| American Poets |
| On a Line from Valery Carolyn Kizer The whole green sky is dying. The last tree flares With a great burst of supernatural rose Under a canopy of poisonous airs. Could we imagine our return to prayers To end in time before times final throes, The green sky dying as the last tree flares? But we were young in judgment, old in years Who could make peace; but it was war we chose, To spread its canopy of poisoning airs. Not all our children�s pleas or women�s fears Could save us from this hell. And now, God knows His whole green sky is dying as its flares. Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tears. This dreadful century staggers to its close As the sky dies for us, its poisoned heirs. All rain was dust. Its granules were our tears. Throats burst as universal winter rose To kill the whole green sky, the last tree bare Beneath its canopy of poisoned air |
| Prospects Anthony Hect We have set out from here for the sublime Pastures of summer shade and mountain stream; I have no doubt we should arrive on time. Is all the green of that enameled prime A snapshot recollection or a dream? We have set out from here for the sublime. Without provisions, without one thin dime, And yet, for all of our clumsiness, I deem It certain that we shall arrive on time. No guidebooks tell you if you�ll have to climb Or swim. However foolish we may seem, We have set out from here for the sublime. Yet even in winter a pale paradigm Of birdsong utters its obsessive theme. We have set out from here for the sublime; I have no doubt we shall arrive on time. |
| Sometimes I get Distracted Elaine Equi Throwing a ball Like a bridge over an old wound like a cape thrown chivalrously over incoherent muck. catching it is easy. �Now toss it back,� says the Zen monk standing in his garden centuries away |
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