Something new – hear me reading. In other news, WordPress recommends “Life, poetry, makeup” as likely tags for my posts.
Not the bee’s makings,
Nor the mended-mended-mended hive, come-toward
And volleyed with repairs;
Not the white bank of melissa
Where the milkmaids go for pollen;
Nor the bee. Nor food nor home
Nor work nor man for me.
Don’t stir the pebbles
At the fog-gobbed San Francisco shore, if you
Feel sick. Rigs fume out there.
Stand arms folded; watch the tankers;
Don’t fuss with the stones and salads
At your feet. The sands fetch nothing
That you want to see.
In the sweet garden
Or the pond to whom Canadian geese go down,
Down from the glossy cold –
In the roses or the rushes,
Wind-speared reeds or southern blossoms,
Far from sea, there is an egg-
Like all the others,
Grew a grown-up: rain, froth, May, a plait
Of all good things; bud, flower.
All potential, all fulfillment,
Water sweet, salt; hue pure, opal,
Many, single. Me,
One and none, protesting weakly what I indicate
But not that which I am.
“Thou burnest us,” I snipe at Venus,
Not a crumb of flame amid me,
Though I’m red. Nor fruit nor flame
But red, like a Fall tree.