James Wright
To The Muse
It is all right. All they do Is go in by dividing One rib from another. I wouldn’t Lie to you. It hurts Like nothing I know. All they do Is burn their way
Lying In A Hammock At William Duffy's Farm In Pine Island, Minnesota
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly, Asleep on the black trunk, Blowing like a leaf in green shadow. Down the ravine behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another Into the
Depressed By A Book Of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward An Unused Pasture And Invite The Insects To Join Me
Relieved, I let the book fall behind a stone. I climb a slight rise of grass. I do not want to disturb the ants Who are walking single file up the fence post, Carrying
Rip
It can’t be the passing of time that casts That white shadow across the waters Just offshore. I shiver a little, with the evening. I turn down the steep path to find What’s left
Having Lost My Sons, I Confront The Wreckage Of The Moon: Christmas, 1960
After dark Near the South Dakota border, The moon is out hunting, everywhere, Delivering fire, And walking down hallways Of a diamond. Behind a tree, It ights on the ruins Of a white city
In Response To A Rumor That The Oldest Whorehouse In Wheeling, West Virginia, Has Been Condemned
I will grieve alone, As I strolled alone, years ago, down along The Ohio shore. I hid in the hobo jungle weeds Upstream from the sewer main, Pondering, gazing. I saw, down river, At
The Journey
Anghiari is medieval, a sleeve sloping down A steep hill, suddenly sweeping out To the edge of a cliff, and dwindling. But far up the mountain, behind the town, We too were swept out,
Goodbye To The Poetry Of Calcium
Dark cypresses The world is uneasily happy; It will all be forgotten. Theodore Storm Mother of roots, you have not seeded The tall ashes of loneliness For me. Therefore, Now I go. If I
At The Executed Murderer's Grave
for J. L. D. Why should we do this? What good is it to us? Above all, How can we do such a thing? How can it possibly be done? Freud 1. My name
A Winter Daybreak Above Vence
The night’s drifts Pile up below me and behind my back, Slide down the hill, rise again, and build Eerie little dunes on the roof of the house. In the valley below me, Miles
Small Frogs Killed On The Highway
Still, I would leap too Into the light, If I had the chance. It is everything, the wet green stalk of the field On the other side of the road. They crouch there, too,
On The Skeleton Of A Hound
Nightfall, that saw the morning-glories float Tendril and string against the crumbling wall, Nurses him now, his skeleton for grief, His locks for comfort curled among the leaf. Shuttles of moonlight weave his shadow
Trying To Pray
This time, I have left my body behind me, crying In its dark thorns. Still, There are good things in this world. It is dusk. It is the good darkness Of women’s hands that
A Blessing
Just off the Highway to Rochester, Minnesota Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To
A Poem About George Doty In The Death House
Lured by the wall, and drawn To stare below the roof, Where pigeons nest aloof From prowling cats and men, I count the sash and bar Secured to granite stone, And note the daylight