

Like the chairs and the walls

Which I once watched brighten

With you beside me. I was to waken

Never like this, whatever came or was taken.

The stalk grows, the year beats on the wind.

Apples come, and the month for their fall.

The bark spreads, the roots tighten.

Though today be the last

Or tomorrow all,

You will not mind.

That I may not remember

Does not matter.

I shall not be with you again.

What we knew, even now

Must scatter

And be ruined, and blow

Like dust in the rain.

You have been dead a long season

And have less than desire

Who were lover with lover;

And I have life—that old reason

To wait for what comes,

To leave what is over.

Originally published in Poetry, August 1922.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louise_Bogan

more Imagism

the more I think about it  the more I like Modernism, especially in Poetry

 Autumn

A stand of people

by an open

grave underneath

the heavy leaves

celebrates

the cut and fill

for the new road

where

an old man

on his knees

reaps a basket-

ful of 

matted grasses for 

his goats

William Carlos Williams

more Imagist Poetry

Nocturnes

(D.I) 

V

I am weary with love, and thy lips
Are night-born poppies.
give me therefore thy lips
that I may know sleep.

VI

I am weary with longing,
I am faint with love ;
For upon my head has the moonlight 
Fallen 
As a sword.

Skipwith Cannell

The Mysteries Remain

 The Mysteries Remain
The mysteries remain,
I keep the same
cycle of seed-time
and of sun and rain;
Demeter in the grass,
I multiply,
renew and bless
Iacchus in the vine;
I hold the law,
I keep the mysteries true,
the first of these
to name the living, dead;
I am red wine and bread.

          I keep the law,
          I hold the mysteries true,
          I am the vine,
          the branches, you
          and you.
by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle)
(1886 - 1961)