Thom Gunn Poems
|4.||For A Birthday||12/3/2014|
|7.||Tamer And Hawk||8/29/2014|
|8.||From The Wave||11/7/2005|
|9.||To Yvor Winters||1/3/2003|
|12.||Painting By Vuillard||1/3/2003|
|13.||The Butcher's Son||1/3/2003|
|14.||A Map Of The City||11/12/2005|
|16.||My Sad Captains||1/13/2003|
|17.||Considering The Snail||1/3/2003|
|21.||The Man With Night Sweats||1/3/2003|
|22.||On The Move 'Man, You Gotta Go.'||1/13/2003|
On The Move 'Man, You Gotta Go.'
The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows
Some hidden purpose, and the gush of birds
That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows,
Have nested in the trees and undergrowth.
Seeking their instinct, or their pose, or both,
One moves with an uncertain violence
Under the dust thrown by a baffled sense
Or the dull thunder of approximate words.
On motorcycles, up the road, they come:
Small, black, as flies hanging in heat, the Boy,
Until the distance throws them forth, their hum
Bulges to thunder held by calf and thigh.
In goggles, donned...
Painting By Vuillard
Two dumpy women with buns were drinking coffee
In a narrow kitchen—at least I think a kitchen
And I think it was whitewashed, in spite of all the shade.
They were flat brown, they were as brown as coffee.
Wearing brown muslin? I really could not tell.
How I loved this painting, they had grown so old
That everything had got less complicated,
Brown clothes and shade in a sunken whitewashed kitchen.