Often I am permitted to return to a meadow
as if it were a given property of the mind
that certain bounds hold against chaos.
- Robert Duncan, "Often I Am Permitted To Return To A Meadow"
And white birds summering in my neighbor's pond
Followed me impatiently,
Feasting on the insects rising up like a plague
In the dusty air.
I followed tracks along the fence line where green
Berries climbed
And near the barn were brilliant blue weed-flowers
I left standing
Until the end; walked back and cut them with the blade
Of my father's knife;
Took them to the house and put them in an old glass jar.
White birds and
Blue weed-flowers, wild fruit and wild animal paths:
I have learned
To unlearn the common names of these common things
So that coming
Upon them is an uncommon discovery to be learned again
By what they are,
Each a thing to be known not by its name but by the joy
Of knowing it new
And the finding of such treasures in unexpected places.
In the morning
The blue weed-flowers had gilded my table with gold dust.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 573 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2011-04-03 at 17:23
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as if it were a given property of the mind
that certain bounds hold against chaos.
- Robert Duncan, "Often I Am Permitted To Return To A Meadow"
Mowing the Pasture
Mowing the pastureAnd white birds summering in my neighbor's pond
Followed me impatiently,
Feasting on the insects rising up like a plague
In the dusty air.
I followed tracks along the fence line where green
Berries climbed
And near the barn were brilliant blue weed-flowers
I left standing
Until the end; walked back and cut them with the blade
Of my father's knife;
Took them to the house and put them in an old glass jar.
White birds and
Blue weed-flowers, wild fruit and wild animal paths:
I have learned
To unlearn the common names of these common things
So that coming
Upon them is an uncommon discovery to be learned again
By what they are,
Each a thing to be known not by its name but by the joy
Of knowing it new
And the finding of such treasures in unexpected places.
In the morning
The blue weed-flowers had gilded my table with gold dust.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 573 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2011-04-03 at 17:23
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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