Alicia Suskin Ostriker Poems

I am not lyric any more
I will not play the harp
for your pleasure
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Going to be an old wrinkly lady
Going to be one of those frail rag people
Going to have withered hands and be
Puzzled to tears crossing the street
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Now here is a typical children's story
that happens in gorgeous October
when the mothers are coming
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The downward turning touch
the cry of time
fire falling without sound
plunge my hand in the wound
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—for Elizabeth Bishop

Tuwee, calls a bird near the house,
Tuwee, cries another, downhill in the woods.
No wind, early September, beeches and pines,
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As if there could be a world
Of absolute innocence
In which we forget ourselves
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—for Paul Metcalf
A linear projection: a route. It crosses
The ocean in many ships. Arriving in the new
Land, it cuts through and down forests and it
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In every life there's a moment or two
when the self disappears, the cruel wound
takes over, and then again
at times we are filled with sky
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—for David Lehman

Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
—William Wordsworth
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To be blessed
said the old woman
is to live and work
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