We don't talk about poetry enough.

[Anonymous No.16595502]

I know this vicious minute's hour;
It is a sour motion in the blood,
That, like a tree, has roots in you,
And buds in you.
Each silver moment chimes
in steps of sound,
And I, caught in mid-air perhaps,
Hear and am still the little bird.
You have offended, periodic heart;
You I shall drown unreasonably,
Leave you in me to be found
Darker than ever,
Too full with blood to let my love flow in.
Stop is unreal;
I want reality to hold
within my palm,
Not, as a symbol, stone
speaking or no,
But it, reality, whose voice I know
To be the circle not the air of sound.
Go is my wish;
Then shall I go,
But in the light of going
Minutes are mine
I could devote to other things.
Stop has no minutes,
but I go or die.

[Anonymous No.16595579]

Music for Railroad, Telephone Wire,
and Easter by Rosanna Warren

Compose by shadow and chrome. You will have
the land in unquenchable dying,
lines of desire strung along the tracks
uncounted miles upon whose nerve-taut wire
obsessive, the suite pursues
one murderous hum past slag heap, over marsh
pylon to pylon, by
windows, barrels, smokestacks, trestles, tanks,
flame-spurt and smoke-meander fraying form:
all solids melt
in death by multiplication, life
by reflection in the sunstruck ditch,
burnt water, harbor, oil spill, puddle, and
in bottle graveyard tumbled down a bank
—
one continental cataract of trash
through which weeds thrust, not green;
and over which, in dark and lazing loops,
the hawk, in solitude, floats.
He scans
an Easter music from a score in flame.