poet John Masefield (1878-1967):
I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and
the sky; and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain.
It's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
novelist Colleen McCullough (1937-2015):
Best of all she liked his eyes, such a translucent
golden brown, and so laughing.
...she looked like the sort of woman most men would
want to get to know because they weren't sure what went on inside.
Truly God was good, to make man so blind.
poet Katerina Gogou (1940-1993):
Idionymon
3
My head in smitherings
from the vise of your flea markets
at rush hour and against the
current
I will light a huge fire
and in there I’ll throw all Marxist
books
so that Myrto never finds out
the causes of my death
You can tell her
that I could not bear the spring or that I went through a red light.
Yes. That is more believable.
Red. Tell her that.
In the hour before a thunderstorm, the color of the forest deepens: the pine needles take on a dense vibrant greenness they possess at no other time, the slender trunks go black, and the leaden sky above sinks lower by the minute.
poet Matthew Hittinger (1978- ):
Marlene Dietrich remembers the night of the Marilyn
Monroe Productions press conference, New York City, January 1955
I wanted to be that trace of scarlet lipstick
when you arrived, tipsy, a bit chartreuse
a subdued platinum angel, a white mink
stole. I am at heart—Come up for a drink—
a gentleman. You, a question here to seduce,
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