
Love Calls Us to the Things of This World By Richard Wilbur - Giggle Poems
The soul shrinks From all that it is about to remember, From the punctual rape of every blessèd day, And cries, “Oh, let there be nothing on earth but ...
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The soul shrinks From all that it is about to remember, From the punctual rape of every blessèd day, And cries, “Oh, let there be nothing on earth but ...
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“That’s why all babies are beautiful,” Thurber used to say as he grew blind—not dark, he’d go on to explain, but floating in a pale light always, a ki ...
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As I sd to my??? friend, because I am??? always talking,—John, I sd, which was not his??? name, the darkness sur- rounds us, what can we do against ...
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1 Child of my winter, born When the new fallen soldiers froze In Asia’s steep ravines and fouled the snows, When I was torn By love I could not still, ...
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Crazy Horse, it is not fair to hide a new vision from you. A teacher here says hurt or scorned people are places where real enemies hide. And I will t ...
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I have seen fear where the coiled serpent rises, Thirst where the grasses burn in early May And thistle, mustard, and the wild oat stay.
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Higher and higher he lies Above me in a blue light Shed by a tinted window. I know that my father is there, In the shape of his death still living. He ...
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The needles and pine cones about me Are full of small birds at their roundest, Their fists without mercy gripping Hard down through the tree to the ro ...
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She was tapping like code, Loosening the screws, Carrying off headlights, Sparkplugs, bumpers, Cracked mirrors and gear-knobs, Getting ready, already, ...
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515 Madison Avenue??? door to heaven? portal stopped realities and eternal licentiousness or at least the jungle of impossible eagerness your marble i ...
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Dear Mother, is any time left to us In which to be happy? I am sick of having colds and headaches: You know my strange life. You little know A poet’s ...
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Some are teethed on a silver spoon, ???With the stars strung for a rattle; I cut my teeth as the black raccoon— ???For implements of battle. Some are ...
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My mother—preferring the strange to the tame: Dove-note, bone marrow, deer dung, Frog’s belly distended with finny young, Leaf-mold wilderness, harebe ...
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We move our feet crunching bitter snow while the storm crashes like god-wars down the east we shake the sparks from our eyes we quiver inside our shoc ...
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“Earth is the birth of the blues,” sang Yellow Bertha, as she chopped cotton beside Mama Rose. If it wasn’t for hell, we’d all be tapdancing with the ...
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But I forced to mind my vision of a sky close and enclosed, unlike the space in which these clouds move— a sky of gray mist it appeared— and how looki ...
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