Archive for the ‘Poem of the Week’ Category

Poem of the Week, “What is Modern”

By on January 10, 2012 | Category: Poem of the Week,Portfolio | Tags: , , | Comments Off

In the gardenWhat is Modern

Are you modern

is the first
tree that comes
to mind modern
does it have modern leaves

who is modern after hours
at the glass door
of the drugstore
or
within sound of the airport

or passing the
animal pound
where once a week I
gas the animals
who is modern in bed

when
was modern born
who first was pleased
to feel modern
who first claimed the word
as a possession
saying I’m
modern

as someone might say
I’m a champion
or I’m famous or even
as some would say I’m
rich

or I love the sound
of the clarinet
yes so do I
do you like classical
or modern

did modern
begin to be modern
was there a morning
when it was there for the first time
completely modern

is today modern
the modern sun rising
over the modern roof
of the modern hospital
revealing the modern water tanks and aerials
of the modern horizon

and modern humans
one after the other
solitary and without speaking
buying the morning paper
on the way to work
–W.S. Merwin from Opening the Hand (1983)

Poem of the Week, “Something I’ve Not Done”

By on December 29, 2011 | Category: Poem of the Week,Portfolio | Tags: , , | Comments Off

Something I’ve Not Done

Something I’ve not done
is following me
I haven’t done it again and again
so it has many footsteps
like a drumstick that’s grown old and never been used

In late afternoon I hear it come closer
at times it climbs out of a sea
onto my shoulders
and I shrug it off
losing one more chance

Every morning
it’s drunk up part of my breath for one day
and knows which way
I’m going
and already it’s not done there

But once more I say I’ll lay hands on it
tomorrow
and add to its footsteps to my heart
and its story to my regrets
and its silence to my compass

—W.S. Merwin, from Writings to an Unfinished Accompaniment

Poem of the Week, “The Plaster”

By on November 29, 2011 | Category: Poem of the Week | Tags: , , | Comments Off

The Plaster

How unlike you

To have left the best of your writing here

Behind the plaster where they were never to be found

These stanzas of long lines into which the Welsh words

Had been flung like planks from a rough sea

How will I

 

Ever know now how much was not like you

And what else was committed to paper here

On the dark burst sofa where you would later die

Its back has left a white mark on the white wall and above that

Five and a half indistinct squares of daylight

Like pages in water

Slide across the blind plaster

 

Into which you slipped the creased writings as into a mail slot

In a shroud

 

This is now the house of the rain that falls from death

The sky is moving its things in from under the trees

In silence

As it must have started to do even then

There is still a pile of dirty toys and rags

In the corner where they found the children

Rolled in sleep

 

Other writings

Must be dissolving in the roof

Twitching black edges in cracks of the wet fireplaces

Stuck to shelves in the filthy pantry

Never to be found

What is like you now

 

Who were haunted all your life by the best of you

Hiding in your death

—W.S. Merwin from The Lice (1967)

Join Our Mailing List

* = required field

powered by MailChimp!