The Highwayman

PART ONE I THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

A Child's Christmas In Wales

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

A Supermarket In California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! - - and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the

A City's Death By Fire

After that hot gospeller has levelled all but the churched sky, I wrote the tale by tallow of a city's death by fire; Under a candle's eye, that smoked in tears, I Wanted to tell, in more than wax, of faiths that were snapped like wire. All day I walked abroad among the rubbled tales, Shocked at each wall that stood on the street like a liar; Loud was the bird-rocked sky, and all the clouds were bales Torn open by looting, and white, in spite of the fire. By the smoking sea, where Christ walked, I asked, why

The End

We decided to have the abortion, became killers together. The period that came changed nothing. They were dead, that young couple who had been for life. As we talked of it in bed, the crash was not a surprise. We went to the window, looked at the crushed cars and the gleaming curved shears of glass as if we had done it. Cops pulled the bodies out Bloody as births from the small, smoking

We Ain'T Got No Money, Honey, But We Got Rain

call it the greenhouse effect or whatever but it just doesn't rain like it used to. I particularly remember the rains of the depression era. there wasn't any money but there was plenty of rain. it wouldn't rain for just a night or a day, it would RAIN for 7 days and 7 nights

Pulling Habits Out Of Rats

I’m no genie or Houdini, I’m The Famous Rob Kabob. Hocus-pocus I must focus, I must think to do my job. First I get in this position, While the rat sits very still. I’m part Shrink and part Magician, And it takes a secret skill. People ask, 'Rob what’s your job? ' But they figure I am joking,

If I Were Tickled By The Rub Of Love

If I were tickled by the rub of love, A rooking girl who stole me for her side, Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string, If the red tickle as the cattle calve Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung, I would not fear the apple nor the flood Nor the bad blood of spring. Shall it be male or female? say the cells, And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.

The Cinnamon Peeler

If I were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed And leave the yellow bark dust On your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reek You could never walk through markets without the profession of my fingers floating over you. The blind would stumble certain of whom they approached

Rain In Summer

How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane, How beautiful is the rain! How it clatters along the roofs, Like the tramp of hoofs How it gushes and struggles out From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Impossible To Tell

to Robert Hass and in memory of Elliot Gilbert Slow dulcimer, gavotte and bow, in autumn, Bashõ and his friends go out to view the moon; In summer, gasoline rainbow in the gutter, The secret courtesy that courses like ichor Through the old form of the rude, full-scale joke, Impossible to tell in writing. 'Bashõ'

Luck

once we were young at this machine... drinking smoking typing it was a most splendid miraculous

Legend

As silent as a mirror is believed Realities plunge in silence by . . . I am not ready for repentance; Nor to match regrets. For the moth Bends no more than the still Imploring flame. And tremorous In the white falling flakes Kisses are,-- The only worth all granting.

Four Poems For Robin

Siwashing It Out Once in Suislaw Forest I slept under rhododendron All nightblossoms fell Shivering on a sheet of cardboard Feet stuck in my pack Hands deepin my pockets Barelyableto sleep. I rememberedwhen we were in school Sleeping together in a big warm bed

April Rise

If ever I saw blessing in the air I see it now in this still early day Where lemon-green the vaporous morning drips Wet sunlight on the powder of my eye. Blown bubble-film of blue, the sky wraps round Weeds of warm light whose every root and rod Splutters with soapy green, and all the world Sweats with the bead of summer in its bud.

Out Of The Arm Of One Love...

out of the arm of one love and into the arms of another I have been saved from dying on the cross by a lady who smokes pot writes songs and stories and is much kinder than the last, much much kinder, and the sex is just as good or better. it isn't pleasant to be put on the cross and left there, it is much more pleasant to forget a love which didn't

Candles

The days of the future stand in front of us Like a line of candles all alight---- Golden and warm and lively little candles. The days that are past are left behind, A mournful row of candles that are out; The nearer ones are still smoking, Candles cold, and melted, candles bent., I don’t want to see them; their shapes hurt me, It hurts me to remember the light of them at first. I look before me at my lighted candles,

137. How I Would Describe Me

People often say to me “What can you tell me about yourself” guess it’s my duty to explain to them and so I look them in the face and reply My eyes are deep like two tiny oceans just be careful you don’t drown in them you’ll never reach the bottom and there’s not a beach in sight

A Letter From Italy

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus, Magna virûm! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes. Virg. Geor. 2. While you, my Lord, the rural shades admire, And from Britannia's public posts retire, Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please, For their advantage sacrifice your ease;

Song Of Myself, X

Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt, Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee, In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night, Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game, Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun by my side. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout