Sonnet V
A tide of beauty with returning May
Floods the fair city; from warm pavements fume
Odors endeared; down avenues in bloom
The chestnut-trees with phallic spires are gay.
Over the terrace flows the thronged cafe;
The boulevards are streams of hurrying sound;
And through the streets, like veins when they abound,
The lust for pleasure throbs itself away.
Here let me live, here let me still pursue
Phantoms of bliss that beckon and recede, --
Thy strange allurements, City that I love,
Maze of romance, where I have followed too
The dream Youth treasures of its dearest need
And stars beyond thy towers bring tidings of.
poem by Alan Seeger
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View from Sutro
Seen from golden heights
the tangled city
squares up.
Straight streets,
rigid veins
spurt quicksilver
past towers
of fog.
It throbs.
Hearts, minds,
sing passion
joy, lust,
boredom.
A dying man
clings to desperate sheets,
passing;
An infant cries
drawing raw air,
beginning.
It’s alive,
greater
than its sum.
See how it beats
in the cool Pacific sun?
poem by Steven Federle
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Alma Mater
A haunted town thou art to me.
-- Andrew Lang
To-day in Florence all the air
Is soft with spring, with sunlight fair;
In the tall street gay folks are met;
Duomo and Tower gleam overhead,
Like jewels in the city set,
Fair-hued and many-faceted.
Against the old grey stones are piled
February violets, pale and sweet,
Whose scent of earth in woodland wild
Is wafted up and down the street.
The city's heart is glad ; my own
Sits lightly on its bosom's throne.
* * * * * * *
Why is it that I see to-day,
Imaged as clear as in a dream,
A little city far away,
A churlish sky, a sluggish stream,
Tall clust'ring trees and gardens fair,
Dark birds that circle in the air,
Grey towers and fanes ; on either hand,
Stretches of wind-swept meadow-land?
* * * * * * *
Oh, who can sound the human breast?
And this strange truth must be confessed;
That city do I love the best
Wherein my heart was heaviest!
Springfield Magical
In this, the City of my Discontent,
Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass,
"Romance, Romance — is here. No Hindu town
Is quite so strange. No Citadel of Brass
By Sinbad found, held half such love and hate;
No picture-palace in a picture-book
Such webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!"
In this, the City of my Discontent,
Down from the sky, up from the smoking deep
Wild legends new and old burn round my bed
While trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep.
Angels come down, with Christmas in their hearts,
Gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent;
And, for a day, fair Peace have given me
In this, the City of my Discontent!
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Norumbega Hall
Not on Penobscot's wooded bank the spires
Of the sought City rose, nor yet beside
The winding Charles, nor where the daily tide
Of Naumkeag's haven rises and retires,
The vision tarried; but somewhere we knew
The beautiful gates must open to our quest,
Somewhere that marvellous City of the West
Would lift its towers and palace domes in view,
And, to! at last its mystery is made known--
Its only dwellers maidens fair and young,
Its Princess such as England's Laureate sung;
And safe from capture, save by love alone,
It lends its beauty to the lake's green shore,
And Norumbega is a myth no more.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Hollywood, Hollywood, Hollywood
This is the city I love to live in
Where the sky is upside down,
The stars are lying on the sidewalk
And I'm feelings as if I'm flying on the clouds.
This is the city of the colored lights.
The wonderful and happy boulevards
Where the people wall dreaming of
An encounter with their own stars.
Hollywood, Hollywood, Hollywood
The city of unfulfilled fantasy
Where the prettiest girls of the world
Hope to sing a new song,
Hope to perform an original melody.
This is the city of innovated glamour,
The fascinating and enchantable theaters,
The most unforgettable romances.
And the always coveting Oscar Award.
Hollywood, Hollywood, Hollywood
The city of the shining Stare, the city of fulfilled fantasy,
And the city of eternal love.
poem by Juris Doctor Oreste Flavio Perdomo
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Just As The Tide Was A Flowing
[ music: traditional/lyric: arranged by 10,000 maniacs ]
On one morning
In the month of may
When all the birds
Were singing
I saw a lovely maiden stray
Across the fields at break of day
She softly sung her roundelay
The tide flows in
The tide flows out
Twice every day returning
Her cheeks were red
Her eyes were brown
Her hair in ringlets hanging down
Upon her face to hide the frown
Just as the tide was a flowing
The tide flows in
The tide flows out
Twice everyday returning
A sailors wife at home must bide
She halted heavily she sighed
He parted from poor me , a bride
Im widowed by the sea she cried
Just as the tide was a flowing
The tide flows in
The tide flows out
Twice every day returning
song performed by by 10000 Maniacs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not My City
This isn't the kind of city,
Once I called my own.
The city belongs to foxy politicians,
Unscrupulous traders, flesh racketeers, pimps, loompens, rapists,
But this cannot be my city.
The city belongs to mute witnesses,
To rape and murder but not to me,
The city belongs to hypocrites,
Feigning nonchalance to the sight of destitute,
At slums and beggars dying on the avenues of the rich.
This is the city of the escapists,
Who at the slightest premonition of a peril,
Make the hastiest retreat.
This is the city of the spooks
They stoically sit on the piles of injustice;
Here they go into rhapsodies,
Over the question of life after death.
This is the city of the soothsayers,
Agents of self-aggrandizement, opportunists.
I can never call it my own city, never.
Liars, cheats, religious bigots abound in here;
In this city, we're a handful of men and women
Armed with logic, liberal thoughts,
Voice against injustice,
Live in beating hearts.
Not my City.
[Translated by Sujal Bhattacharya]
poem by Taslima Nasrin
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Fancies
From Wellington Terrace.
WHITE stars above, red stars beneath,
And o'er the bay the brooding hills:
No murmur, save a quiet breath
That faintly through the darkness thrills,
The bay with shadowed lights a-blur;
On high a glow that waves and wanes;
And through the city here and there
The red-lit streets—like living veins!
poem by Arthur Henry Adams
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Venice
White swan of cities, slumbering in thy nest
So wonderfully built among the reeds
Of the lagoon, that fences thee and feeds,
As sayeth thy old historian and thy guest!
White water-lily, cradled and caressed
By ocean streams, and from the silt and weeds
Lifting thy golden filaments and seeds,
Thy sun-illumined spires, thy crown and crest!
White phantom city, whose untrodden streets
Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting
Shadows of palaces and strips of sky;
I wait to see thee vanish like the fleets
Seen in mirage, or towers of cloud uplifting
In air their unsubstantial masonry.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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City Of Ships
CITY of ships!
(O the black ships! O the fierce ships!
O the beautiful, sharp-bow'd steam-ships and sail-ships!)
City of the world! (for all races are here;
All the lands of the earth make contributions here;)
City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides!
City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and
out, with eddies and foam!
City of wharves and stores! city of tall façades of marble and iron!
Proud and passionate city! mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!
Spring up, O city! not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself,
warlike! 10
Fear not! submit to no models but your own, O city!
Behold me! incarnate me, as I have incarnated you!
I have rejected nothing you offer'd me--whom you adopted, I have
adopted;
Good or bad, I never question you--I love all--I do not condemn
anything;
I chant and celebrate all that is yours--yet peace no more;
In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine;
War, red war, is my song through your streets, O city!
poem by Walt Whitman
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City Streets
The gaudy glow of neon lights
dispels the darkness of the nights
on city streets.
They pop and fizzle noisily
creating a cacophony
on city streets.
The sober folks walk warily
and drunks stagger uncaringly
on city streets.
The ladies of the night parade
for there is money to be made
on city streets.
Drug dealers ready to retreat
if they should hear a coppers feet
on city streets.
The night shift workers wend their way
towards their work to start their day
on city streets.
The noisy revellers thin out
as one by one the signs go out
on city streets.
The gradually noises abate
and ghostly shadow congregate
on city streets.
For some few hours peace will reign
before the noise will start again
on city streets.
The early morning traffic sounds
start with the milkmen on their rounds
on city streets.
This builds up to an angry roar
as cars and lorries inward pour
on city streets
then when at last rush hour has passed
noise levels will subside at last
on city streets
I thank the lord that I am free
to leave this noise far behind me
on city streets.
I walked my beat the whole night
through exactly as I’m paid to do
on city streets.
I choose to live outside the town
where constant noise won’t get me down
on city streets.
My village is a quiet place
A haven where I need not face
the noisy streets.
8-Jun-07
poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Sydney my Love
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
Pretty pretty place,
Plenty- plenty beauty.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
First rays of sun –
Spread here fun,
Splendour and majesty,
Nothing so beauty.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
Tidy beaches, green green trees,
Heavenly blowing cool cool breeze,
Kissing the shore waves sporty.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
Fort Dension, port Jackson,
Kings Cross, Opera attraction,
Harbour bridge, Bondi beach,
Place to find calm & peace,
Sydney is our identity.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
Kangaroo, emu, blue mountain,
Adventure, romance, 4x, fun.
Flora fauna, folk, fidelity.
Sydney my love, Sydney my city.
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Romace in the moonlight
In the city where the colours run dry
Or in the country where the colour green is applied
In the city where there are polluting cars
Or in the country where you can see the stars
In the city there are gangs, all full of violence
Or in the country where there is only silence
In the city where the air, its so thick
Or in the country where you dont feel sick
In the city where you seal the deal
Or in the country where it is a place to heal
In the city every corner is a fight
But in the city the romance is in the moonlight
poem by Nicole Buckland
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The House Of Dust: Part 02: 01: The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea
The round red sun heaves darkly out of the sea.
The walls and towers are warmed and gleam.
Sounds go drowsily up from streets and wharves.
The city stirs like one that is half in dream.
And the mist flows up by dazzling walls and windows,
Where one by one we wake and rise.
We gaze at the pale grey lustrous sea a moment,
We rub the darkness from our eyes,
And face our thousand devious secret mornings . . .
And do not see how the pale mist, slowly ascending,
Shaped by the sun, shines like a white-robed dreamer
Compassionate over our towers bending.
There, like one who gazes into a crystal,
He broods upon our city with sombre eyes;
He sees our secret fears vaguely unfolding,
Sees cloudy symbols shape to rise.
Each gleaming point of light is like a seed
Dilating swiftly to coiling fires.
Each cloud becomes a rapidly dimming face,
Each hurrying face records its strange desires.
We descend our separate stairs toward the day,
Merge in the somnolent mass that fills the street,
Lift our eyes to the soft blue space of sky,
And walk by the well-known walls with accustomed feet.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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One Day Traveler
Whenever I've traveled to a crowded city
I always think, 'Oh what a pity
to live in a city.'
For the skyscrapers there
so high in the air
have hidden the blue of the sky
except for the birds that fly.
The cold gray stone adorned with lights
never seem warm until the nights.
Their blinking neons can't compare
with the twinkling stars up in the air.
And again I think,
'Oh what a pity to live in the city.'
The hustle, the bustle and constant noise
have become for some the city's joys.
The screeching brakes, the honking sounds
is an abrupt assault to my head that pounds.
And again I think,
'Oh what a pity to live in a city.'
A one day visit and I'm ready to leave
and I know that I could never conceive
of being at home, never to roam
where the grass grows under my feet,
except for a country street
and again I think,
'Oh what a pity to live in a city.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Sibiu, my love!
Yes yes yes indeed!
Sibiu, my lovely city
It is the One
On which, by taking walks
At quiet times,
It filled my heart with.. Beauty
Yes! ! .. Made me feel apart
Of present's ugly world
Which never stops to grow
On concrete, steel
with complicate design
the darkest glass,
uughhh! yeack! ! the smell
of black asphalt!
Take my hand, come
I'll show you this kind,
soo lovely city
Built on baked clay
painted with love
On light, in many shades
Of warmest red!
See how the chestnut
old romantic trees
Majestically bow to us
And then let's
take our shoes off
To walk or valse
on city's
ancient stones
feel, breathe, smell,
Live its history, let free
our soul, time travel,
dream of other ways
to live again
forgotten ways
of quiet sunny
happy days.
*Sibiu, the city I had seen the light for the first time
the place I had been raised, its in the heart
of one beautiful land called Romania.
poem by Elena Sandu
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The Smell
Poverty exudes odors
Desperation takes on hues
Uncertainty loudly clamours
Homeless move about
In a cacophony of sound
Illness of the street people
Odors abound
Fear of future flattens
Death of innocence cries loud
Odors of the madness
Smell of poverty abounds
Senses acutely caressing
Filth of necessities sins
Odors changing futures
Individuals meld in sound
Poverty exudes odors
Ignorance carries loud
Smell of desperation
No matter the flattened feelings
Horror of distorted senses
Keeps the homeless
In storms
Odors abound
poem by James Smallwood
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Tale of Three Cities
New York blasted London blasted
Singapore -
Ripped off each other's metaphoric balls,
Crumbling walls.
Priapic city monoliths -
Blue-sky scraping bastards -
Shout about their height (but really length) .
V8 arseholes didn't care -
Pumping shit into the air,
So long as they were always there to
Fart aloud a smoggy cloud,
Laughing at the weak asthmatic,
Humoured that it seems traumatic.
Watch the greedy cities oozing
Chair-bound fat committees, though they
Look a bunch of titties as they
Waffle on about the pound.
Ever thought to look around and see
That they were dead?
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Chicago
Men said at vespers: 'All is well!'
In one wild night the city fell;
Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain
Before the fiery hurricane.
On threescore spires had sunset shone,
Where ghastly sunrise looked on none.
Men clasped each other's hands, and said
'The City of the West is dead!'
Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat,
The fiends of fire from street to street,
Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare,
The dumb defiance of despair.
A sudden impulse thrilled each wire
That signalled round that sea of fire;
Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came;
In tears of pity died the flame!
From East, from West, from South and North,
The messages of hope shot forth,
And, underneath the severing wave,
The world, full-handed, reached to save.
Fair seemed the old; but fairer still
The new, the dreary void shall fill
With dearer homes than those o'erthrown,
For love shall lay each corner-stone.
Rise, stricken city! from thee throw
The ashen sackcloth of thy woe;
And build, as to Amphion's strain,
To songs of cheer thy walls again!
How shrivelled in thy hot distress
The primal sin of selfishness!
How instant rose, to take thy part,
The angel in the human heart!
Ah! not in vain the flames that tossed
Above thy dreadful holocaust;
The Christ again has preached through thee
The Gospel of Humanity!
Then lift once more thy towers on high,
And fret with spires the western sky,
To tell that God is yet with us,
And love is still miraculous!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The City In The Sea / Shadow
Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city
alone
Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city
alone
Their shrines and palaces are not like ours
They do not tremble and rot
Eaten with time
Death has reared himself a throne
Lifted by forgotten winds
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie
A crown of stars
In a strange city
alone
A heaven God does not condemn
But the everlasting shadow
Makes mockery of it all
No holy rays come down
Lights from the lurid deep sea
stream up the turrets silently
Up thrones, up arbors
Of sculpted ivy and stone flowers
Up domes, up spires
Kingly halls all are melancholy shrines
The columns, frieze and entablature
Chokingly shockingly intertwined
The mast the viol and the vine
Twisted
There amid no earthly moans
Hell rises from a thousand thrones
Does reverence to death
And death does give his undivided time
There are open temples
and graves on a level with the waves
Death looms and looks
huge
gigantic
There is a ripple
now a wave
Towers thrown aside
Sinking in the dull tide
The waves glowing redder
The very hours losing their breath
All the cunning stars
watching fitfully over night after night of
matchless ........ sleep
matched only with the whole of dream .......
The tell-tale beating of the heart
the ......... breath
The desire, the pose
one poses upon the precipice
to fall to run to dive to tumble to fall down
down into the spiral down and then
One sees one's own death
one sees one committing murder or atrocious violent acts
and t
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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