The Poet
The riches of the poet are equal to his poetry His power is his left hand It is idle weak and precious His poverty is his wealth, a wealth which may destroy him like
Out Of The Watercolored Window, When You Look
When from the watercolored window idly you look Each is but and clear to see, not steep: So does the neat print in an actual book Marching as if to true conclusion, reap The
By Circumstances Fed
By circumstances fed Which divide attention Among the living and the dead, Under the blooms of the blossoming sun, The gaze which is a tower towers Day and night, hour by hour, Critical of
Poem (You, my photographer, you, most aware)
You, my photographer, you, most aware, Who climbed to the bridge when the iceberg struck, Climbed with your camera when the ship’s hull broke, And lighted your flashes and, standing passionate there, Wound the
All Night, All Night
“I have been one acquainted with the night” – Robert Frost Rode in the train all night, in the sick light. A bird Flew parallel with a singular will. In daydream’s moods and attitudes
The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me
“the withness of the body” Whitehead The heavy bear who goes with me, A manifold honey to smear his face, Clumsy and lumbering here and there, The central ton of every place, The hungry
Poem (In the morning, when it was raining)
In the morning, when it was raining, Then the birds were hectic and loudy; Through all the reign is fall’s entertaining; Their singing was erratic and full of disorder: They did not remember the
He Knows All There Is To Know. Now He Is Acquainted With The Day And Night
(Robert Frost, 1875-1963) Whose wood this is I think I know: He made it sacred long ago: He will expect me, far or near To watch that wood immense with snow. That famous horse
For The One Who Would Not Take His Life In His Hands
Athlete, virtuoso, Training for happiness, Bend arm and knee, and seek The body’s sharp distress, For pain is pleasure’s cost, Denial is route To speech before the millions Or personal with the flute. The
Poem (Remember midsummer: the fragrance of box)
Remember midsummer: the fragrance of box, of white roses And of phlox. And upon a honeysuckle branch Three snails hanging with infinite delicacy Clinging like tendril, flake and thread, as self-tormented And self-delighted as
This Is A Poem I Wrote At Night, Before The Dawn
This is a poem I wrote before I died and was reborn: – After the years of the apples ripening and the eagles soaring, After the festival here the small flowers gleamed like the
Poem (Faithful to your commands, o consciousness)
Poem Faithful to your commands, o consciousness, o Beating wings, I studied The roses and the muses of reality, The deceptions and the deceptive elation of the redness of the growing morning, And all
A Young Child And His Pregnant Mother
At four years Nature is mountainous, Mysterious, and submarine. Even A city child knows this, hearing the subway’s Rumor underground. Between the grate, Dropping his penny, he learned out all loss, The irretrievable cent
The Ballet Of The Fifth Year
Where the sea gulls sleep or indeed where they fly Is a place of different traffic. Although I Consider the fishing bay (where I see them dip and curve And purely glide) a place
Tired And Unhappy, You Think Of Houses
Tired and unhappy, you think of houses Soft-carpeted and warm in the December evening, While snow’s white pieces fall past the window, And the orange firelight leaps. A young girl sings That song of