Stevens reminds me of Williams. Both had extensive responsibilities in the real world, and both, maybe because of those responsibilities, grew very colorful inner sanctums.
from Pictures from Brueghel: The Hunters in the Snow / by William Carlos Willams
a winter-struck bush for his
complete the picture
No Stevens yet? Then, it has to be the one for Sunday.
from Sunday Morning / by Wallace Stevens
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
Just love this quote. Happy Saturday. Thank you to http://www.poemhunter.com.
from Stationery / by Agha Shahid Ali
The world is full of paper.
Write to me.
And, many things remind me of Clare and his sad path.
from From ‘April,’ The Shepherd’s Calendar / by John Clare
But finer days are coming yet,
With scenes more sweet to charm,
And suns arrive that rise and set
Bright strangers to a storm:
Jane Hirshfield reminds me of Basho, and look! She translated this one. The whole haiku is beautiful; but, to send you looking for it, here’s your fragment.
(In its entirety: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178450)
from In Kyoto / by Basho trans. by Jane Hirshfield
I long for Kyoto.
A happy birthday today to Robert Frost. I did not remember he was born in San Francisco.
from A Line-Storm Song / by Robert Frost
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.
from This Was Once a Love Poem / by Jane Hirshfield
Yes, it decides:
Many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots.
From Marjorie Seiffert’s daughter. Mothers and daughters.
from The Price of Peace / by Helen Seiffert Pryor
I have spent it all,
Flung away reticence, remorse, despair,
And the grayness comes creeping in
And, angels remind me of Ohio and rain.
from Rain in Ohio / by Mary Oliver
while the thunderheads whirl up
out of the white west
their dark hooves nicking
the tall trees as they come
And, God reminds me of angels. Found this one in the current APR, Jan/Feb 2014, Vol 43/No1.
from False Shame / by Regina Derieva trans. by Frederick Smock
The angels do not have
they knock on a door
while it is open;
they knock on a heart
while it is open