Root or die
out of the woods
am I half as alive
I go back to nature like a hog
with my great mouth
and now I can hurt
in so many places
Poems on the topic: nature
Poems on the topic “nature” on Poets.by.
(Re)turning
we grow crazy
waiting for it
I turn and turn with the clock
nature is sick
and therefore gives it to us
her bastards
who believe in a Lord
with her mouth
who have little
reason to hope
who could repent still
or so gravity tells me
I fell into my creature parts
a raw remonstrance
of the war writing itself
in our many-necked Mayday
Contemplative
in a pit I sit and think
backward as water
how they measure and take
a counterfeit pleasure
how all nature
is not quite conquered yet
how music and women
give us being
Born-again naturalists
we are not ourselves
in a field
but taken prisoner we find
a green page to retreat to
touching an abstract ground
like oaks engaged
with the night
Succession
old field
the land is tangier and out
of order there
a place never likely to thin
all gone off
and up
Consolations
I chose for myself
the falseness of a void
but the sun is good
and nature is no creed
and grief runs
through many
Sylvanian
no place or nature at all
prevented disquiet
or the count of commodities
so spoke the old wood
in my fallen ear
Getting away from it all
on a wet cold day in the country
the poor appear far
I distrust nature
but not her miscarriages
living in the world
like a drawing of a tongue at a bonfire
Wolf from the door
We pay the wolf
with a fine house
in heaven.
Save me from nature—
not a sister
but a servant.
All night it drums
in our ears.
Against Nature
All the assistance I could expect:
the sound of an evening,
a large desire for
my old friend, the world.
Nature is the first lie
since coming from sea.
Physics
solve for y
what ground comes
to matter
I will learn
the multiplication
of noon
instruct me
in the nature of the nature
that we fell from
so obscure
that x
like an old bass viol
Thorn
Thorn begins with thorn,
a dead letter from
the Old English alphabet.
It’s an aborted branch,
a weaponized nipple. It draws blood
instead of expressing sap, Mother
Nature red in tooth & claw,
rose-hipped or hawed.
But of course it doesn’t bother the bees,
for who needs a needle
to thread the seamless labyrinth
of the rose?
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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