Charles Wright Poems
|1.||Littlefoot, 19, (This Is The Bird Hour)||5/21/2015|
|2.||A Short History of the Shadow||6/3/2016|
|3.||The Appalachian Book of the Dead||6/3/2016|
|8.||Nine-Panel Yaak River Screen||6/3/2016|
|10.||Sitting Outside at the End of Autumn||6/3/2016|
|11.||Spider Crystal Ascension||6/3/2016|
|12.||Stone Canyon Nocturne||6/3/2016|
|14.||Words and the Diminution of All Things||6/3/2016|
|16.||Dio Ed Io||6/3/2016|
|18.||Still Life On A Matchbox Lid||3/15/2005|
|20.||Body And Soul Ii||1/20/2003|
|21.||After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside To The Dwarf Orchard||1/20/2003|
After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside To The Dwarf Orchard
East of me, west of me, full summer.
How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard.
Birds fly back and forth across the lawn
looking for home
As night drifts up like a little boat.
Day after day, I become of less use to myself.
Like this mockingbird,
I flit from one thing to the next.
What do I have to look forward to at fifty-four?
Tomorrow is dark.
Day-after-tomorrow is darker still.
The sky dogs are whimpering.
Fireflies are dragging the hush of evening
up from the damp grass.
Into the world's tumult, into the chaos of every ...
Darkened by time, the masters, like our memories, mix
and settle about our lawn furniture, like air
Without a meaning, like air in its clear nothingness.
What can we say to either of them?
How can they be so dark and so clear at the same time?
They ruffle our hair,
they ruffle the leaves of the August trees.
Then stop, abruptly as wind.