Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World: A Poetic Interlude …

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with

Some are in bed-sheets, some are
in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there
they are.
Now they are rising together in calm
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they
With the deep joy of their impersonal

Now they are flying in place,
The terrible speed of their
omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now
of a sudden
They swoon down in so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every
blessed day,
And cries,
“Oh, let there be nothing on
earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising
And clear dances done in the sight of

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world’s hunks
and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns
and rises,

“Bring them down from their ruddy
Let there be clean linen for the backs
of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be
And the heaviest nuns walk
in a pure
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult

— Richard Wilbur.

Ludes, past:

Billy Collins, 1.
Ounsi El Hage, 1.
Henri Michaux, 1, 2.
Marianne Moore, 1.
Pablo Neruda, 1.
Sharon Olds, 1.
Theodore Roethke, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.
Dylan Thomas, 1.
Richard Wilbur, 1, 2, 3.


2 Replies to “Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World: A Poetic Interlude …”

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