Biography of Robert Duncan
Robert Duncan Poems
My Mother Would Be A Falconress
My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, would fly to bring back from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize,
The Song Of The Borderguard
The man with his lion under the shed of wars sheds his belief as if he shed tears. The sound of words waits - a barbarian host at the borderline of sense.
Often I Am Permitted To Return To A Mead...
as if it were a scene made-up by the mind, that is not mine, but is a made place, that is mine, it is so near to the heart,
Poetry, A Natural Thing
Neither our vices nor our virtues further the poem. “They came up and died just like they do every year
An African Elegy
In the groves of Africa from their natural wonder the wildebeest, zebra, the okapi, the elephant,
It’s in the perilous boughs of the tree out of blue sky the wind sings loudest surrounding me.
Such Is The Sickness Of Many A Good Thin...
Was he then Adam of the Burning Way? hid away in the heat like wrath conceald in Love’s face, or the seed, Eris in Eros,
Passage Over Water
We have gone out in boats upon the sea at night, lost, and the vast waters close traps of fear about us. The boats are driven apart, and we are alone at last under the incalculable sky, listless, diseased with stars.
And a tenth part of Okeanos is given to dark night a tithe of the pure water under earth so that the clear fountains pour from rock face,
Rites Of Passage Ii
Something is taking place. Horns thrust upward from the brow. Hooves beat impatient where feet once were.
A Little Language
I know a little language of my cat, though Dante says that animals have no need of speech and Nature
Bending The Bow
We've our business to attend Day's duties, bend back the bow in dreams as we may til the end rimes in the taut string
What I Saw
The white peacock roosting might have been Christ,
A Poem Beginning With A Line From Pindar
The light foot hears you and the brightness begins god-step at the margins of thought,
Bending The Bow
We've our business to attend Day's duties,
bend back the bow in dreams as we may
til the end rimes in the taut string
with the sending. Reveries are rivers and flow
where the cold light gleams reflecting the window upon the
surface of the table,
the presst-glass creamer, the pewter sugar bowl, the litter
of coffee cups and saucers,
carnations painted growing upon whose surfaces. The whole