Time disturbs me. Always minute detail
fills me up. It is 12:10 in New York. In Houston
it is 2 p. m. It is time to steal books! It’s
time to go mad. It is the day of the apocalypse
the year of parrot fever! What am I saying?
Only this. My poems do contain
wilde beestes. I write for my Lady
of the Lake. My god is immense, and lonely
but uncowed. I trust my sanity, and I am proud. If
I sometimes grow weary, and seem still, nevertheless
my heart still loves, will break.
20th Century American poetry
from SIX POEMS: 2 by Aram Saroyan
Bad dreams
come often to me.
One of my habits lately.
Cigarettes another.
Daily I have been going
the same rounds.
Now though I am going to
the ocean and a friend.
I am hopeful
of giving myself to it.
Two days’
new geography.
from Film Noir by Aram Saroyan
He needed about 5,000 dollars.
He ran out of Luckies and crumpled the pack.
He left his hat on in the car.
Maybe he was ready to die.
He checked his wallet pocket.
All of his friends had disappeared.
He remembered her naked body.
He had almost no savings.
He was at least 10 pounds overweight.
He realized he was in love with her.
Falling Asleep by Wendell Berry
Raindrops on the tin roof.
What do they say?
We have all
Been here before.
A Dance by Wendell Berry
The stepping-stones, once
in a row along the slope,
have drifted out of line,
pushed by frosts and rains.
Walking is no longer thoughtless
over them, but alert as dancing,
as tense and poised, to step
short, and long, and then
longer, right, and then left.
At the winter’s end, I dance
the history of its weather.
The Cold Pane by Wendell Berry
Between the living world
and the world of death
is a clear, cold pane;
a man who looks too close
must fog it with his breath,
or hold his breath too long.
a poem for Tom on this his birthday: The Plan by Wendell Berry
My old friend, the owner
of a new boat, stops by
to ask me to fish with him,
and I say I will—both of us
knowing that we may never
get around to it, it may be
years before we’re both
idle again on the same day.
But we make a plan, anyhow,
in honor of friendship
and the fine spring weather
and the new boat
and our sudden thought
of the water shining
under the morning fog.
from Three Laments: I by Diane DiPrima
Alas
I believe
I might have become
a great writer
but
the chairs
in the library
were too hard
Song For Baby-O, Unborn by Diane DiPrima
Sweetheart
when you break thru
you’ll find
a poet here
not quite what one would choose.
I won’t promise
you’ll never go hungry
or that you won’t be sad
on this gutted
breaking
globe
but I can show you
baby
enough to love
to break your heart
forever
The Basic Con by Lew Welch
Those who can’t find anything to live for,
always invent something to die for.
Then they want the rest of us to
die for it, too.
Leonard Durso 