Facing the Snow

Weeping over battle, many new ghosts,
In sorrow reciting poems, an old man all alone
A tumult of clouds sinks downward in sunset,
Hard-pressed, the snow dances in whirlwinds
Ladle cast down, no green lees in the cup,
The brazier lingers on, fire seems crimson
From several provinces now news has ceased—
I sit here in sorrow tracing words in air.

Rain-Song

I hear the window,
It is splashed, lashed:
I hear the forest,
There is rain in the gesticulating branches:
I hear the thrush,
There is rain in his tawny throat;
I hear my mother in the kitchen singing as she peels peaches:
There is rain in her dark heart.

The Italian Mother

The wind was so bitter that the Italian mother and child were blown back at the corner …
The little boy cried, whimpering against the world …
Quickly the mother took her shabby fur from her neck
And wrapped it about her son …
Then they went on, both of them content.

Pages

Subscribe to RSS - Short Poems