June 2011
22 posts
1 tag
A Feather.
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.
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A Fire.
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.
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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!
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Witness
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.
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from Landscapes
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.
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Arthur Mitchell
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.
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Meditatio
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.
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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.
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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...
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Reflective
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
Rural California
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.
April 2011
15 posts
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.
