Poem I saw Len Hutton in his prime...
I saw Len Hutton in his prime
Another time
another time
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I saw Len Hutton in his prime
Another time
another time
Hate is only one of many responses
true, hurt and hate go hand in hand
but why be afraid of hate, it is only there
think of filth, is it really awesome
neither is hate
don't be shy of unkindness, either
it's cleansing and allows you to be direct
like an arrow that feels something
out and out meanness, too, lets love breathe
you don't have to fight off getting in too deep
you can always get out if you're not too scared
an ounce of prevention's
enough to poison the heart
don't think of others
Poem Faithful to your commands, o consciousness, o
Beating wings, I studied
the roses and the muses of reality,
the deceptions and the deceptive elation of the redness of the growing morning,
and all the greened and thomed variety of the vines of error, which begin by promising
Everything and more than everything, and then suddenly,
At the height of noon seem to rise to the peak or dune-like moon of no return
So that everything is or seems to have become nothing, or of no genuine importance:
Don't look.
The world's about to break.
Don't look.
The world's about to chuck out all its light
and stuff us in the chokepit of its dark,
That black and fat suffocated place
Where we will kill or die or dance or weep
Or scream of whine or squeak like mice
To renegotiate our starting price.
At your light side trees shy
A kneeling enters them
As the cat
climbed over
the top of
the jamcloset
first the right
forefoot
carefully
then the hind
stepped down
into the pit of
the empty
flowerpot
Anonymous submission.
After your death,
Naomi, your hair will escape to become
a round animal, nameless.
In the stump of the old tree, where the heart has rotted out, there is a hole the length of a man’s arm, and a dank pool at the bottom of it where the rain gathers, and the old leaves turn into lacy skeletons. But do not put your hand down to see, because
in the stumps of old trees, where the hearts have rotted out, there are holes the length of a man’s arm, and dank pools at the bottom where the rain gathers and old leaves turn to lace, and the beak of a dead bird gapes like a trap. But do not put your hand down to see, because
At your light side trees shy
A kneeling enters them
About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
American or Canadian,
mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays
-this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?)
has never earned any money in its life.
Useless and free., it has spent seventy years
as a minor family relic handed along collaterally to owners
who looked at it sometimes, or didn't bother to.
It must be Nova Scotia; only there
does one see abled wooden houses
painted that awful shade of brown.
The other houses, the bits that show, are white.