Poems – Page 33 – Poetry Out Loud

This lovely little life whose toes
Touched the white sand from side to side
How delicately no one knows
Crept from his loneliness, and died.

From deep waters long miles away
He wandered, looking for his name,
And all he found was you and me,
A quick life and a candle flame.

Today, you happen to be gone.
I sit here in the raging hell,
The city of the dead, alone,
Holding a little empty shell.

I peer into his tiny face.
It looms too huge for me to bear.
Two blocks away the sea gives place
To river. Both are everywhere.

I reach out and flick out the light.
Darkly I touch his fragile scars
So far away, so delicate,
Stars in a wilderness of stars.

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

Copyright Credit: James Wright, “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” from Above the River: The Complete Poems. Copyright © 1992 by James Wright. Used with the permission of Wesleyan University Press

The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon’s young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, now she is gone
Wholly, into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine.

Don’t tap your chopsticks against your bowl.
Don’t throw your teacup against the wall in anger.
Don’t suck on your long black braid and weep.
Don’t tarry around the big red sign that says “danger!”

All the tempests will render still; seas will calm,
horses will retreat, voices to surrender.

That you have bloomed this way and not that,
that your skin is yellow, not white, not black,
that you were born now a boychild but a girl,
that this world will be forever puce-pink are just as well.

Remember, the survivor is not the strongest or most clever;
merely, the survivor is almost always the youngest.
And you shall have to relinquish that title before long.

How time reverses
The proud in heart!
I now make verses
Who aimed at art.

But I sleep well.
Ambitious boys
Whose big lines swell
With spiritual noise,

Despise me not!
And be not queasy
To praise somewhat:
Verse is not easy.

But rage who will.
Time that procured me
Good sense and skill
Of madness cured me.

Copyright Credit: J. V. Cunningham, “For My Contemporaries” from The Exclusions of a Rhyme: Poems and Epigrams. Used with the permission of Wiseblood Books.

The scent of burning wood holds
the strongest memory.
Mesquite, cedar, piñon, juniper,
all are distinct.
Mesquite is dry desert air and mild winter.
Cedar and piñon are colder places.
Winter air in our hair is pulled away,
and scent of smoke settles in its place.
We walk around the rest of the day
with the aroma resting on our shoulders.
The sweet smell holds the strongest memory.
We stand around the fire.
The sound of the crackle of wood and spark
is ephemeral.
Smoke, like memories, permeates our hair,
our clothing, our layers of skin.
The smoke travels deep
to the seat of memory.
We walk away from the fire;
no matter how far we walk,
we carry this scent with us.
New York City, France, Germany—
we catch the scent of burning wood;
we are brought home.

     Closed Mondays

is music      is men
off early from work      is waiting
for the chance at the chair
while the eagle claws holes
in your pockets      keeping
time      by the turning
of rusty fans      steel flowers with
cold breezes      is having nothing
better to do      than guess at the years
of hair      matted beneath the soiled caps
of drunks      the pain of running
a fisted comb through stubborn
knots      is the dark dirty low
down blues      the tender heads
of sons fresh from cornrows      all
wonder at losing      half their height
is a mother gathering hair      for good
luck      for a soft wig      is the round
difficulty of ears      the peach
faced boys asking Eddie
to cut in parts and arrows
wanting to have their names read
for just a few days and      among thin
jazz      is the quick brush of a done
head      the black flood around
your feet      grandfathers
stopping their games of ivory
dominoes      just before they reach the bone
yard      is winking widowers announcing
cut it clean off      I’m through courting
and hair only gets in the way     is the final
spin of the chair      a reflection of
a reflection      that sting of wintergreen
tonic on the neck of a sleeping snow
haired man      when you realize it is
your turn      you are next

tired i count the ways in which it determines my life
permeates everything. it’s in the air
lives next door to me in stares of neighbors
meets me each day in the office. its music comes out the radio
drives beside me in my car. strolls along with me
down supermarket aisles
it’s on television
and in the streets even when my walk is casual/undefined
it’s overhead flashing lights
i find it in my mouth
when i would speak of other things

           when a branch pulls at my sleeve
like a child's tug, or the fog, reticent & thick,
lifts – & strands of it hang like spun sugar
in branches & twigs, or when a phoebe
trills from the hackberry,
                                        I believe such luck
is meant for me. Does this happen to you?
Do you believe at times that a moment
chooses you to remember it & tell about it—
so that it may live again?