By Lorine Niedecker
He lived—childhood summers
thru bare feet
then years of money’s lack
and heat
beside the river—out of flood
came his wood, dog,
woman, lost her, daughter—
prologue
to planting trees. He buried carp
beneath the rose
where grass-still
the marsh rail goes.
To bankers on high land
he opened his wine tank.
He wished his only daughter
to work in the bank
but he’d given her a source
to sustain her—
a weedy speech,
a marshy retainer.
Lorine Niedecker, "He Lived Childhood Summers" from Collected Works, edited by Jenny Penberthy. Copyright © 2002 by the Regents of the University of California. Reprinted with the permission of the University of California Press.
Source: Collected Works (The University of California Press, 2002)
Poet Bio
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[My mother saw the green tree toad]
My mother saw the green tree toad
on the window sill
her first one
since she was young.
We saw it breathe
and swell up round.
My youth is no sure sign
I’ll find this kind of thing
tho it does sing.
Let’s take it in
I said so grandmother...
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I married
in the world’s black night
for warmth
if not repose.
At the close—
someone.
I hid with him
from the long range guns.
We lay leg
in the cupboard, head
in closet.
A slit of light
at no bird dawn—
Untaught
I thought
he drank
too much.
I say
I married
and lived unburied.
I thought—