Archive for ‘Poets’

Gregory Orr: Silence

The way the word sinks into the deep snow of the page.

The dead deer lying in the clearing,
its head and antlers transparent.
The black seed in its brain
parachuting toward earth.



"Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved"








Richard Hugo: In Your Fugitive Dream

Through Tuesday, 11 A.M., the shops are locked.
You try the meat store. Only the muffled buzz
of a fly inside. You rattle the glass
of the drugstore, yelling "I have a prescription."
A 40-watt bulb burns over the soda fountain.
You think, when you find no one around, if really
the town is empty, wind should be blowing.
Sun presses the buildings down. Birds
on the street seem to be resting enroute.
You break into a dress shop and


from John Berryman’s DREAM SONGS (song 13)



God bless Henry. He lived like a rat,
with a thatch of hair on his head
in the beginning.
Henry was not a coward. Much.
He never deserted anything; instead
he stuck, when things like pity were thinning.

So may be Henry was a human being.
Let's investigate that.
. . . We did; okay.
He is a human American man.
That's true. My lass is braking.
My brass is aching. Corne & diminish me, & map my way.


Yannis Ritsos — Two Poems



They'd left a slice of bread on the stone.
The bird stood there; he pecked at it. The crone came back:
"I didn't leave that for you," she told the bird. She took the bread,
crumbled it up finely, scattered the crumbs for the bird.
The bird looked at her square in the eyes; he didn't eat.




Half a glass of water on the table. All around him,
gathered up silently, melancholy things:
a letter