Short Poems

From peace and social joy Medusa flies,
And loves to hear the storm of anger rise.
Thus hags and witches hate the smiles of day,
Sport in loud thunder, and in tempests play.

The seafowl build in wrinkles of my face.
Ages ere man was, man was mocked by me.
Kings fall, gods die, worlds crash. At my throne's base,
In showers of bright white thunder, breaks the sea.

The bridge says: Come across, try me; see how good I am.
The big rock in the river says: Look at me; learn how to stand up.
The white water says: I go on; around, under, over, I go on.
A kneeling, scraggly pine says: I am here yet; they nearly got me last year.
A sliver of moon slides by on a high wind calling: I know why; I'll see you tomorrow; I'll tell you everything tomorrow.

Stranger! Tell the people of Spoon River two things:
First that we lie here, obeying their words;
And next that had we known what was back of their words
We should not be lying here!

To heal your throat and give your cough relief
The doctor put you on a pleasant diet,
Sweet kernels, honey, cakes—the things, in brief,
We give to noisy boys to keep them quiet.
That cough goes on—the treatment seems no use for it—
'Tis greed, my friend, and coughing the excuse of it!

The childless rich—and only they—
For nothing may with Andrew stay—
But, when he pockets large bequests,
We see they're really paying guests.

You dun me for ten pounds I owe, and on the petty grounds
That some one else has failed, and so you lose two hundred pounds,
But why exact from me the dues unpaid by other men?
For if two hundred you can lose, why, you can lose the ten.

You brought me back my book, read through I know,
'Twas all unrolled; the evidence assures
My mind and I believe it: aye, just so,
‘I lost no time in reading five of yours’!

They told me you were lovely—yes,
The word is true, the judgment just,
While you are silent, motionless
As pictured form or waxen bust;
Your speech turns love to sheer disgust,
Your face it mars, your charm it balks;
Beware the aedile, all mistrust
The omen if a statue talks.

F LACCUS , no scraggy maid for me
To whom a finger-ring would be
A bracelet, one whose hip and knee
Might prick like any pin.
A jagged saw-like spine I shun,
And yet I do not like a ton
Of solid blubber, give me one
Who's neither fat nor thin.