If I have to, then let me be the whaler poet, / launcher of the knife, portioning off / the…
In Breton, they say
/ there’s a word that weaves between
/ green and blue, allowing for
/ haze, precipitation,
/ the burr of distance,
/ the welcome…
He went directly and unhurried and scanned the smattering.
/ Wingbit snagskin throatlap furthew clawlid eyespit oarfire.
/ Oarfire? No, that’s just dreams talking.
When, for the umpteenth time he’s outflitted
/ within paw’s reach of the taunting bird, heart
/ goes out to him – his folly,…
Needling of jabs, riddle of ducks and feints,
/ you wait for a clear target.
/ It comes, as brief as a spark plug’s…
Then I wrote often to the sea,
/ to its sunk rope and its salt bed,
/ to the large weed mass lipping the…
Thug mise dhut biothbhuantachd
/ is dè thug thu dhòmhsa?
/ Cha tug ach saighdean
/ geura do bhòidhchid.
/ Thug thu cruaidh shitheadh
/ is treaghaid na dòrainn,
/ domblas an…
When the first darkness creeps upon the floor
/ Your comfort filters green into my nostrils,
/ There is no need to ask for…
John Keats, you suggested that a poem should come
as certain and as surely as a leaf upon a tree,
not as slowly.
A true poem is a thing of awe.
/ A true poem is a struggle unto death.
/ A true poem is another land
(from The Poet as Old Age Pensioner)
/ You’d think, at my age
/ all those things that are definable
/ would already be defined.
/ Yet random…