Karl Shapiro Poems
|3.||I Am An Atheist Who Says His Prayers||1/8/2016|
|5.||The Dome Of Sunday||4/16/2010|
|6.||Love For A Hand||4/16/2010|
|9.||The Piano Tuner’s Wife||4/16/2010|
|11.||Sunday: New Guinea||4/16/2010|
|13.||The Conscientious Objector||4/16/2010|
|15.||Going To School||4/16/2010|
|16.||The Olive Tree||1/13/2003|
|17.||A Garden In Chicago||1/13/2003|
The beauty of manhole covers--what of that?
Like medals struck by a great savage khan,
Like Mayan calendar stones, unliftable, indecipherable,
Not like the old electrum, chased and scored,
Mottoed and sculptured to a turn,
But notched and whelked and pocked and smashed
With the great company names
(Gentle Bethlehem, smiling United States).
This rustproof artifact of my street,
Long after roads are melted away will lie
Sidewise in the grave of the iron-old world,
Bitten at the edges,
Strong with its cryptic American,
Its dated beauty.
As a sloop with a sweep of immaculate wing on her delicate spine
And a keel as steel as a root that holds in the sea as she leans,
Leaning and laughing, my warm-hearted beauty, you ride, you ride,
You tack on the curves with parabola speed and a kiss of goodbye,
Like a thoroughbred sloop, my new high-spirited spirit, my kiss.
As my foot suggests that you leap in the air with your hips of a girl,
My finger that praises your wheel and announces your voices of song,