Muriel Rukeyser Poems
|2.||From A Play: Publisher's Song||12/15/2011|
|3.||George Robinson: Blues||12/15/2011|
|5.||The Speaking Tree||12/15/2011|
|8.||[murmurs From The Earth Of This Land]||12/15/2011|
|9.||Haying Before Storm||4/22/2010|
|16.||The Conjugation Of The Paramecium||1/20/2003|
|21.||Then I Saw What The Calling Was||12/15/2011|
|22.||Metaphor To Action||12/15/2011|
|24.||The Poem As Mask||12/15/2011|
|27.||Waiting For Icarus||12/15/2011|
|28.||Reading Time: 1 Minute 26 Seconds||12/15/2011|
|29.||The Book Of The Dead||12/15/2011|
|30.||Elegy In Joy||12/15/2011|
|32.||Boy With His Hair Cut Short||4/22/2010|
Boy With His Hair Cut Short
SUNDAY shuts down on this twentieth-century evening.
The L passes. Twilight and bulb define
the brown room, the overstuffed plum sofa,
the boy, and the girl's thin hands above his head.
A neighbor radio sings stocks, news, serenade.
He sits at the table, head down, the young clear neck exposed,
watching the drugstore sign from the tail of his eye;
tattoo, neon, until the eye blears, while his
solicitous tall sister, simple in blue, bending
behind him, cuts his hair with her cheap shears.
The arrow's electric red always reaches its mark,
In the cave with a long-ago flare
a woman stands, her arms up. Red twig, black twig, brown twig.
A wall of leaping darkness over her.
The men are out hunting in the early light
But here in this flicker, one or two men, painting
and a woman among them.
Great living animals grow on the stone walls,
their pelts, their eyes, their sex, their hearts,
and the cave-painters touch them with life, red, brown, black,