After hours
After the sun had become a memory,
An apparition glanced at briefly
Between surfacing in the dark to dive into
The murk of work, and re-entering back again into
Sleep's allocated hours,
When I emerge into this dusk In its dainty dress of rose, I scrabble for veined sunstones lining its hem.
My Poems
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After Creeley
If I place the self
Or heart or soul or the thing
That holds it all inside
In her hands (her, the cause Of this desire in the self, Or heart, or soul, or something, Now fissured with thought),
As one might hand in a sprig Of cold forsythia coming in From a long walk in the dark,
Will she, if not with her unsuspecting eye, At least with her blood's litmus Sense all those rusted points of iron,
Stuck in there, in that organ, That poisoned fruit, that interior thing, From walking through fences Around the trenches of those Past wars.
Note: Another subversive use for a Black Berry; poeticizing in bathroom breaks
My Poems
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Poem for D.H. Lawrence - Robert Creeley
I would begin by explaining
that by reason of being
I am and no other.
Always the self returns to self-consciousness , seeing the figure drawn by the window by its own hand, standing alone and unwanted by others. It sees this, the self sees and returns to the figure there in the evening, the darkness alone and unwanted by others.
In the beginning was this self, perhaps, without the figure, without consciousness of self or figure or evening. In the beginning was this self only, alone and unwanted by others.
In the beginning was that and this is different, is changed and how it is changed is not known but felt. It is felt by the self and the self is feeling, is changed by feeling, but not known, is changed, is felt.
Remembering the figure by the window, in the evening drawn there by the window, is to see the thing like money, is to be sure of materials, but not to know where they came from or how they got there or when they came. Remembering the figure by the window the evening is remembered, the darkness remembered as the figure by the window, but is not to know how they came there.
The self is being, is in being and because of it. The figure is not being nor the self but is in the self and in the being and because of them. Always the self returns to, because of being, the figure drawn by the window, there in the evening, the darkness, alone and unwanted by others.
Big Book Of Poetry
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