Donald Revell Poems
|2.||Warm Days in January||2/18/2016|
|5.||"Birds small enough..."||5/22/2017|
|9.||Elegy a Little||5/22/2017|
|10.||The Glens of Cithaeron||5/22/2017|
|11.||Homage to John Frederick Peto||5/22/2017|
|12.||An Instrument Also||5/22/2017|
|16.||Vietnam Epic Treatment||5/22/2017|
|18.||The Northeast Corridor||5/23/2017|
|19.||Odysseus Hears of the Death of Kalypso||5/23/2017|
|22.||"Some motionless conﬂict in the sky..."||5/23/2017|
|25.||"Unreal precision of the houses..."||5/23/2017|
|29.||Bending with the Sky||5/23/2017|
|30.||Virgil Watched Them||1/20/2003|
Comments about Donald Revell
I am looking at a smallpox vaccination scar
In a war movie on the arm
Of a young actor. He has just swum
Across a river somewhere in Normandy
Into the waiting arms of his rejoicing comrades.
Of course, the river's in California,
And the actor is dead now. Nevertheless,
This is the first of many hotels this trip,
And I find myself preferring wars
To smut on the networks,
Even as I find myself reading
The Pisan Cantos for the umpteenth time
Instead of the novel in my bag.
The poet helps me to the question:
Does anything remain of home at ...
Who will you point to? In the needle's eye,
or selling what you won at the strait gate,
who will know how to kiss you and just when
to pull the hair at your neck and say your name?
No single victim will ever be the last.
Not, at least, until one victim purifies
the whole issue of suffering
by crying out that his pain means nothing
because it comes from nowhere and goes nowhere.