Got some new Poems for you all. It’s been fun; this imaginative adventure that poem making is. I love the worship of it; the vulnerability of giving ones whole self to the pages and words, and ultimately the people behind them. They explore the enchanted feeling, as well as the haunting, of the “word” and world made beautiful. And so we have the Mundane Moderns, who see thirteen ways of living in a single blackbird hugging a branch before advancing on the air. Or while seeing a wheelbarrow, see also the white chickens and the rainwater and the firm work of the american farmer. I like Light. And walking at all hours. And children, especially. They have become a central theme, as well as how we learn from them, to my thoughts, and therefore my poetry.
So these are some tributes to those great Post Romantic Poets. My response to the sheer physicality of their work.
And my response to this world and the life beyond the physical things.
The latter two poems, I am willing to say, are that. I am responding not to other poets, but to THE other poet (no, not T.S. Eliot). That poet who blurs the line intentionally, I think, between inspiration and imagination, and tossing me a pencil, says, “Go play.”
A fourteenth way of looking at a blackbird
-for Wallace Stevens
There are thirteen ways
To watch a blackbird die.
Who knows if God knows
But only one narrow way.
Yet in one way God reverses
All the finality of flying south
By urging spring to make its nests
In the trees of Easter.
– for William Carlos Williams
A crimp of light
Beside an earthworm.
His home is all
Into a red wheelbarrow.
Finding himself displaced
To a dirt
To this side of the yard,
The earthworm finds himself
Beyond the life of this
Ridge is another hill;
In reality a valley,
Sitting like a white envelope
From St. Jude hospital,
The heaps of mail three days old
Waiting be unsealed.
Knowing it is bad news
is like knowing the valley,
Like knowing the generosity
Of the light on the further hill;
It means nothing to you, yet
Everything while one is walking
Toward the pain of a false closeness
Seen atop the nearer crest,
The distant ridge rising,
Its brightness; and the valley beyond,
all reality with it–vanishes.
What a colorful and uncomfortable question
A shoe-string seems, suspended in the fingers
Of her hands. She at first
Having needed me to charm
Her pink feet with her favorite princess socks.
Now, how clumsy and in the way
My own hands seem to be,
Attempting to animate by my own grace
The wonder deepening
In her eyebrows; her tongue
Peak-a-booing from her more patient lips
At the slow motor skills in learning
On her own, not only how
But why, the bow at present
Adorning her shoes which help her
Walk steadily, and affirms also her first
Belief in the usefulness of a pretty thing.