Poems About Poems

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The Secret of Poetry
When I was lonely, I thought of death.

When I thought of death I was lonely.
I suppose this error will continue.

I shall enter each gray morning
Delighted by frost, which is death,

& the trees that stand alone in mist.
When I met my wife I was lonely.

Our child in her body is lonely.
I suppose this error will go on & on.

Morning I kiss my wife's cold lips,
Nights her body, dripping with mist.

This is the error that fascinates.
I suppose you are secretly lonely,

Thinking of death, thinking of love.
I'd like, please, to leave on your sill

Just one cold flower, whose beauty
Would leave you inconsolable all day.

The secret of poetry is cruelty.
As for poets
The Earth Poets
Who write small poems,
Need help from no man.
The Air Poets

Play out the swiftest gales
And sometimes loll in the eddies.
Poem after poem,
Curling back on the same thrust.
At fifty below
Fuel oil won't flow
And propane stays in the tank.
Fire Poets
Burn at absolute zero
Fossil love pumped backup
The first
Water Poet
Stayed down six years.
He was covered with seaweed.
The life in his poem
Left millions of tiny
Different tracks
Criss-crossing through the mud.
With the Sun and Moon

In his belly,
The Space Poet
Sleeps.
No end to the sky-
But his poems,
Like wild geese,
Fly off the edge.
AMind Poet
Stays in the house.
The house is empty
And it has no walls.
The poem
Is seen from all sides,
Everywhere,
At once.
How Poetry Comes to Me
It comes blundering over the

Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light
s for Poets by Gary Snyder
As for poets
The Earth Poets
who write small poems
need help from no man.
The Air Poets

play out the swiftest gales
and sometimes loll in the eddies
poem after poem,
curling back on the same thrust.
At fifty below
Fuel oil won't flow
and propane stays in the tank.
Fire Poets
Burn at Absolute Zero
Fossil love pumped back up.
The first
Water Poet
stayed down six years.
He was covered with seaweed.
The life in his poem
left millions of tiny
different tracks
criss-crossing through the mud.
With the Sun and the Moon

In his belly,
The Space Poet
Sleeps.
No end to the sky -
but his poems,
like wild geese,
fly off the edge.
A Mind Poet
Stays in the house.
The house is empty
and it has no walls.
The poem is seen from all sides,
everywhere
at once.
John Clare
I know there is a worm in the human heart,

In its wake such emptiness as sleep should require.
Toward dawn, there was an undirected light the color of steel;

The aspens, thin, vaguely parallel strips of slate,
Blew across each other in that light.
I went out
Having all night suffered in my confusion, &
Was quieted by this.
But the earth
Vegetable rock or water that had been our salvation
Is mostly passed now, into the keeping of John Clare,
Alive,
whose poetry simplified us—we owe the world ourselves—
Who, dead or sleeping, now reads the detail leaf & stone
Passing, until it will finally be memorized & done.
I know that the heart can be hard, & from this

Misgiving about itself, will make a man merciless.
I know that John Clare’s madness nature could not straighten.
If there is a worm in the heart, & chamber it has bitten out,

I will protect that emptiness until it is large enough.
In it will be a light the color of steel
& landscape, into which the traveler might set out.
An Introduction to Some Poems
Look: no one ever promised for sure

that we would sing. We have decided
to moan. In a strange dance that
we don't understand till we do it, we
have to carry on.
Just as in sleep you have to dream

the exact dream to round out your life,
so we have to live that dream into stories
and hold them close at you, close at the
edge we share, to be right.
We find it an awful thing to meet people,

serious or not, who have turned into vacant
effective people, so far lost that they
won't believe their own feelings
enough to follow them out.
The authentic is a line from one thing

along to the next; it interests us.
strangely, it relates to what works,
but is not quite the same. It never
swerves for revenge,
Or profit, or fame: it holds

together something more than the world,
this line. And we are your wavery
efforts at following it. Are you coming?
Good: now it is time.

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See

The Secret of Poetry

When I was lonely, I thought of death.

I suppose this error will continue.

Delighted by frost, which is death,

When I met my wife I was lonely.

I suppose this error will go on & on.

Nights her body, dripping with mist.

I suppose you are secretly lonely,

I'd like, please, to leave on your sill

Would leave you inconsolable all day.

The Air Poets

With the Sun and Moon

How Poetry Comes to Me

It comes blundering over the

The Air Poets

With the Sun and the Moon

I know there is a worm in the human heart,

Toward dawn, there was an undirected light the color of steel;

I know that the heart can be hard, & from this

If there is a worm in the heart, & chamber it has bitten out,

Look: no one ever promised for sure

Just as in sleep you have to dream

We find it an awful thing to meet people,

The authentic is a line from one thing

Or profit, or fame: it holds

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