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Stephen Richard Eng Poetry

Stephen Richard Eng Poetry

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Published by stephen richard eng

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Published by: stephen richard eng on Sep 06, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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A. E. H.
(1859-1939)Hausman pines in pain, Nevermore to gainFriends that once sat near Laughing over beer.Friends and love forlorn:Better not be bornThan complain in verse,Over-taut and terse.08-30-74*
A Family Visit
Your prison is a tomb,A vaulted, marble roomWhere your wan spirit lives,Denied the peace death gives.And now your spirit goesIn shrouded coffin clothesAcross the headstones for Your brother’s portal door.His new wife sees you clear And screams. “He’s here, he’s here!”Your former wife was her And he, your murderer.02-20-92*
A Flat in Paddington
The city spreads its streets like longTentacles that stretch and twine,As looming Evil weaves a webbed designAround the bustling, London throng.But North of Marble Arch is bleak Praed Street, where the shadows gloom,And Solar Pons sits musing in his roomOf criminals he’ll subtly seek.11-29-79*
A Plea
Evanescently blurred, half beyond recall,Her voice down a midnight hall— Or her visage in oils once glimpsed on sale,Remote, and feminine-pale.
Whoever was she? Forget, forgetHer classical silhouette:Let her image diffuse in a twilight hazeOf vapored blues and greys…12-20-90*
A Reflection on Pride
The value of Vanity’s this;It offers blissIn front of the looking-glassUntil years pass.10-07-79*
A Simple Song
A simple song is easy to remember,It flickers like a flame inside your brain,The melody is like a burning ember,It even smolders through he rain.A simple song is yesterday returning,A ribbon wrapping up your dreams and fears,A fantasy of ecstasy and yearning,A symphony of smiles and tears.Simple songs are always seeming Nothing more than idle dreamingLost in the air.So listen to the simple song I’m singing,And listen to your childhood when it calls,And hear the faint and distant ringingOf bells along the castle walls.A simple song is good most any season,In summertime or winter or the spring,You sing it sad or happy for no reason,It doesn’t have to mean a thing.1973*
A Toast: On the 68
Birthdayof the late John Gawsworth (1912-1970)
Whatever else he was, recallHe was a Bookman after all,And at his quietest, a poet too.Redonda…wine…the sordid restIgnore for now—extol his best!For there was good in Gawsworth, as in you.06-29-80*
A Vain Request
Pain is much too personal for verse,Don’t curseThe reader with your anger-anguished words.Rhyme flowers, sun and birds.1981*
A Volume of Villon
(French fifteenth century poet)Green leather binding, centuries old,Covers are beveled. Spine’s rubbed.The fore-edge is gilt. Fleur-de-lis cannot wiltIn this garden embossed with gold.Books are enduring. Precious delights,Outlasting their authors in life.This poet was poor—a drunkard, a boor,And his grave paid no royalty rights.11-06-77*
A Walk…At Sixteen Years of Age
The earth was smiling at the clear blue sky,Morning dew was kissing grass once dry,My soul and all the world tried hard to sing,Then a blackbird making light of everythingWas whistling from a bush—sweet melody,Still I didn’t care if he made fun of me.For I was watching someone very beautiful appear,Picking flowers by herself, so near.I climbed the slope and sat by her feet,Looking up where hillside and horizon meet— She said “Behold the yellow slope, the deep ravine,Mountainside, and there, the grassy green.”But I saw nothing but her faery face,Thrilling as her voice filled up the space.We walked home through the woods and then we foundTimber fallen, slanted to the ground,A barricade I raised out of her way;Smiling, she passed under, face alive and gay,But silent as we left the woods once more;We sat down close upon the meadowed floor,Our hearts spoke louder than our words would have,Talking voicelessly of Something stirring…there.1978by Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893)First English translationfrom
 Des Vers

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