Time poems

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Once I thought that if I walked with you to the endof Russian literature, bumped into Yesenin and hissoft words, mingled with the throng that formedaround Pushkin or waited patiently at the SenateSquare while you threw pieces of Blok, Akhmatovaand poor old Mayakovsky to eager readers whopecked at your references, I would come tounderstand all that you represent

Voronezh

© Aaron Rafi

The darkness drops its anchor on our lungs and wefeel the weight of each breath

An Open Letter to the Unacknowledged One

© Aaron Rafi

There was no prayer in the camps

My Love is Young

© Earle Birney

my love is young & i am oldshe'll need a new man soonbut still we wake to clip and talkto laugh as oneto eat and walkbeneath our thirteen-year-old moon

El Greco: Espolio

© Earle Birney

The carpenter is intent on the pressure of his hand

David

© Earle Birney

IDavid and I that summer cut trails on the Survey,All week in the valley for wages, in air that was steepedIn the wail of mosquitoes, but over the sunalive weekendsWe climbed, to get from the ruck of the camp, the surly

Poker, the wrangling, the snoring under the fetidTents, and because we had joy in our lengthening coltishMuscles, and mountains for David were made to see over,Stairs from the valleys and steps to the sun's retreats

To Isaac Walton

© John Kenyon

Walton! dear Angler! when, a school-freed boy,

Of varnished rod and silken tackle proud,

The Burning Of The Leaves

© Robert Laurence Binyon

The last hollyhock's fallen tower is dust;
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,
All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! The reddest rose is a ghost;
Sparks whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild
Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.