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Showing posts from February, 2010

On the Road Home

by Wallace Stevens
It was when I said, “There’s no such thing as the truth,” That the grapes seemed fatter. The fox ran out of his hole.
You… You said, “There are many truths, But they are not parts of a truth.” Then the tree, at night, began to change,
Smoking through green and smoking blue. We were two figures in a wood. We said we stood alone.
It was when I said,
“Words are not forms of a single word, In the sum of the parts, there are only the parts. The world must be measured by eye.”
It was when you said, “The idols have seen lots of poverty, Snakes and gold and lice, But not the truth”;
It was at that time, that the silence was largest And longest, the night was roundest, The fragrance of the autumn warmest, Closest and strongest.

Night and the River

by Mary Oliver
I have seen the great feet
leaping
into the river

and I have seen moonlight
milky
along the long muzzle

and I have seen the body
of something
scaled and wonderful

slumped in the sudden fire of its mouth,
and I could not tell
which fit me

more comfortably, the power,
or the powerlessness;
neither would have me

entirely; I was divided,
consumed,
by sympathy,

pity, admiration.
After a while
it was done,

the fish had vanished, the bear
lumped away
to the green shore

and into the trees. And then there was only
this story.
It followed me home

and entered my house—
a difficult guest
with a single
tune

which it hums all day and through the night—
slowly or briskly,
it doesn’t matter,