Martha Graham
There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated
through you into action, and there is only one of you in all time, this
expression is unique, and if you block it, it will never exist through
any other medium; and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not
your business to determine how good it is, not how it compares with
other expression. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and
directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe
in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to
the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is
pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only
a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us
marching and makes us more alive than the others.
through you into action, and there is only one of you in all time, this
expression is unique, and if you block it, it will never exist through
any other medium; and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not
your business to determine how good it is, not how it compares with
other expression. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and
directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe
in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to
the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is
pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only
a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us
marching and makes us more alive than the others.
W. S. Merwin
Bread
for Wendell Berry
Each face in the street is a slice of bread
wandering on
searching
somewhere in the light the true hunger
appears to be passing them by
they clutch
have they forgotten the pale caves
they dreamed of hiding in
their own caves
full of the waiting of their footprints
hung with the hollow marks of their groping
full of their sleep and their hiding
have they forgotten the ragged tunnels
they dreamed of following in out of the light
to hear step after step
the heart of bread
to be sustained by its dark breath
and emerge
to find themselves alone
before a wheat field
raising its radiance to the moon
for Wendell Berry
Each face in the street is a slice of bread
wandering on
searching
somewhere in the light the true hunger
appears to be passing them by
they clutch
have they forgotten the pale caves
they dreamed of hiding in
their own caves
full of the waiting of their footprints
hung with the hollow marks of their groping
full of their sleep and their hiding
have they forgotten the ragged tunnels
they dreamed of following in out of the light
to hear step after step
the heart of bread
to be sustained by its dark breath
and emerge
to find themselves alone
before a wheat field
raising its radiance to the moon
W. S. Merwin
ANY TIME
How long ago the day is
when at last I look at it
with the time it has taken
to be there still in it
now in the transparent light
with the flight in the voices
the beginning in the leaves
everything I remember
and before it before me
present at the speed of light
in the distance that I am
who keep reaching out to it
seeing all the time faster
where it has never stirred from
before there is anything
the darkness thinking the light
How long ago the day is
when at last I look at it
with the time it has taken
to be there still in it
now in the transparent light
with the flight in the voices
the beginning in the leaves
everything I remember
and before it before me
present at the speed of light
in the distance that I am
who keep reaching out to it
seeing all the time faster
where it has never stirred from
before there is anything
the darkness thinking the light
Wallace Stevens
The Emperor of Ice Cream
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
William Carlos Williams
The Red Wheelbarrow
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens.
A. R. Ammons
Anxiety
The sparrowhawk
flies hard to
stand in the
air: something
about direction
lets us loose
into ease
and slow grace.
The sparrowhawk
flies hard to
stand in the
air: something
about direction
lets us loose
into ease
and slow grace.
A. R. Ammons
Epiphany
Like a single drop of rain,
the wasp strikes
the windowpane: buzzes rapidly
away, disguising
error in urgent business:
such is the
invisible, hard as glass,
unrenderable by the senses,
not known until stricken by:
some talk that
there is safety in the visible,
the definite, the heard and felt,
pre-stressing the rational and
calling out with
joy, like people far from death:
how puzzled they will be when
going headlong secure in "things"
they strike the
intangible and break, lost,
unaccustomed to transparency, to
being without body, energy
without image:
how they will be dealt
hard realizations, opaque as death.
Like a single drop of rain,
the wasp strikes
the windowpane: buzzes rapidly
away, disguising
error in urgent business:
such is the
invisible, hard as glass,
unrenderable by the senses,
not known until stricken by:
some talk that
there is safety in the visible,
the definite, the heard and felt,
pre-stressing the rational and
calling out with
joy, like people far from death:
how puzzled they will be when
going headlong secure in "things"
they strike the
intangible and break, lost,
unaccustomed to transparency, to
being without body, energy
without image:
how they will be dealt
hard realizations, opaque as death.
A. R. Ammons
Bees stopped
Bees stopped on the rock
and rubbed their headparts and wings
rested then flew on:
ants ran over the whitish greenish reddish
plants that grow flat on rocks
and people never see
because nothing should grow on rocks:
I looked out over the lake
and beyond to the hills and trees
and nothing was moving
so I looked closely
along the lakeside
under the old leaves of rushes
and around clumps of drygrass
and life was everywhere
so I went on sometimes whistling
Bees stopped on the rock
and rubbed their headparts and wings
rested then flew on:
ants ran over the whitish greenish reddish
plants that grow flat on rocks
and people never see
because nothing should grow on rocks:
I looked out over the lake
and beyond to the hills and trees
and nothing was moving
so I looked closely
along the lakeside
under the old leaves of rushes
and around clumps of drygrass
and life was everywhere
so I went on sometimes whistling
Robert Penn Warren
Dead Horse in Field
In the last, far field, half-buried in barberry bushes, red fruited,
The thoroughbred lies dead, left foreleg shattered below knee,
A 30.06 in heart. In distance,
I see the gorged crows rise ragged in wind. The day after death
I went for farewell, and the eyes were already gone-
That the work of beneficent crows. Eyes gone,
The two-year-old could, of course, more readily see
Down the track of pure and eternal darkness.
I week later, I didn't get close. The sweet stink
Had begun. That damned wagon-mudhole, hidden
By leaves as we galloped-I found it.
Spat on it. Just as a child would.
Next day the buzzards. How beautiful in air,
Carving the slow and concentric downward pattern of vortex, glint
On wings. From the house, now with glasses, I see
The squabbles and pushing, the waggle of wattle-red heads.
At evening I watch the buzzards, the crows,
Arise. They swing black in Nature's flow and perfection
Against the sad carmine of sunset.
Forgiveness is not indicated. They are
What they are.
How long before I go back to find
An intricate piece of fake modern sculpture,
White now by weather and sun, assuming in stasis
New beauty. Then,
Say two years after that, the green twine of vine,
Each leaf heart-shaped, soft as velvet,
Or a baby's kiss, beginning
Its benediction.
It thinks it is God.
In the last, far field, half-buried in barberry bushes, red fruited,
The thoroughbred lies dead, left foreleg shattered below knee,
A 30.06 in heart. In distance,
I see the gorged crows rise ragged in wind. The day after death
I went for farewell, and the eyes were already gone-
That the work of beneficent crows. Eyes gone,
The two-year-old could, of course, more readily see
Down the track of pure and eternal darkness.
I week later, I didn't get close. The sweet stink
Had begun. That damned wagon-mudhole, hidden
By leaves as we galloped-I found it.
Spat on it. Just as a child would.
Next day the buzzards. How beautiful in air,
Carving the slow and concentric downward pattern of vortex, glint
On wings. From the house, now with glasses, I see
The squabbles and pushing, the waggle of wattle-red heads.
At evening I watch the buzzards, the crows,
Arise. They swing black in Nature's flow and perfection
Against the sad carmine of sunset.
Forgiveness is not indicated. They are
What they are.
How long before I go back to find
An intricate piece of fake modern sculpture,
White now by weather and sun, assuming in stasis
New beauty. Then,
Say two years after that, the green twine of vine,
Each leaf heart-shaped, soft as velvet,
Or a baby's kiss, beginning
Its benediction.
It thinks it is God.
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