Ann Stanford Poems

You must remember never to offend the gods
by being too sure of anything.
Think of Niobe, how she grew in pride
watching her seven tall sons and seven fair daughters.
...

From the center of our body
Come the bright flowers.
...

Now the year ends darkly.
The sun drifts in the south.
Will it ever return?
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This is the village where we grew
Our fathers and their sires in line
The trees they planted shade the view
And the white houses shine.
...

My house is torn down--
Plaster sifting, the pillars broken,
Beams jagged, the wall crushed by the bulldozer.
The whole roof has fallen
...

I am terrified
marooned on a rock with a gale
freshening and the waves already
spatter me with spindrift.
...