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In a minute among the river reeds I will debut my composition a urine-stained quilt is the flag of early summer rain and when I open my mouth not even a bird singing contains all my ideas for rising and falling all day my phone vibrates its tiny mouth in the mountain’s shadow

The whole country in a courtly dance its tiny mouth open I pour another cup of wine and falling, rising the children remove their toys around the small apartment to their bunk beds not quite dark yet early spring with snow on the wind the woman across the street bent like a sickle collecting bottles and cans knocks, goes on I wonder where she lives and the stars shining on her greasy clothes

In my dream his voice began to fade I had to call him the next day I feel about average he said I’m going out to buy some juice a huge frog was in the driveway a small boat drifting the river flowed in silence

The kids fighting over 4 or 5 pennies my ears ringing bent to the shape of   the spring moon I am a crybaby

i thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forgot that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the One in the play of the many. ii No more noisy, loud words from me, such is my master’s will. Hence-forth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. Men hasten to the King’s market. All the buyers and sellers are there. But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work. Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time, and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum. Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him, and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence! iii On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded. Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange smell in the south wind. That vague fragrance made my heart ache with longing, and it seemed to me that it was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion. I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart. iv By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love, which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou are not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart—thy love for me still waits for my love. v I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight? When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away to find in the very next moment its consolation in the left one. vi Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. Oh, thou beautiful, there in the nest it is thy love that encloses the soul with colors and sounds and odors. There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest. But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor color, and never never a word. Originally appeared in the December 1912 issue of Poetry magazine.

I have written a couple of poems about trees poems about trees and snakes and lakes and birds poems about nature and life in New England I write crappy poems and eat babies if you like poems about trees you’re in for a treat when I get nervous I get hyper and bump into people I read to them what MapQuest gave me round during then in the mom seeker panties to help me narrow down the slut thing word jobs

Your name is a—bird in my hand, a piece of ice on my tongue. The lips’ quick opening. Your name—four letters. A ball caught in flight, a silver bell in my mouth. A stone thrown into a silent lake is—the sound of your name. The light click of hooves at night —your name. Your name at my temple —sharp click of a cocked gun. Your name—impossible— kiss on my eyes, the chill of closed eyelids. Your name—a kiss of snow. Blue gulp of icy spring water. With your name—sleep deepens. April 15, 1916

From my hands—take this city not made by hands, my strange, my beautiful brother. Take it, church by church—all forty times forty churches, and flying up the roofs, the small pigeons; And Spassky Gates—and gates, and gates— where the Orthodox take off their hats; And the Chapel of Stars—refuge chapel— where the floor is—polished by tears; Take the circle of the five cathedrals, my coal, my soul; the domes wash us in their darkgold, And on your shoulders, from the red clouds, the Mother of God will drop her own thin coat, And you will rise, happened of wonderpowers —never ashamed you loved me. March 31 , 1916

The wind dying, I find a city deserted, except for crowds of people moving and standing. Those standing resemble stories, like stones, coal from the death of plants, bricks in the shape of teeth. I begin now to write down all the places I have not been— starting with the most distant. I build houses that I will not inhabit.

You've heard me, scornful, harsh, and discontented, Mocking and loathing War: you've asked me why Of my old, silly sweetness I've repented— My ecstasies changed to an ugly cry. You are aware that once I sought the Grail, Riding in armour bright, serene and strong; And it was told that through my infant wail There rose immortal semblances of song. But now I've said good-bye to Galahad, And am no more the knight of dreams and show: For lust and senseless hatred make me glad, And my killed friends are with me where I go. Wound for red wound I burn to smite their wrongs; And there is absolution in my songs.