Unreal Nature

July 29, 2013

Full / Of Holes

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:44 am

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This is one verse (out of six) from:

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Six Winter Privacy Poems
by Robert Bly

[ … ]

II

My shack has two rooms; I use one.
The lamplight falls on my chair and table,
And I fly into one of my own poems —
I can’t tell you where —
As if I appeared where I am now,
In a wet field, snow falling.

[ … ]

…………….


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The Egg Boiler
by Gwendolyn Brooks

Being you, you cut your poetry from wood.
The boiling of an egg is heavy art.
You come upon it as an artist should,
With rich-eyed passion, and with straining heart.
We fools, we cut our poems out of air.
Night color, wind soprano, and such stuff.
And sometimes weightlessness is much to bear.
You mock it, though, you name it Not Enough.
The egg, spooned gently to the avid pan,
And left the strict three minutes, or the four,
Is your Enough and art for any man.
We fools give courteous ear — then cut some more,
Shaping a gorgeous Nothingness from cloud.
You watch us, eat your egg, and laugh aloud.

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This is one and 2/3 verses (of eight) from the end of:

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The Language
by Robert Creeley

[ … ]

I heard words
and words full

of holes
aching. Speech
is a mouth.

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-Julie

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