House of the Rising Sun
Morning is a clear house,
afternoon a wardrobe.
At supper, I looked over
what I took to be Susan,
but it proved to be me.
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Graying
I accept gray hair,
in which I am finding
my father and my work:
this is the last
lost ice, all
my accounts.
Object
at noon a piece of meat
at night a mouth
Auricle
A great ear on
an ordinary head
had some business
with the urge to be.
What a king is
Among other things very fine, which thing is a king? The king is a king: a word and net. The king is a cover for the king, girt with words.
The king is a lord changed for an old hat. The king is a plain moth, a chance tenant. The king is a familiar street at night.
Horse whisperer
A horse in a bad mood
is a hard horse, a high horse—
simple fury without much mind.
I sat with him a good while,
talking home and bed.
Menhir
We could not mend
the great stone.
I saw the king heal it
with simple water
and go to the burial of dirt.
Poetic fallacy
My office: wit.
I chant, I talk
of the weight of age
and where I err
is the present.
Weltanschauung
What sort of vision is ours?
The same thing: my security
and a pint of wine.
This castle for greed.
Butsuzo
Three years ago I was stone,
free from pain, content—
no joy or urge.
I had a great deal of light,
one room,
and I sat.
Self-made man
I work to begin
the making of me
out of dirt and morning,
a face of water, an old mask
of my father’s, and three
or four discourses
for children.
Sadhu
We part, I and my cell.
And though I have seen it often,
I am more and more pleased
with the street—
a rank home and bed.
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