These calm days of September with their sun. It’s time to harvest. There are still clumps of cranberries in the woods, reddening rosehips by the stone walls, hazel nuts coming loose, and clusters of black berries shine in the bushes, thrushes look around for the last currants and wasps fasten on to the sweetening plums….
This lake is not a concept but the home of fishes. Slowly the ducks go by. The Christ is not a concept but one of these ducks. Which one?
A child was taught To be a gravedigger. Pail and plastic shovel Waiting on the meadow. Don’t leave for tomorrow What you can do today! A bit of daylight still left Among the evening configurations. With his stooped shoulders He looks employed in the obvious way: Dark, damp clods of earth flying . . ….
We will not find you by going back to London, not even in another heat-wave of the century, the fire-bells ringing peacefully in the empty buildings all day Sunday. . . or the floor-through room above Earl’s Court, already otherworldly: two or three chairs; worm-eaten dark scrollwork around the Jacobean mirror; the chest with a…
Roblinus is our leading lit- erary pot-shotter (iconoclasm detoxifies a culture and Rob- linus is already a cultural monument) since he is virtuous the pot he shoots can hardly be grass so let us say that the shot must come from a pot which is used to relieve his (distress).
On one side a picture: tears boiling out of eyes that reflect flames. And a caption: “The frontier of the damned.” On the other side a note: “Thanks for the funeral. I’ve just arrived. Isn’t this beautiful? But it hurts. Write.”
Ron’s eager chainsaw and the firs falling combined their uproar with such startling silences there was no sense pretending to work at my desk. Granting the need, but unwilling to watch, I freed up all six culverts instead, clogged since spring when last the road was scraped— one of them so buried I had to…
after Hardy Why would she come to him, come to him, in such disguise to look again at him— look again— with vacant eyes— and why the pain still, the pain— still useless to them— as if to begin again— again begin— what had never been? * * * Why be persistently hurtful— no truth to…
lights in the twilight, lights of Solvay over the expanse of frozen snow-covered lake, orange lights of the refineries, yellow and green and red lights of the neon along the strip, lights as if undersea, the argon just coming to exist, all lights in the cold moisture of the grounded wind staggering across the lake…
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