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A figure of speech in which human characteristics are given to an animal, object, or abstract idea.
I can manage being alone,
can pace out convivial hope
across my managing ground.
Someone might call, later.
What do the dead make of us
that we’d flay ourselves trying
It is the story of the falling rain
to turn into a leaf and fall again
it is the secret of a summer shower
to steal the light and hide it in a flower
take the moon
nd take a star
when you don’t
know who you are
paint the picture in your hand
nd roll on home
take my fear
nd take the hunger
take my body
The place, the question, the question.
The place, the interest, the question.
There is the place.
There is what you do in the place.
There is your belief.
There’s a joke that ends with — huh?
It’s the bomb saying here is your father.
Now here is your father inside
your lungs. Look how lighter
the earth is — afterward.
— say the names say the names
and listen to yourself
an echo in the mountains
Tulameen Tulameen
say them like your soul
was listening and overhearing
and you dreamed you dreamed
Would I have seen her?
The tide tugging her gently past
the Comfort Inn; houses, tall and gabled,
Both guitars run trebly. One noodles
Over a groove. The other slushes chords.
Then they switch. It’s quite an earnest affair.
An ars poetica
I remember the death, in Russia,
of postage stamps
Gotta love us brown girls, munching on fat, swinging blue hips, decked out in shells and splashes, Lawdie, bringing them woo hips.
As the jukebox teases, watch my sistas throat the heartbreak,
Let’s say the fix was in. Let’s say history, Being human and thus short on ideas, Made change from an old bag of tricks. Say this
The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
We cannot know this statue, this satyr
with his head propped on a wineskin;
we cannot know if he dreams. In fact,
Dear Regret, my leaning this morning, my leather foot, want of
…
Your father worked Drumheller while you ate and slept at home.
He travelled the badlands, squatted below rocks, read books
Coin Exhibit, British Museum.
Their misshapenness strikes the table in tiny splashes,
like still-cooling splatters of silver. Stater and shekel,
The trick to building houses was making sure
they didn’t taste good. The ocean’s culinary taste
was growing more sophisticated and occasionally
the re-invention of oneself
through the tongues of whispering mountains
the re-arrangement of the universe
Here at Woodlands, Moriah,
these thirty-five years later,
still I could smell her fear.
sometimes I find myself
weeping
at the oddest moment
you are unaware of your obscure sources
but you are explicitly sure of the vast sea
as your final destination
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
You are still on the highway and the great light of
noon comes over the asphalt, the gravelled
shoulders. You are on the highway, there is a kind of
It was down that road he brought me, still
in the trunk of his car. I won’t say it felt right,
but it did feel expected. The way you…
Hidden in wonder and snow, or sudden with summer,
This land stares at the sun in a huge silence
Endlessly repeating something we cannot…
Thou poem of lost attention and half try,
do you fear more the inner world or outer?
I do…
Constantly risking absurdity
All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre as of olives
The willows are thinking again about thickness,
slowness, lizard skin on hot rock,
and day by day this imaging transforms them
About me the night moonless wimples the mountains
wraps ocean land …
“Hope” is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; —
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into…
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and…
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every Shepherd’s tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately.
I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness,
For my surrounding air hath a new lightness;
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicéan barks of yore,
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea,
I lift the Lord on high,
Under the murmuring hemlock boughs, and see
The small birds of the forest lingering by
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
A moment the wild swallows like a flight
Of withered gust-caught leaves, serenely high,
Toss in the windrack up the muttering sky.
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim.
The pools low lying, dank with moss and mould,
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
