And, nightmares remind me of mirrors and mirrors of Tennyson and Tennyson of the (fatal yet) essential moment in which she turns and looks directly at the world.
from The Lady of Shalott / by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
With a steady stony glance—
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Beholding all his own mischance,
Mute, with a glassy countenance —
She look’d down to Camelot.
Nightmares remind me of Galway Kinnell. Then, nightmares remind me of poetry.
from Daughter Bird Bone Song I / by Michele Pizarro Harman
the scene is cozy
except for the man
running from fire
Fathers and daughters. More moon. And, another favorite, nightmares.
from Under the Maud Moon / by Galway Kinnell
you shall open
this book, even if it is the book of nightmares.
Then, of course, there’s Simic with one of my other loves, those Greeks. Back to rivers, to the one where the moon sends only emissaries.
from Charon’s Cosmology / by Charles Simic
Once in a long while a mirror
Or a book which he throws
Overboard into the dark river
Swift and cold and deep
Moons make me think of Sylvia; but, since Sylvia’s had her turn for a time, here is one of Strand’s moons today.
from The Prediction / by Mark Strand
That night, the moon drifted over the pond,
turning the water to milk, and under
the boughs of the trees, the blue trees,
a young woman walked, and for an instant
the future came to her
from Snowflake Voodoo / by Kara Dorris
& when the snow speaks, she realizes no one listens
For my west-coast English-comp professor, one who teaches us, in many ways, to remember to love form, and an Angelino with warm memories of Vermont’s frozen embankments.
from Joseph / by Timothy Steele
Vague winds cross, streamingly, its face,
Remote and icy and antique,
And to its light I whisper, Speak.
Back to the birds.
from The Windhover / by Gerard Manley Hopkins
My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
from Paradise Lost / by John Milton
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she eat.
Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat
Sighing through all the works gave signs of woe,
That all was lost.
Love the little birds and all the art that follows them.
from John James Audubon / by Stephen Vincent Benét
Let the wind blow hot or cold,
Let it rain or snow,
Everywhere the birds went
Audubon would go.