Muriel Rukeyser Poems
|2.||The Speaking Tree||12/15/2011|
|4.||Waiting For Icarus||12/15/2011|
|5.||The Poem As Mask||12/15/2011|
|6.||From A Play: Publisher's Song||12/15/2011|
|8.||Then I Saw What The Calling Was||12/15/2011|
|9.||George Robinson: Blues||12/15/2011|
|11.||Haying Before Storm||4/22/2010|
|17.||[murmurs From The Earth Of This Land]||12/15/2011|
|19.||The Book Of The Dead||12/15/2011|
|25.||Metaphor To Action||12/15/2011|
|26.||Boy With His Hair Cut Short||4/22/2010|
|27.||Elegy In Joy||12/15/2011|
|28.||Reading Time: 1 Minute 26 Seconds||12/15/2011|
|30.||The Conjugation Of The Paramecium||1/20/2003|
For that I never knew you, I only learned to dread you,
for that I never touched you, they told me you are filth,
they showed me by every action to despise your kind;
for that I saw my people making war on you,
I could not tell you apart, one from another,
for that in childhood I lived in places clear of you,
for that all the people I knew met you by
crushing you, stamping you to death, they poured boiling
water on you, they flushed you down,
for that I could not tell one from another
only that you were dark, fast on your feet, and slender.
Not like ...
Haying Before Storm
This sky is unmistakable. Not lurid, not low, not black.
Illuminated and bruise-color, limitless, to the noon
Full of its floods to come. Under it, field, wheels, and mountain,
The valley scattered with friends, gathering in
Live-colored harvest, filling their arms; not seeming to hope
Not seeming to dread, doing.
I stand where I can see
Holding a small pitcher, coming in toward
The doers and the day.