It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light
American poet
The Star by Wendell Berry
Flying at night, above the clouds, all earthmarks spurned,
lost in Heaven, where peaceful entry must be earned,
I have no pleasure here, nothing to desire.
And then I see one light below there like a star.
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.
A Meeting by Wendell Berry
In a dream I meet
my dead friend. He has,
I know, gone long and far,
and yet he is the same
for the dead are changeless.
They grow no older.
It is I who have changed,
grown strange to what I was.
Yet I, the changed one,
ask: “How you been?”
He grins and looks at me.
“I been eating peaches
off some mighty fine trees.”
Breaking by Wendell Berry
Did I believe I had a clear mind?
It was like the water of a river
flowing shallow over the ice. And now
that the rising water has broken
the ice, I see that what I thought
was the light is part of the dark.
THE INNOCENCE by Robert Creeley
Looking to the sea, it is a line
of unbroken mountains.
It is the sky.
It is the ground. There
we live, on it.
It is a mist
now tangent to another
quiet. Here the leaves
come, there
is the rock in evidence
or evidence.
What I come to do
is partial, partially kept.
reposting this for Robert M Goldstein & some other bloggers I’ve gotten to know: Childish by Robert Creeley
Great stories matter–
but the one who tells them
hands them on
in turn to another
who also will.
What’s in the world
is water, earth,
and fire, some people,
animals, trees, birds,
etc. I can see
as far as you,
and what I see I tell
as you told me
or have or will.
You’ll see too
as well.
The Chrysanthemum by William Carlos Williams
how shall we tell
the bright petals
from the sun in the
sky concentrically
crowding the branch
save that it yields
in its modesty
to that splendor?
Iris by William Carlos Williams
a burst of iris so that
come down for
breakfast
we searched through the
rooms for
that
sweetest odor and at
first could not
find its
source then a blue as
of the sea
struck
startling us from among
those trumpeting
petals
Poem by William Carlos Williams
The rose fades
and is renewed again
by its seed, naturally
but where
save in the poem
shall it go
to suffer no diminution
of its splendor
Leonard Durso 