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Digger
West wind on the marsh.
A general in the wars
out getting vines to pot.
Poemas sobre el tema: vine
Poemas sobre el tema «vine» en Poets.by.
Deep Structure
day breaks
like a wishbone
how lucky
that the longer portion
remains with us
in darkness
under the interstate
in that dull
interminable thunder
a school of salmon-
colored leaves
stream down
from trees given
scraps of now-
worthless land
a cylindrical concrete pier
Summer holiday
in one summer how many
generations of aphids
chicory blueing the roadside
where a drive-in used to be
and the spindly trees
that stand in for angels
their green blades
for carving up the sun
so much more than we know
grows in a summer
sporangia like eyestalks
seedpods like space ships
and the mountaintop bleeds orange
where coal was stripped out
but we climb with
our mouths open
The Hollow (37)
among straight ascenders
an ancient grapevine’s
grave accent
the last white asters
the woods are darkest
just before the fall
weak sunlight
witch hazel beginning
to extrude its rays
so green you’d think
it’s still spring
Christmas fern
The Hollow (26)
that gap between
crowns of adjacent trees
and what goes on underground
just one fling
on the way up
fox grape
Solomon’s seal
withered leaves curl around
the glossy black drupe
crustose lichen on a rock
its complex inner life
Coming of Age
The vine danced in the wind.
Swinging gently, the young one thought
'This is life; I will soon be an adult
I will take in many lovers
I will have offsprings in thousands
This beautiful land and brook mine'.
Above, on the low-hanging branch
Sat a Bee-eater, sharpening his beak
His eyes had a kindness one could not fathom
As he gazed on the young dragonfly.
* * *
vine spread
on that wall
invisible years birds
fly
the earth need
motion
a dial of wind forms
roars a little some cat
wavering
or fitful reflection
branches through rain
from a lightening sky
the clouds parade
no army
there is no time
no vision that presses
Poems Written Out of William Carlos Williams 4
Now we stopped looking
to be excused. You
have said it.
You who shrug
the flesh, for
all it's worth.
Woman: stroked
to a fine
cross-hatched plan.
The guts of it!
to take each
thread and loose it.
I can take
the grabbing vines
and slapping branches.
But this!
Wild Grape
Beneath the crawling shadow
Of a crumbling temple to gods long-forgotten,
The wild grape twines amid the fragments
Of shattered pillars prone upon the ground,
And its dark leaves hide from sight the broken sculptures
Of faun and youth and maiden,
That once stood in the temple pediment,
Young, naked, beautiful.
In wild freedom it climbs over the carved acanthus
leaves of the crumbling columns,
And weaves a funeral wreath over their dead beauty.
The wild bees hum and buzz
Among the grape-flowers, heavy with honeyed perfume,
Under the drowsy noonday sun,
That spills its amber wine from a full goblet over the
thirsting hillside.