| Poems by Nick Gordon |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
Please visit more of
Nick's work at
Poems For Free.
You can also email
him here.
Nick's work at
Poems For Free.
You can also email
him here.
Vanessa
Vanessa is an angel-no disguise,
As lovely in her looks as in her heart.
No one knows why some find joy in giving,
Embracing friends through all the pain of living,
Soothing us through something in their eyes
So genuine it is both truth and art.
All she does is generous and wise.
Perhaps an Angel Told You Once of Love
Perhaps an angel told you once of love,
A spirit pure, not knowing fear or shame.
Until that whispered word, perhaps, you came
Less willing to the winds that some hearts move,
After which you had for them a name.
Angels Are Quite Ample Cause to Cry
Angels are quite ample cause to cry,
Now, like silent movies, obsolete.
God Itself now knoweth Its demise,
Even as a plaything of the wise,
Lost to all but those that work the street,
A retiree not ready yet to die.
July 4th Is a Day for Barbeques
July 4th is a day for barbeques
Underneath an unforgiving sun;
Later, fireworks, perhaps the news,
Yawns, some love, and then the day is done.
For most it is a day for celebration
Of something so familiar that its grace,
Unnoticed as a routine revelation,
Remains interred in its accustomed place.
This sweet neglect of what sustains a life
Has all the confidence of man and wife.
Just Words Declared Our Freedom Long Ago
Just words declared our freedom long ago,
Untouched by time, untenanted by will,
Leaning to the winds that eastward blow,
Yearning for their independence still.
There was no truth in them, not even then,
Harbingers of hope long since betrayed,
Ever the disguise of gentlemen,
Fashion for a yearly masquerade.
O judge them harshly, for they are but lies,
Unworthy of the dream that gave them birth!
Regard not their pretensions, but their ties
To those who would be lords upon the earth,
Hard souls as ever mouthing freedom's cries.
Friends in High School Are Forever Young
Friends in high school are forever young.
Unchanged, they're where you always will belong.
The crowd is never gone, the pleasure stays,
The music of the moment always plays,
The time remains a field of wistful grace
To which you may return from anyplace.
Of course, you may still know them later on
When you are someone else and years have run;
And you may love them dearly, and they you,
But time must make their friendship something new.
Meanwhile, flourishing within your heart
There is a whole, of which you were a part:
A group of friends, one in love and pain,
In whom your longing comes alive again.
It's Been So Good to Have You as a Friend
It's been so good to have you as a friend:
As sweet and rich as honey-colored sun
Slanting steep across a summer lawn,
Gilding life with all that love can lend.
And now that you yourself have griefs to tend,
I want to be the strong and caring one
To count to you the lovely things you've done
Until these troubles pass and sorrows end.
You are so beautiful in form and soul
That you bring happiness to all you're near:
Just as a sea rose, flowering in mist,
Makes a paradise of some bleak shoal,
Turning truth to something far more clear,
No pain unsoothed or rain-swept cheek unkissed.
Pets Are for Life, Not Just for Christmas
Pets are for life, not just for Christmas.
Each of us waits for the joy of a home.
Take one of us in and you'll never go kissless,
So long as you treat us as one of your own.
Whiskers
Whiskers will remain a wily wastrel,
Having learned the habits of his heart.
Impulse is for him an inner minstrel,
Singing with the certainty of art.
Kindness cannot cause him to be caring,
Even when exceptionally at ease.
Reveling in love, he finds it wearing;
So saunters off, with no one else to please.
To A Terrier
HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Dog thou never wert--
That from my door or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Louder still and louder
From thy throat it sparkest,
Like a clap of thunder;
Outside my home thou parkest,
And barking still dost stay, and staying ever barkest.
In the golden light'ning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost woof and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Sets off your terrier white;
Thank God there aren't seven
In the broad daylight.
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Although we cannot see, we hear that you are there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;
Thou art not a hound.
From thunderheads there flows not
Such a boisterous sound,
As from thy presence showers--a nuisance all around:
Like a poet hidden
From the light of thought,
Writing trash unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with sufferers it heeded not:
Like a low-born tom cat
On a garbage heap,
Sending his love-laden
Howls hideous and deep,
Meows so full of yearning, none of us can sleep:
Like an earth-worm buried
In a clump of soil,
Scattering unbeholden
The products of its toil
Among the cakes and sandwiches we wrapped up in tin foil:
Like a crap embower'd
In a bed of leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint the hearts of the most harden'd thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the thin wood roof,
Rain-awaken'd hours
With vodka 90 proof,
Joyous and clear and fresh--doth inspire this spoof.
Teach us, sprite or dog,
What brave thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth such flood of yowl and whine.
Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt--
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy snappy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what urine-haunted lane?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Though shadows of annoyance
Often follow thee:
Thou barkest, but ne'er knew barking's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such an endless stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet, if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy exuberance we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Is the peace and quiet when you're not around!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such cacophonous madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should stop its ears, as I wish I could now.
All poems: copyright by Nicholas Gordon
Vanessa is an angel-no disguise,
As lovely in her looks as in her heart.
No one knows why some find joy in giving,
Embracing friends through all the pain of living,
Soothing us through something in their eyes
So genuine it is both truth and art.
All she does is generous and wise.
Perhaps an Angel Told You Once of Love
Perhaps an angel told you once of love,
A spirit pure, not knowing fear or shame.
Until that whispered word, perhaps, you came
Less willing to the winds that some hearts move,
After which you had for them a name.
Angels Are Quite Ample Cause to Cry
Angels are quite ample cause to cry,
Now, like silent movies, obsolete.
God Itself now knoweth Its demise,
Even as a plaything of the wise,
Lost to all but those that work the street,
A retiree not ready yet to die.
July 4th Is a Day for Barbeques
July 4th is a day for barbeques
Underneath an unforgiving sun;
Later, fireworks, perhaps the news,
Yawns, some love, and then the day is done.
For most it is a day for celebration
Of something so familiar that its grace,
Unnoticed as a routine revelation,
Remains interred in its accustomed place.
This sweet neglect of what sustains a life
Has all the confidence of man and wife.
Just Words Declared Our Freedom Long Ago
Just words declared our freedom long ago,
Untouched by time, untenanted by will,
Leaning to the winds that eastward blow,
Yearning for their independence still.
There was no truth in them, not even then,
Harbingers of hope long since betrayed,
Ever the disguise of gentlemen,
Fashion for a yearly masquerade.
O judge them harshly, for they are but lies,
Unworthy of the dream that gave them birth!
Regard not their pretensions, but their ties
To those who would be lords upon the earth,
Hard souls as ever mouthing freedom's cries.
Friends in High School Are Forever Young
Friends in high school are forever young.
Unchanged, they're where you always will belong.
The crowd is never gone, the pleasure stays,
The music of the moment always plays,
The time remains a field of wistful grace
To which you may return from anyplace.
Of course, you may still know them later on
When you are someone else and years have run;
And you may love them dearly, and they you,
But time must make their friendship something new.
Meanwhile, flourishing within your heart
There is a whole, of which you were a part:
A group of friends, one in love and pain,
In whom your longing comes alive again.
It's Been So Good to Have You as a Friend
It's been so good to have you as a friend:
As sweet and rich as honey-colored sun
Slanting steep across a summer lawn,
Gilding life with all that love can lend.
And now that you yourself have griefs to tend,
I want to be the strong and caring one
To count to you the lovely things you've done
Until these troubles pass and sorrows end.
You are so beautiful in form and soul
That you bring happiness to all you're near:
Just as a sea rose, flowering in mist,
Makes a paradise of some bleak shoal,
Turning truth to something far more clear,
No pain unsoothed or rain-swept cheek unkissed.
Pets Are for Life, Not Just for Christmas
Pets are for life, not just for Christmas.
Each of us waits for the joy of a home.
Take one of us in and you'll never go kissless,
So long as you treat us as one of your own.
Whiskers
Whiskers will remain a wily wastrel,
Having learned the habits of his heart.
Impulse is for him an inner minstrel,
Singing with the certainty of art.
Kindness cannot cause him to be caring,
Even when exceptionally at ease.
Reveling in love, he finds it wearing;
So saunters off, with no one else to please.
To A Terrier
HAIL to thee, blithe spirit!
Dog thou never wert--
That from my door or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Louder still and louder
From thy throat it sparkest,
Like a clap of thunder;
Outside my home thou parkest,
And barking still dost stay, and staying ever barkest.
In the golden light'ning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost woof and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Sets off your terrier white;
Thank God there aren't seven
In the broad daylight.
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Although we cannot see, we hear that you are there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;
Thou art not a hound.
From thunderheads there flows not
Such a boisterous sound,
As from thy presence showers--a nuisance all around:
Like a poet hidden
From the light of thought,
Writing trash unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with sufferers it heeded not:
Like a low-born tom cat
On a garbage heap,
Sending his love-laden
Howls hideous and deep,
Meows so full of yearning, none of us can sleep:
Like an earth-worm buried
In a clump of soil,
Scattering unbeholden
The products of its toil
Among the cakes and sandwiches we wrapped up in tin foil:
Like a crap embower'd
In a bed of leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint the hearts of the most harden'd thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the thin wood roof,
Rain-awaken'd hours
With vodka 90 proof,
Joyous and clear and fresh--doth inspire this spoof.
Teach us, sprite or dog,
What brave thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth such flood of yowl and whine.
Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt--
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy snappy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what urine-haunted lane?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Though shadows of annoyance
Often follow thee:
Thou barkest, but ne'er knew barking's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such an endless stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet, if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear,
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy exuberance we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Is the peace and quiet when you're not around!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know;
Such cacophonous madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should stop its ears, as I wish I could now.
All poems: copyright by Nicholas Gordon
About Nick:
I was born in 1940 in Albany,
N.Y., but have lived in New
York City or its environs for
most of my life. I am married,
with three adult children. I
have a bachelor's degree in
English literature from Queens
College, CUNY, and a master's
and doctorate in English and
American literature from
Stanford University. I am
retired. For much of my
working life, I taught English
at New Jersey City University.
I began writing poetry
seriously in the early 1980s,
mostly to celebrate family
occasions. While on
sabbatical during the
academic year 1997-98, I
decided to expand the
feelings and experiences on
which my poetry is based by
starting a Web site that would
invite visitors to request
poems. The inspiration for
many of the poems on this site
comes from those requests.
Eventually, there were so
many requests that it became
impossible even to open all of
the email, and so I had to
delete the invitation from the
site. But the impetus for many
of the poems on the site
remains my desire to be a
voice for those who want their
thoughts and feelings turned
into poetry.
That is why my poetry is
written from so many points of
view and expresses such a
variety of philosophies and life
experiences. My own thoughts
on the matter are summed up
in Rule 4 of "Rules of a
Skeptic": "The only way to see
something whole is from
several points of view."
My life has been full of the
usual changes,
disappointments,
disillusionments, passions,
mistakes, hopes, joys,
ecstasies, and sorrows. I was
born a "Red Diaper Baby";
that is, into a
second-generation American
Communist family.
Disillusioned early with any
ideology or dogmatism, I
turned to music, studying at
the School of Performing Arts
and the Juilliard School of
Music. But my hunger for
ideas was stronger than my
love for music, and so I went
to Queens College and
majored in English and
creative writing.
Married too early, in midlife I
went through a divorce, with
all its attendant emotional
and financial difficulties. I
have worked at many odd jobs
to try to make ends meet,
including a waiter, a shipping
clerk, a moving man, and a
New York City cab driver. Now
in retirement, married happily
again, I can recollect my own
life in tranquility and, I hope,
find some words as well for the
lives of others.
I was born in 1940 in Albany,
N.Y., but have lived in New
York City or its environs for
most of my life. I am married,
with three adult children. I
have a bachelor's degree in
English literature from Queens
College, CUNY, and a master's
and doctorate in English and
American literature from
Stanford University. I am
retired. For much of my
working life, I taught English
at New Jersey City University.
I began writing poetry
seriously in the early 1980s,
mostly to celebrate family
occasions. While on
sabbatical during the
academic year 1997-98, I
decided to expand the
feelings and experiences on
which my poetry is based by
starting a Web site that would
invite visitors to request
poems. The inspiration for
many of the poems on this site
comes from those requests.
Eventually, there were so
many requests that it became
impossible even to open all of
the email, and so I had to
delete the invitation from the
site. But the impetus for many
of the poems on the site
remains my desire to be a
voice for those who want their
thoughts and feelings turned
into poetry.
That is why my poetry is
written from so many points of
view and expresses such a
variety of philosophies and life
experiences. My own thoughts
on the matter are summed up
in Rule 4 of "Rules of a
Skeptic": "The only way to see
something whole is from
several points of view."
My life has been full of the
usual changes,
disappointments,
disillusionments, passions,
mistakes, hopes, joys,
ecstasies, and sorrows. I was
born a "Red Diaper Baby";
that is, into a
second-generation American
Communist family.
Disillusioned early with any
ideology or dogmatism, I
turned to music, studying at
the School of Performing Arts
and the Juilliard School of
Music. But my hunger for
ideas was stronger than my
love for music, and so I went
to Queens College and
majored in English and
creative writing.
Married too early, in midlife I
went through a divorce, with
all its attendant emotional
and financial difficulties. I
have worked at many odd jobs
to try to make ends meet,
including a waiter, a shipping
clerk, a moving man, and a
New York City cab driver. Now
in retirement, married happily
again, I can recollect my own
life in tranquility and, I hope,
find some words as well for the
lives of others.