Trouvйe
Oh, why should a hen Have been run over On West 4th Street In the middle of summer? She was a white hen red-and-white now, of course. How did she get there? Where was
Sleeping On The Ceiling
It is so peaceful on the ceiling! It is the Place de la Concorde. The little crystal chandelier Is off, the fountain is in the dark. Not a soul is in the park. Below,
Anaphora
In memory of Marjorie Carr Stevens Each day with so much ceremony Begins, with birds, with bells, With whistles from a factory; Such white-gold skies our eyes First open on, such brilliant walls That
The Man-Moth
Man-Moth: Newspaper misprint for “mammoth.” Here, above, Cracks in the buldings are filled with battered moonlight. The whole shadow of Man is only as big as his hat. It lies at his feet like
The End Of March
For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury It was cold and windy, scarcely the day To take a walk on that long beach Everything was withdrawn as far as possible, Indrawn: the tide
The Imaginary Iceberg
We’d rather have the iceberg than the ship, Although it meant the end of travel. Although it stood stock-still like cloudy rock And all the sea were moving marble. We’d rather have the iceberg
Poem
About the size of an old-style dollar bill, American or Canadian, Mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?) Has never earned any money
Song For The Rainy Season
Hidden, oh hidden In the high fog The house we live in, Beneath the magnetic rock, Rain-, rainbow-ridden, Where blood-black Bromelias, lichens, Owls, and the lint Of the waterfalls cling, Familiar, unbidden. In a
The Map
Land lies in water; it is shadowed green. Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges Showing the line of long sea-weeded ledges Where weeds hang to the simple blue from green. Or does
Little Exercise
Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily Like a dog looking for a place to sleep in, Listen to it growling. Think how they must look now, the mangrove keys Lying out there
The Shampoo
The still explosions on the rocks, The lichens, grow By spreading, gray, concentric shocks. They have arranged To meet the rings around the moon, although Within our memories they have not changed. And since
Chemin De Fer
Alone on the railroad track I walked with pounding heart. The ties were too close together or maybe too far apart. The scenery was impoverished: scrub-pine and oak; beyond Its mingled gray-green foliage I
Argument
Days that cannot bring you near Or will not, Distance trying to appear Something more obstinate, Argue argue argue with me Endlessly Neither proving you less wanted nor less dear. Distance: Remember all that
North Haven
I can make out the rigging of a schooner A mile off; I can count The new cones on the spruce. It is so still The pale bay wears a milky skin; the sky
The Burglar Of Babylon
On the fair green hills of Rio There grows a fearful stain: The poor who come to Rio And can’t go home again. On the hills a million people, A million sparrows, nest, Like