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The Ceaseless Falling The landings of this world are rehearsed: And so the heron sinks into the water and the deer Joins in the flood, and so the face of one's mother joins The lies that save her face: Always there is war flaming in South Africa Always empires are dying and refueling Always the children grow more staid than their parents And love seems to darken in each walk by the river: The silence of the brook is a place for heron, for deer: And soon the wind will break in the dogwoods; the light Will snag in the willow--and love, love Shall it ever follow me to the river? |
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1619-1979 Is a Large Time 1 When we came here, we knew it would not be easy. Our language looked for a star, a galaxy, Something to give us a dim penetration. When we understood, many of us lost ourselves. 2 This morning was a blue morning: Not a thing seemed rich or outlandish; my spirit Dry as a man inched-up with heroin. This morning I thought I might never leave here. 3 I count the blues; I count each and every one of them. Children ask me what I reall, remember. I remember their mother's bellies. I remember how small grew those ships which brought us here. 4 I count the blues; I count each and every one of them. 5 Here, our children meet death As one might the sun: When we understood, may of us lost ourselves. 6 Children ask me what I recall, remember. i leave from a boat, move to a great land and wander a newer forest. 7 The blues shall set you free The blues shall set you free the blues shall set you free But I've been here so long |
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The Glowworm The glowworm works up the barren limb like a fragile index of the world: this is not his poem: he sings for himself: The poem here is the singing Of the glowworm, how he struggles up the next section of bark stretching like an accordion, his mind seething with his body's thumbless design: But this is not his poem: It is about lovers: it is about sound and sense and sound sense (in-sense incense innocence): it is about games and lovers: it is about the struggle to be perfect, to make that love inviolable, sacred: it is about the poet who needs language who needs the world, who needs words to love him: it is about love, vast love, love of meaning's love: it is about the soul which speaks beyond sense, which flushes like a quail after a startling: it is about love the love of the smallest darting, the imperfect journey, the glow glowing glowworm, worthy of itself, and worthy then of singing |
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Rich Beyond Cost Tonight the elderberry is stony, and the laurel gives into the umbrage of the elms, the moon-premised heaves of a silent nature: and everything thick with everything like the blues: stars have lovers and lovers stars: And the world breaks into the glimmerings and half- tones of the visited and visiting: today the song of a cardinal is a thing unhinged, unsplendid: But tomorrow, he may lift out of all subterfuge, a thing mindless and mindful. | |
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