The Mutes
Those groans men use Passing a woman on the street Or on the steps of the subway To tell her she is a female And their flesh knows it, Are they a sort of
September 1961
This is the year the old ones, The old great ones Leave us alone on the road. The road leads to the sea. We have the words in our pockets, Obscure directions. The old
On the Mystery of the Incarnation
It’s when we face for a moment The worst our kind can do, and shudder to know The taint in our own selves, that awe Cracks the mind’s shell and enters the heart: Not
Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell
Down through the tomb’s inward arch He has shouldered out into Limbo To gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber: The merciful dead, the prophets, The innocents just His own age and those Unnumbered others
Zeroing In
“I am a landscape,” he said, “a landscape and a person walking in that landscape. There are daunting cliffs there, And plains glad in their way Of brown monotony. But especially There are sinkholes,
Illustrious Ancestors
The Rav Of Northern White Russia declined, In his youth, to learn the Language of birds, because The extraneous did not interest him; nevertheless When he grew old it was found He understood them
Sojourns in the Parallel World
We live our lives of human passions, Cruelties, dreams, concepts, Crimes and the exercise of virtue In and beside a world devoid Of our preoccupations, free From apprehension though affected, Certainly, by our actions.
On a Theme by Thomas Merton
“Adam, where are you?” God’s hands Palpate darkness, the void That is Adam’s inattention, His confused attention to everything, Impassioned by multiplicity, his despair. Multiplicity, his despair; God’s hands Enacting blindness. Like a child
From the Roof
This wild night, gathering the washing as if it were flowers animal vines twisting over the line and Slapping my face lightly, soundless merriment In the gesticulations of shirtsleeves, I recall out of my
Hymn To Eros
O Eros, silently smiling one, hear me. Let the shadow of thy wings Brush me. Let thy presence Enfold me, as if darkness Were swandown. Let me see that darkness Lamp in hand, This
Losing Track
Long after you have swung back Away from me I think you are still with me: You come in close to the shore On the tide And nudge me awake the way A boat
The Sea's Wash In The Hollow Of The Heart
Turn from that road’s beguiling ease; return To your hunger’s turret. Enter, climb the stair Chill with disuse, where the croaking toad of time Regards from shimmering eyes your slow ascent And the drip,
Aware
When I found the door I found the vine leaves Speaking among themselves in abundant Whispers. My presence made them Hush their green breath, Embarrassed, the way Humans stand up, buttoning their jackets, Acting
Talking to Grief
Ah, Grief, I should not treat you Like a homeless dog Who comes to the back door For a crust, for a meatless bone. I should trust you. I should coax you Into the
Everything That Acts Is Actual
From the tawny light From the rainy nights From the imagination finding Itself and more than itself Alone and more than alone At the bottom of the well where the moon lives, Can you