Simple things
one wants to say
like, what’s the day
like, out there–
who am I
and where.
Robert Creeley
Go by Robert Creeley
Push that little
thing up and the
other right down.
It’ll work.
End by Robert Creeley
End of page,
end of this
company–wee
notebook kept
my mind in hand,
let the world stay
open to me
day after day,
words to say,
things to be.
Clouds by Robert Creeley
The clouds passing over, the
wisps still seeming substantial, as
a kid, as a kid I’d see them up there
in the town I grew up in on the hills
in the fields on the way home then
as now still up there, still up there.
Consolatio by Robert Creeley
What’s gone is gone.
What’s lost is lost.
What’s felt as pulse–
what’s mind, what’s home.
Who’s here, where’s there–
what’s patience now.
What thought of all,
why echo it.
Now to begin–
Why fear the end.
Speech by Robert Creeley
Simple things
one wants to say
like, what’s the day
like, out there–
who am I
and where.
For Pen by Robert Creeley
Thinking out
of the heart–
it’s up,
it’s down. . .
It’s that time
of day light
echoes the sun
setting west
over mountains.
I want to come home.
The Way by Robert Creeley
My love’s manners in bed
are not to be discussed by me,
as mine by her
I would not credit comment upon gracefully.
Yet I ride by the margin of that lake in
the wood, the castle,
and the excitement of strongholds;
and have a small boy’s notion of doing good.
Oh well, I will say here,
knowing each man,
let you find a good wife too,
and love her as hard as you can.
Later (6) by Robert Creeley
If you saw
dog pass, in car–
looking out, possibly
indifferently, at you–
would you–could you–
shout, “Hey, Spot!
It’s me!” After all
these years,
no dog’s coming home
again. Its skin’s
moldered
through rain, dirt,
to dust, hair alone
survives, matted tangle.
Your own, changed,
your hair, greyed,
your voice not the one
used to call him home.
“Hey Spot!” The world’s
greatest dog’s got
lost in the world,
got lost long ago.
Valentine by Robert Creeley
Had you a dress
would cover you all
in beautiful echoes
of all the flowers I know,
could you come back again,
bones and all,
just to talk
in whatever sound,
like letters spelling words,
this one says, Mother,
I love you—
that one, my son.
Leonard Durso 