Poems

Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself At the earliest ending of winter, In March, a scrawny cry from outside Seemed like a sound […]

Of Modern Poetry The poem of the mind in the act of finding What will suffice. It has not always had To find: the scene was […]

Peter Quince at the Clavier I Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music, too. […]

Poem Written at Morning A sunny day’s complete Poussiniana Divide it from itself. It is this or that And it is not. By metaphor you paint […]

Six Significant Landscapes I An old man sits In the shadow of a pine tree In China. He sees larkspur, Blue and white, At the edge […]

Sunday Morning 1 Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug […]

Tattoo The light is like a spider. It crawls over the water. It crawls over the edges of the snow. It crawls under your eyelids And […]

The Emperor of Ice-Cream Call the roller of big cigars, The muscular one, and bid him whip In kitchen cups concupiscent curds. Let the wenches dawdle […]

The House Was Quiet And The World Was Calm The house was quiet and the world was calm. The reader became the book; and summer night […]

The Idea of Order at Key West She sang beyond the genius of the sea. The water never formed to mind or voice, Like a body […]