Wendell Berry (August 5, 1934 / Henry County, Kentucky)
Biography of Wendell Berry
Wendell Berry Poems
The Peace Of Wild Things
When despair grows in me and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake
Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Fro...
Love the quick profit, the annual raise, vacation with pay. Want more of everything ready-made. Be afraid to know your neighbors and to die.
What We Need Is Here
Geese appear high over us, pass, and the sky closes. Abandon, as in love or sleep, holds them to their way, clear
A Timbered Choir
Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling, for I saw the last known landscape destroyed for the sake of the objective, the soil bludgeoned, the rock blasted. Those who had wanted to go home would never get there now.
A Meeting In A Part
In a dream I meet my dead friend. He has, I know, gone long and far, and yet he is the same
The Country Of Marriage
I. I dream of you walking at night along the streams of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs
The Hidden Singer
The gods are less for their love of praise. Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing but its own wholeness, its health and ours. It has made all things by dividing itself.
A Warning To My Readers
Do not think me gentle because I speak in praise of gentleness, or elegant because I honor the grace
The Mad Farmer Revolution
Being a Fragment of the Natural History of New Eden, in Homage To Mr. Ed McClanahan, One of the Locals
And now to the Abyss I pass Of that Unfathomable Grass... 1.
In A Motel Parking Lot, Thinking Of Dr. ...
I. The poem is important, but not more than the people
I was born in a drouth year. That summer my mother waited in the house, enclosed in the sun and the dry ceaseless wind,
Like The Water
Like the water of a deep stream, love is always too much.
The Real Work
It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come our real work, and that when we no longer know which way to go
Though the air is full of singing
my head is loud
with the labor of words.
Though the season is rich
with fruit, my tongue
hungers for the sweet of speech.
Though the beech is golden