Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of acids of rage, the candor of tar,
Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
They Lion grow.
Out of the gray hills
Of industrial barns, out of rain, out of bus ride,
West Virginia to Kiss My Ass, out of buried aunties,
Mothers hardening like pounded stumps, out of stumps,
Out of bones’ need to sharpen and the muscles’ to stretch,
They Lion grow.
Earth is eating trees, fence posts,
Gutted cars, earth is calling in her little ones,
“Come home, Come home!” From pig balls,
From the ferocity of pig driven to holiness,
From the furred ear and the full jowl come
The repose of the hung belly, from the purpose
They Lion grow.
From the sweet glues of the trotters
Come the sweet kinks of the fist, from the…
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Leonard Durso 
This is stunning… The pent-up rage of it, opening.
Just stunning.
I’m glad you think so.
One of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets. Thank you for sharing!
You are welcome, Kate. This is one I love to read out loud those nights sleep eludes me.
Interesting, very great! Where is this poet from?
He’s American. Often considered a working class poet but he’s more than that, I think.
It sounds exotic… in a way.
One of my favorite poems.
Mine, too. I love to read him out loud. It energizes me.