Tag Archives: Poetry

Friday Poem — by Thom Gunn

Nasturtium Born in a sour waste lot You labored up to light, Bunching what strength you’d got And running out of sight Through a knot-hole at last, To come forth into sun As if without a past, Done with it, re-begun. Now street-side of the fence You take a few green turns, Nimble in nonchalance…

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A reader reminded me that spring has just begun, and that in turn reminded me of a peculiar poem I’ve always liked, by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), whose poetry is wildly erratic. This is Edna St. Vincent Millay at her best: Spring To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough.…

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Early Winter

The crystal blades of winter frost Have snipped the leaves that dot the field. The trees leak iron-black across The sky where evening swallows wheeled. A knifey light cuts deep and shows Leaves with their intricate designs Half sodden in the drifted snows, Beneath the moaning, deathless pines. And wind like water softly pours Over…

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