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A Poet on a Magical Journey Home
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Save Point 0.8.1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug. 13-Sept. 5, 2004, at Disjecta.
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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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A Revocation, by Sir Thomas Wyatt
WHAT should I say?
--Since Faith is dead,
And Truth away
From you is fled?
Should I be led
Sadness, by David L. Barber
There is a sadness
In the blowing, cold winter wind
Lashing the house,
Forcing us to huddle.
For warmth inside.
To Mistress Margery Wentworth, by John Skelton
WITH margerain gentle,
The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
Is of your maidenhead.
Plainly I cannot glose;
Mother, I cannot mind my Wheel, by Walter Savage Landor
MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry:
O, if you felt the pain I feel!
But O, who ever felt as I?
No longer could I doubt him true--
The Falconer of God, by William Rose Benet
I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying.
I said, "Wait on, wait on, while I ride below!
I shall start a heron soon
In the marsh beneath the moon --
A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings,
An Upper Chamber, by Frances Bannerman
I CAME into the City and none knew me;
None came forth, none shouted 'He is here!
Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me,
All the way by which I drew anear--
Night my banner, and my herald Fear.
News, by Thomas Traherne
NEWS from a foreign country came
As if my treasure and my wealth lay there;
So much it did my heart inflame,
'Twas wont to call my Soul into mine ear;
Which thither went to meet
The Which's Ballad, by William Bell Scott
O, I hae come from far away,
From a warm land far away,
A southern land across the sea,
With sailor-lads about the mast,
Merry and canny, and kind to me.
The Mould, by Gladys Cromwell
No doubt this active will,
So bravely steeped in sun,
This will has vanquished Death
And foiled oblivion.
But this indifferent clay,
A Saint's Hours, by Sarah N. Cleghorn
In the still cold before the sun
(Her Matins) Her brothers and her sisters small
She woke, and washed and dressed each one.
And through the morning hours all
(Prime) Singing above her broom she stood
Spring Bereaved 1, by William Drummond, of Hawthornden
THAT zephyr every year
So soon was heard to sigh in forests here,
It was for her: that wrapp'd in gowns of green
Meads were so early seen,
That in the saddest months oft sung the merles,
Bali, by Barbara Nelson
Our poets wrote in early settler days
Of floods and drought, nature's
capricious ways
All "Acts of God" for which no blame
was cast
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