Mine began in the first grade When Michael Burke stole my Blue ballpoint pen. I didn't Like Michael Burke before he Stole my ballpoint, and I Liked him even less after. He was loud, selfish, coarse, Pushy, overweight, and ugly. I knew because I sat to His right in back of the class And watched…
Bach must have known how something flutters away when you turn to face the face you caught sideways in a mirror in a hall at dusk and how the smell of apples in a bowl can stop the heart from beating, for an instant, between sink and stove in the dead of winter when stars…
In the evening the couples came down from the hotel. It was summer and just past sunset. They walked along the river, the women in long dresses, the men in light-colored suits, while on the patio a boy played Scarlatti on the piano. The couples stood at the edge of the water and breathed deeply…
There is no sleep in the stillness of snow, in such an adoration of freefall. Like a choir's single inhalation, it seems to pause between two songs. Sleep slips by me in waiting for the sound. Outside as in the laying down of walls, everywhere the snow like…
But what of those things we left In closets: pants and shirts too small; Notebooks filled with deliberate, looped Script; tedious games we were proud To admit we loved? As a child I loved Everything! On the back porch, housed Beneath a table, I sang the same song Over and over until my voice gave…
El dia del fin del mundo. . . yo grabaré mis iniciales en la corteza de un tilo sabiendo que eso no sirve para nada. — Jorge Teillier The day on which the world ends will of course be different in each place. Here it is raining, there snowing. Here the night shields the now…
Under the bed I found your old sock Like a bird peeking out The sleeve of my shirt. I plucked it up. So sad, little foot, Now it's in the pocket Of my coat for luck. Later in the earth I'll feed its nest, Worms a plenty In my good dark suit.
Thirty-seven years after publication of the first Selected Poems of William Carlos Williams, New Directions has given us a new one. In 1949 Williams himself did the selecting, and Randall Jarrell was called upon to provide an introduction. Charles Tomlinson, an Englishman who did not "seriously begin to read Williams until 1956-his Desert Music and…
These people in the future won't be like us. Oh no, they'll be kinder and their foreheads will bulge past their noses with wisdom. They'll have our pictures of course, although they won't be snapshots as we know them but little holographs, three-dimensional photos, so when one takes one from his pocket it will look…
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