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John Gould Fletcher
Poison ivy crawls at its root,
I dare not approach it,
It has an air of hate.
One would say a man had been hanged to its branches,
It holds them in such a way.
The moon gets tangled in it,
A distant steeple seems to bark
From its belfry to the sky.
Something that no one ever loved,
Is buried here:
Some grey shape of deadly hate,
Crawls on the back fence just beyond.
Now I remember--once I went
Out by night too near this oak,
And a red cat suddenly leapt
From the dark and clawed my face.
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
I open a velvet coat
and am oak
a place to hang
and itch
and change to paper
midnight in my head aching
from the news of hate
a moth on his oak
beaten by the green afternoon
cursing the wind
of our nothing-but-money lie
the old oak rocks
taken by fire and exhaust
how an engine promises
the least world
a house which will be
very hard to love
night-colored oak
lush as a suit
my life in amber
is greater than I am
and poor beyond all
I ever overcome
with great ease
the oak lives or dies
all change is news
a quiet stir to the oak
and the poet
if not conceited
and particular as water
in her loves
Ask me the time and I point to the sun.
An oak is a fine scholar of the ear.
Comfort took me to the temple Ease.
As a tavern with my money
or will and a bull,
winter had the oak.
We come close to the land, eat
nothing but peas and pork
and boiled beef,
eat with great love,
shit with all imaginable respect
the land
infinite place
rich world.
I see a man almost drowned in joy
give honor to an oak
with a gilded crown.
let us believe in the ruined
gardens of imagination
even in autumn rain
there’s still such radiance
leaves underfoot whisper
my wishbone song
really just a rhythm imposed
on the slow fires of decay
but now church bells
make for a glistening listen
the dead have nothing
and everything to do
with the emptiness
of numbers
their carnival is upon us
scarlet oaks glowing