Send me out into another life
lord because this one is growing faint
I do not think it goes all the way
Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you've lost the whole thing.
W.S. MerwinSeparation
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
Tag: poetry loss loneliness influence
I had hardly begun to read
I asked how can you ever be sure
that what you write is really
any good at all and he said you can't
you can't you can never be sure
you die without knowing
whether anything you wrote was any good
if you have to be sure don't write
The story of each stone leads back to a mountain.
W.S. MerwinOn the last day of the world
I would want to plant a tree
Tag: poets
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
we travel far and fast
and as we pass through we forget
where we have been
come back
believer in shade
believer in silence and elegance
believer in ferns
believer in patience
believer in the rain
After an age of leaves and feathers someone dead thought of the mountain as money and cut the trees that were here and the wind and the rain at night. It is hard to say it.
W.S. MerwinPagina 1 di 4.
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