Ron Padgett

(1942 / Tulsa, Oklahoma)

Travel - Poem by Ron Padgett

The little clock dings the night on the roof.
It hurries towerd the mystery of luck.
I don't know where these things are hidden
what is not behind is silence on the face
of a plaque dividing the barrel from the wall.
They intend to porpose a lower voice to sing a voice higher.
That at night one's life full of bits of wood
is silent is passing between the veins
much paints falls on the world indoors.
You are finished hearing throught a filter
where noise lends a sort of joy to your own clock

Comments about Travel by Ron Padgett

  • (11/22/2017 11:33:00 AM)

    Unless I am simply unfamiliar with the word 'throught', there may be a typo in this poem. (Report) Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Susan Williams (7/6/2016 4:02:00 PM)

    I am a bit sleepy-headed... I hope that is why I cannot make heads nor tails of this work. It's like I'm an inch short- I think I'm onto it and I reach out and it slips away as if I never had a glimpse of its truth. I shall have to try again when my two brain cells are awake... But I don't feel too bad, I see that I have company with Tom below! (Report) Reply

  • (7/6/2016 2:06:00 AM)

    Not too impressed.

    Tom Billsborough
    (Report) Reply

  • Edward Kofi Louis (7/6/2016 1:35:00 AM)

    I don't know where these things are hidden! Nice work. (Report) Reply

Read all 4 comments »

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Poem Submitted: Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Poem Edited: Wednesday, March 5, 2014

[Report Error]