The Last Words Of My English Grandmother
There were some dirty plates And a glass of milk Beside her on a small table Near the rank, disheveled bed- Wrinkled and nearly blind She lay and snored Rousing with anger in her
Willow Poem
It is a willow when summer is over, A willow by the river From which no leaf has fallen nor Bitten by the sun Turned orange or crimson. The leaves cling and grow paler,
Complete Destruction
It was an icy day. We buried the cat, Then took her box And set fire to it In the back yard. Those fleas that escaped Earth and fire Died by the cold.
Light Hearted William
Light hearted William twirled His November moustaches And, half dressed, looked From the bedroom window Upon the spring weather. Heigh-ya! sighed he gaily Leaning out to see Up and down the street Where a
Suzanne
Brother Paul! look! -but he rushes to a different Window. The moon! I heard shrieks and thought: What’s that? That’s just Suzanne Talking to the moon! Pounding on the window With both fists: Paul!
Blizzard
Snow falls: Years of anger following Hours that float idly down- The blizzard Drifts its weight Deeper and deeper for three days Or sixty years, eh? Then The sun! a clutter of Yellow and
The Uses Of Poetry
I’ve fond anticipation of a day O’erfilled with pure diversion presently, For I must read a lady poesy The while we glide by many a leafy bay, Hid deep in rushes, where at random
The Young Housewife
At ten AM the young housewife Moves about in negligee behind The wooden walls of her husband’s house. I pass solitary in my car. Then again she comes to the curb To call the
To Elsie
The pure products of America Go crazy- Mountain folk from Kentucky Or the ribbed north end of Jersey With its isolate lakes and Valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves Old names And promiscuity between Devil-may-care men
The Crowd At The Ball Game
The crowd at the ball game Is moved uniformly By a spirit of uselessness Which delights them – All the exciting detail Of the chase And the escape, the error The flash of genius
The Disputants
Upon the table in their bowl In violent disarray Of yellow sprays, green spikes Of leaves, red pointed petals And curled heads of blue And white among the litter Of the forks and crumbs
The Thing
Each time it rings I think it is for Me but it is Not for me nor for Anyone it merely Rings and we Serve it bitterly Together, they and I
April Is The Saddest Month
There they were Stuck Dog and bitch Halving the compass Then when with his yip They parted Oh how frolicsome She grew before him Playful Dancing and How disconsolate He retreated Hang-dog She following
Winter Trees
All the complicated details Of the attiring and The disattiring are completed! A liquid moon Moves gently among The long branches. Thus having prepared their buds Against a sure winter The wise trees Stand
Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus
According to Brueghel When Icarus fell It was spring A farmer was ploughing His field The whole pageantry Of the year was Awake tingling Near The edge of the sea Concerned With itself Sweating