A feather is trimmed, it is trimmed by the light and the bug and the post, it is trimmed by little leaning and by all sorts of mounted reserves and loud volumes. It is surely cohesive.
What was the use of a whole time to send and not send if there was to be the kind of thing that made that come in. A letter was nicely sent.
Watering the Horse
How strange to think of giving up all ambition! Suddenly I see with such clear eyes The white flake of snow That has just fallen in the horse’s mane!
Sometimes the mountain is hidden from me in veils of cloud, sometimes I am hidden from the mountain in veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue, when I forget or refuse to go down to the shore or a few yards up the road, on a clear day, to reconfirm that witnessing presence.
II. Virginia Red river, red river, Slow flow heat is silence No will is still as a river Still. Will heat move Only through the mocking-bird Heard once? Still hills Wait. Gates wait. Purple trees, White trees, wait, wait, Delay, decay. Living, living, Never moving. Ever moving Iron thoughts came with me And go with me: Red river, river, river.
Slim dragonfly too rapid for the eye to cage— contagious gem of virtuosity— make visible, mentality. Your jewels of mobility reveal and veil a peacock-tail. *Note: Tumblr won’t recognize the staggered lineation.
When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs I am compelled to conclude That man is the superior animal. When I consider the curious habits of man I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.
A White Paper
And if he thought that All was foreign— As, gas and petrol, en- gine full of seeds, barking to hear the night The political contaminations Of what he spoke, Spotted azaleas brought to meet him Sitting next day The judge, emotions, The crushed paper heaps.
Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow
as if it were a scene made-up by the mind, that is not mine, but is a made place, that is mine, it is so near to the heart, an eternal pasture folded in all thought so that there is a hall therein that is a made place, created by light wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall. Wherefrom fall all architectures I am I say are likenesses of the First Beloved whose flowers are flames lit...
I found a weed that had a mirror in it and that mirror looked in at a mirror in me that had a weed in it
I’ve been reading for the first half of my comprehensive exams. Internet is rare in these mountains. I’ll be posting—and occasionally phoning-in—some good poems.
Doing it like crazy
shitmystudentswrite: Macbeth couldn’t have loved Lady Macbeth because he was crazy and too busy hallucinating witches and stuff. Also, crazy people can’t do it without going crazy midway through.